by James Maxey
He braced his spear in his hind claws and folded back his wings, angling into a dive. He noted the light brightening behind him, like the sun coming from behind a cloud. His shadow touched the black-robed man who turned his head in time to see Zanzeroth, his spear tip now inches away.
THE GLOW AROUND Vendevorex shifted, swirled, and coalesced as he mentally positioned the floating particles in the edges of the field. All below looked up, both men and dragons. Vendevorex activated the white plastic disk he’d removed from Hezekiah’s torso. Stamped on the outer edge of the plastic were the words, “Voice of GodTM.”
“I AM VENDEVOREX!” he announced. His amplified words boomed like a clap of thunder and the din of voices beneath him lessened. He swooped within the sphere of light that surrounded him, careful to maintain the motionless illusion that he had created. Vendevorex had grown to a hundred feet in height, his eyes bright with flame, lightning playing about his outstretched wings. He decided on a last second improvement to the illusion, and suddenly his claws became the blue-gray of hardened-steel as they grew as long as swords. “HEED ME, O DRAGONS! DROP YOUR WEAPONS, OR FACE MY WRATH! THIS BATTLE IS OVER!”
“THE HELL IT is,” Pet heard a nearby man shout, and a dozen men joined him in a battle cry. The sound of blade against blade rung all around the platform.
“Sire,” Kanst said behind him.
“I’ve considered your advice, Kanst,” Albekizan said, his voice trembling. “I’ll return to the castle. Make sure your soldiers continue to fight. And kill that damned wizard! Do it personally!”
“Of course, Sire,” Kanst said.
The entire platform shuddered as Albekizan and Kanst leapt into the sky like sparrows before a cat. Alone on the platform, Pet struggled to free himself to no avail.
ALIVE, THOUGHT ZANZEROTH as he heard the wizard’s voice. It was too late to turn back now. His spear struck the black-robed man squarely in the chest. Zanzeroth tilted his wings so that his great speed would cause him to swoop skyward, carrying the impaled human with him. Alas, the human proved too heavy for the maneuver; he was more like a mound of stone than flesh. The spear shaft snapped. The human was thrown to his back by the force of the blow but Zanzeroth’s momentum shifted as well. Instead of returning to the sky, he hit the rooftop hard. He slid across the wooden roof, splinters tearing away his bandages, until he collided with the brick chimney. His breath exploded from him in a pained cry.
“DRAGONS!” Vendevorex shouted.“RETURN TO YOUR BARRACKS AT ONCE! FEAR MY VENGEANCE!”
Alas, the dragons didn’t seem to fear his vengeance as much as he’d hoped. Below him, the fighting resumed once more, though the dragons now fought more defensively as the humans surged against their ranks. To stop fighting was to risk death. But perhaps there was another way to stop the battle. Albekizan had taken flight, as had Kanst who flew straight toward the illusion. If he could slay them here, in full sight of the troops, the war would be won.
Kanst reached the edge of the illusion and struck with his spear, then spun off balance when the blow connected only with air. Vendevorex knew he’d never have a better chance. He shifted his concentration to his hind-talons, allowing the illusion around him to crumble as he formed a boiling ball of the Vengeance of the Ancestors. He hurled the flaming orb toward his target.
Kanst recovered from the missed blow much faster than Vendevorex would have guessed. The general turned, steadying himself on outstretched wings, just in time to face the flame that raced toward him. He then did the worst thing possible from Vendevorex’s view. He thrust his chest forward, straight into the path of the flame, allowing the deadly plasma to splash against his iron breastplate.
Iron. The one thing the Vengeance wouldn’t burn.
ZANZEROTH SHOOK HIS head to chase away the stars. There was the faintest vibration on the boards beneath him.
Move.
He rolled aside as the axe sunk deep into the wood where he had rested. He kept rolling, tumbling from the roof’s edge, letting the rush of wind catch his wings. He pushed himself higher into the air, noticing Vendevorex attacking Kanst. There was no time to give thought as to why the wizard was still alive. He wheeled in the air, bringing himself around once more toward the roof. The man stood, his axe tightly gripped in both hands, his legs braced, his eyes fixed upon Zanzeroth. Zanzeroth passed over the rooftop well beyond the man’s reach as he freed his whip from his belt with his tail, placing it in his rear talons.
“Let’s see how formidable you are without that axe,” he said.
The hunter climbed higher in the air then wheeled once more, diving straight at his opponent. The human raised the axe, preparing to strike. At the last second Zanzeroth pulled up as the human swung his axe forward. With a flick of his hind claws the whip snared the axe-shaft, ripping it from the man’s hands.
KANST COULD SEE the look of consternation in the wizard’s eyes. He hurled the heavy spear he carried in his rear claws. Vendevorex folded up his wings and dropped from the spear’s path, then, spreading his wings once more, vanished.
“Damn!” Kanst shouted, flying to the spot where the wizard had just been.
“Lose something?”
A sudden weight on his back sent Kanst listing sideways. The wizard had latched onto him, securing himself with his tail around the general’s waist and his claws on each of his wings, the only large expanse of Kanst’s body not protected by armor. In horror, Kanst watched flames burst from his exposed skin. The air rushing over his wings pushed the flames rapidly along their entire length.
The weight on his back lifted as Vendevorex released him. Waves of excruciating pain swept over Kanst’s mind but failed to wash away the realization that he was going to die.
But not alone…
He swung his tail about, hitting the wizard’s leg. He constricted his tail with all his strength. Vendevorex struggled, but to no avail, as Kanst jerked him closer and clamped his rear claws into the wizard’s shin. Then Kanst simply closed his blistered wings to his side and fell. The wizard’s wings couldn’t support their weight. The ground was a long way down.
ZANZEROTH LANDED, BRANDISHING the axe. The weapon was heavy, even for a dragon, and slick with red-brown gore. Zanzeroth felt his hunting spirit stir at the familiar scent of blood and excrement. The black-robed man charged across the roof toward him, as expected. Zanzeroth was ready. He pushed his tail around in a rapid arc, catching the man’s legs while he was still two yards away. As his foe stumbled forward the hunter struck, bringing the axe down hard in the center of the man’s back, severing the spinal cord. His foe fell to the roof, face-first. Zanzeroth relaxed. That had been easier than expected.
Then the human’s arms thrust forward, grabbing Zanzeroth’s ankle. Zanzeroth was startled more by the movement than by the pain of the man’s incredible grip. How could he fight with his spine severed?
With a grunt Zanzeroth swung the axe against the man’s elbow, severing the arm. But the hand that held him didn’t release him. In fact, it squeezed harder still. With a sickening snap his ankle gave way and Zanzeroth toppled.
The human rose to his knees. Zanzeroth felt panic rising in him and struck out in fear, swinging the axe with one talon and landing a solid blow against the back of the man’s head. His opponent ignored the blow and rose to his feet.
Zanzeroth sat up, getting into a position to better defend himself. The hand that held his ankle released him, and scratched its way toward the blood-soaked man, who casually lifted it and placed it back in its proper place.
“What are you?” Zanzeroth muttered.
“His name that sat on him was Death,” the man said in a squeaky, hollow voice. He straightened the brim of his hat before advancing on Zanzeroth. “And hell followed with him.”
VENDEVOREX COULDN’T BELIEVE Kanst’s will. Even with his wings engulfed in flames he wouldn’t release his grip. Vendevorex beat the air but to little avail. The general’s armored weight was too great. He was being dragged down into the crowd of
humans below. From the corner of his eye he could see Hezekiah on a nearby roof, and Zanzeroth sprawled before him, looking seriously wounded. If only he could stay in the air long enough to guide the path of his descent, he could reach the artificial man who was more than capable of prying Kanst free.
With a mighty effort he turned toward the rooftop. As he stretched his wings to their fullest to slow his descent, something in his shoulder snapped from the strain. They plummeted earthward.
ZANZEROTH SAW THE ball of flame that had been Kanst blazing toward the roof. The unkillable man stepped closer. Zanzeroth kicked out and up with his good leg, catching him in the crotch. No look of pain passed upon the man’s face, but the blow still had the intended effect, pushing his foe backward, straight into the path of the hurtling fireball.
AT THE LAST possible second, mere yards from the roof, Kanst’s grip slackened. He’d finally lost consciousness. Vendevorex thrust his wings out once more, fighting the pain, pulling himself free of the sun-dragon’s body. He watched as Kanst plummeted to the rooftop, smashing directly into Hezekiah’s back.
Hezekiah staggered forward, the Vengeance quickly racing across his skin, engulfing him. Vendevorex swooped closer, mentally willing the flames to cease. Hezekiah was built out of much more advanced materials than simple iron. Vendevorex had no clue how the Vengeance would react with these materials.
The fire only brightened as chemical reactions beyond Vendevorex’s control raced through the body of the artificial man. Vendevorex decided he didn’t want to be around when the flames penetrated Hezekiah’s power supply. He raced upward, only to have the shock wave lift him faster than his wings could. A thunderous explosion deafened him. An unbearable flood of heat engulfed him, singeing his scales, burning all air from his lungs.
A second wave of concussion slammed into him, then vanished. The atmosphere became too thin to support his wings, and he fell earthward once more, the world going black.
“FIGHT ON!” A dragon on the platform shouted but it was too late. The humans charged the remaining Black Silences, cutting them down with the weapons taken from their fellows.
“Release the savior!” someone shouted.
Pet felt the leather strap that held his head slacken. His heart leapt as the post that held him shuddered with a loud crack of a sword striking chains. Pet toppled forward but never reached the ground. Hands thrust in all around him, lowering him carefully to his feet.
Pet recognized a few of the dozen faces before him from Chakthalla’s village. He was startled to see Kamon, the ancient mad prophet among them. How many men must have died to keep the old fool alive through all of this?
Kamon raised his hands toward the sky as he cried, “It is as I prophesied! We have freed the savior from his bonds so that he may free us from ours!”
“No!” someone shouted.
The men turned to face another small crowd of men who had climbed onto the platform. They, too, were armed with weapons taken from the bodies of dragons. Their leader was a tall naked man with intense, angry eyes. His coal-black beard hung all the way down to his pubic hair. The only article of cloth on his body was a blood-red ribbon tied around his forehead, holding back a mane of dark hair that reached halfway down his back. He was thin yet well muscled, and tanned so darkly it seemed that his nakedness was a way of life. The naked man shouted, “I am the Prophet Ragnar! Bitterwood is the savior I prophesied! Release him, filthy Kamonites, and we’ll grant you swift, merciful deaths!”
“We’ll fight your blasphemy to our dying breath!” Kamon shouted.
“Then die, infidels!” Ragnar cried, brandishing his sword.
“Stop!” Pet shouted. To his surprise, they did.
“I don’t believe this,” Pet said. “The dragons are killing us by the hundreds and you fight among yourselves?”
“These heathen dogs are undeserving to breathe the same air as you,” Kamon growled. “Let us remove their hideous faces from your sight.”
Ragnar stamped his feet in anger. Purple veins bulged in his neck as he shouted, “They are the dogs! Kamon has tainted three generations of men with the false doctrine of compliance with dragons. He has brought this horrible day upon us!”
Kamon shook his withered, age-speckled fist. “Fools! We were to obey the dragons until the savior arose! That day has come to pass, as I foretold! Now we must cleanse the awful stench of dragons from this world!”
“Shut up,” Pet said, running his fingers through his hair in exasperation. “You think I’m some kind of mythic figure from prophecy? You’re wrong. I’m not your savior. All I am is mad as hell. Albekizan must pay for what’s happened today. If it’s dragon blood you want, follow me. I’ll fight until there’s no life left in my body! What we do this day may decide the fate of all mankind. Who’s with me?”
“I am!” Ragnar shouted.
“We are!” Kamon said.
“For humanity!” Pet cried, grabbing the sword of a fallen dragon and lifting it high.
All around him they answered, “For Bitterwood!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: DEATH
WRONG. IT’S ALL gone wrong… Blasphet could see his dreams crumbling from the tower balcony. Albekizan had fled, Kanst and Zanzeroth had fallen, and now the mad mob of humans threatened to burst through the lines of the remaining, dispirited earth-dragons. Damn Albekizan!
And damn himself. All of this, he knew, was his fault for letting his brother live despite a thousand opportunities to slay him. His fatal flaw, he realized, was his love of torturing his victims. He was like a cat who played with mice, never quite learning that the mice too often escaped. But no more.
Blasphet stormed down the stairs of the tower toward the dungeon. Before he went to find Albekizan, he would kill Shandrazel. Nothing subtle. Nothing fancy. He’d simply slit his throat. The thought made him giddy. He felt liberated.
He turned the key in the lock and pushed the heavy door open, revealing the acid chamber. His jaw dropped at the sight. The glass cage lay in the pool with all but its uppermost bars submerged, revealing shattered glass at the joints where the iron chains had fastened. A slight mist hung over the pool bearing the scent of burnt scales and boiled flesh.
Androkom still lay slouched against the wall.
Blasphet stepped into the chamber toward the acid pool. Only one thing could have happened. He’d misjudged Shandrazel’s strength. The prince’s struggles must have shattered the glass bars, dropping him into the acid. Blasphet noted the wheel that lowered the cage hadn’t changed position. Wait. Something was missing. The long, iron handle that attached to the wheel had vanished.
The scales rose along his back. He turned and saw the steel handle, wrapped in the sinewy fingers of a large red fist. Both traveled toward his snout at an incredible speed.
WRONG. IT’S ALLgone wrong… Albekizan dropped from the sky toward the open doors of the throne room. He thought of the last time he’d seen his son here, his beautiful Bodiel, his feathers gleaming as if they truly were fragments of the sun. Such joy he’d known. Joy turned to grief so quickly. Shouldn’t grief turn to satisfaction, at least eventually? Didn’t he deserve this one small comfort?
Perhaps it wouldn’t be too late, once Kanst disposed of that meddling wizard. He would wait for the news of Vendevorex’s death on his throne, surrounded by his remaining guards.
“Guards!” he called out as he swooped through the wide doors and brought his feet down on the polished marble. The hall was gloomy, dark and shadowy, even in the early morning light. Then it struck him. The torches were all extinguished. The spirits of his ancestors were gone.
“No!” he cried, and rushed forward, grabbing the charred stick of wood that sat in the golden holder beside the throne.
“No,” he whispered, and touched the oily black tip, still warm. This faint heat was all that remained of Bodiel. His child of fire was gone forever.
“No,” he said, dropping the dead torch, craning his head toward the ceiling. His body felt we
ak. His knees buckled, and he slid against the golden pedestal of his throne, knocking the silk cushions onto the floor.
“No,” he said, though only the barest sound escaped his throat. But he knew, despite his protests, that it was true. Even the soul of his son was now dead.
Albekizan trembled. He clenched his eyes shut and prayed that he, right then and there, would burst into flames. He willed himself to spark, to burn, to explode in a holocaust that would ignite the torches once more, would set the whole castle ablaze, and the forests beyond, and even the oceans would become fire!
But it didn’t happen. It couldn’t happen. His powerlessness to make it happen burned at him more hotly than the heat of a thousand suns.
He opened his eyes to the distant ceiling. He lowered his gaze along the shadowed wall above the throne, down once more to the blackened stick that lay at his feet.
“Oh, Bodiel,” Albekizan whispered, his voice wet and weak. “Your father loved you.”
Suddenly, the burning in his heart became a chill and he looked up once more to the wall above the throne, to confirm with his mind what his eyes had already seen. The wall was empty save for the decorative tapestries.
The bow and quiver were gone.
“Guards!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the halls of the castle.
“They won’t answer,” someone said with a voice as cold as the winter wind. The last remnants of smoke from the dead torches swirled across the marble floor.
“Who?” Albekizan said, rising, spinning around, looking all about the shadowed hall. “Who speaks?”
“I, Bitterwood,” the voice answered, echoing in such a way that it could have come from any of the doorways leading into the room.
