Bitterwood da-1

by James Maxey

  “You can end this,” she said once more and turned toward the light.

  Bitterwood tried to chase her but his feet had nothing to push against.

  “Recanna!” he cried.

  She glanced over her shoulder. Her face bore a cryptic smile. “You cannot follow me, not yet. But we may still be together,” she said, as the light around her faded. “You can end this.”

  “Recanna!”

  She was gone. All was dark. Bitterwood opened his eyes. Sunlight flickered on the water’s surface far above him, bubbles rising from where he had shouted her name. His shirt was snagged in Albekizan’s jaws as the dragon sank to the bottom.

  With a single movement of his hand, he could rip the shirt free and fight back to the air above where each breath promised further pain. Or he could sink lower and stop his struggles, and be free of pain forever.

  The light grew ever dimmer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: JUSTICE

  “FATHER!” SHANDRAZEL’S VOICE echoed throughout the throne room. Shandrazel felt his heart sink when he saw the dead torches throughout the hall. He didn’t truly believe these torches carried the spirits of his ancestors, but it still filled him with sorrow to see them extinguished. Who would have done such a thing?

  “Father!” Shandrazel shouted once more. He approached the throne. His nostrils twitched at the scent of blood. He knelt before the throne, spotting a dark, sticky splatter. The blood was now hours old. Perhaps it came from one of the guards? By this time they had discovered a score of corpses.

  “No one’s here,” Androkom said, looking around the chamber, sounding a little spooked.

  Then, to contradict the biologian’s observation, a familiar voice said, “I’m here. Your father won’t be answering, Shandrazel.”

  “Show yourself,” Shandrazel said, looking around the hall.

  “I didn’t mean to hide from you,” the source of the voice said, stepping from behind a pillar. It was Metron, looking especially frail and weary as he hobbled toward them. “I wanted to be cautious. I escaped from Blasphet and returned here to report our plight to your father. I arrived to find everyone dead. I heard your father’s voice and followed it to the roof where I saw him flying off with a human held in his jaws. The king crashed into the river and never came back to the surface.”

  “You lie,” Shandrazel said.

  “No,” Metron said. “My words are truth. You’re king now. You must respect the words of the High Biologian… Sire.”

  “So I shall,” Shandrazel said, with a nod of agreement. “However, I’ll not be listening to you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “On this day, I accept that I am king. Though I do not intend to remain so for long, I will take advantage of one of the privileges by appointing a new High Biologian. Androkom is my choice.”

  “But,” Metron protested, “you may not appoint a new High Biologian until my death.”

  “Or until you are convicted of treason. And who is the final judge in such matters?”

  “The king…” Metron said.

  Shandrazel held forward a slip of paper. “The note you sent Blasphet informing him of our visit and asking him to dispose of us. The penalty, as decreed by all previous kings, is death.”

  “But-”

  “But,” Shandrazel said, “I’m not like previous kings. Your sentence shall be exile.”

  “You must reconsider,” Metron said. “I’ve faithfully served this kingdom for generations. I have nothing but the best interests of all dragons in mind. You cannot do this.”

  “I can. Now, speak the truth. Where is my father?”

  “I did speak truth in this matter, Sire.”

  Shandrazel stood silently for a moment, realizing that Metron was being honest, in this at least.

  “So…” he said, sighing deeply. He moved toward the open door of the chamber to gaze upon the clouds beyond. “On this day, I have lost both father and mother, for Blasphet boasts of slaying her as well.”

  “I’m sorry,” Androkom said.

  “Thank you for your sympathy.” Shandrazel sighed. “I fear I have no time for my own sorrow. Later, I will mourn. But now, I must prepare myself.”

  “For what?” Metron asked.

  Shandrazel looked out toward the Free City, and the ragged mob that marched from it, headed toward his door.

  “For the future,” he said. “If there is to be one.”

  THE SUN HUNG low behind the castle yet seemed reluctant to set, on this, the longest day any man had ever seen. Pet felt the weight of the eyes upon him, the eyes of a thousand men, every man of fighting age who had survived the Free City. He looked to Jandra who smiled at him. She’d shown remarkable strength since Vendevorex had passed, moving among the injured, healing those she could. With her help Pet had assembled the men into something not quite an army, yet something more than a mob.

  Pet climbed onto the wagon resting at the base of the palace walls. He raised an open hand and the men before him fell silent.

  “Today,” Pet said, “we’ve lost almost everything.”

  He watched their faces, saw the anger showing in the eyes of many, the emptiness in the eyes of most.

  “Thousands dead.Wives. Children. Fathers. Mothers. Not a man stands among us who hasn’t lost someone he loves.”

  The men in the crowd nodded in silent acknowledgement of this fact.

  “We’re far from home,” Pet said. “We don’t know if those homes even still exist. We have little food. We’re weary from battle. We stand under a burden of grief more heavy than a mountain.”

  Pet paused, letting his words sink in. “Everything is lost but hope.”

  The men looked at him, hanging on his words.

  “We’ll never bring back the dead,” Pet said, clenching his fists. “Revenge will never bring us relief. But justice, aye, justice shall surely bring us hope. We attack this castle tonight not in the name of vengeance, but in the name of justice! King Albekizan will be brought low, and his kingdom will pass forever from this earth. In its place shall stand a new civilization, a land of truth and kindness, where atrocities like this day’s will never happen again!”

  Pet thrust his fists into the air. The crowd let out a loud cheer. “Justice!” Pet cried.

  “Justice,” shouted the crowd.

  Back and forth the word was called out until suddenly, a voice shouted down from the walls above, “Agreed! There will be justice!”

  The army began to talk among themselves and point to the top of the wall. Pet looked up and saw a huge sun-dragon standing over him.

  “It’s Shandrazel,” Jandra said. “He can be trusted, Pet.”

  Pet called out, “Bring us King Albekizan!”

  A man in the crowd cried out, “Bring us his head!”

  “Albekizan is dead,” Shandrazel said. “We will drag the river for his body, but I won’t allow its desecration. The war is over.”

  “Never!” someone in the crowd cried. “Not until we have our justice!”

  “Yes,” Pet said. “It’s not over simply because he’s dead.”

  “No,” Shandrazel agreed. “It’s over because I will not fight you. But I do not come to surrender. I come instead to help you create your kingdom of justice.”

  “We’ll never live under a dragon’s thumb again,” Pet shouted. The crowd of men cheered.

  “So you now intend to be the thumb?” Shandrazel asked, snaking his head down the wall so that his voice could be better heard. He looked into Pet’s eyes and said, calmly, “If you seize the throne by force, the dragons will not consent to your rule. There will be further war.”

  “We’ll be ready,” said Pet.

  “There is another solution,” Shandrazel said. “A compromise is possible. Will you listen to my proposal?”

  Pet looked at the mob of men he led. He doubted they were in the mood for compromise. But Pet felt the responsibility of the role he played. He knew that his words could launch a war far bloodier than wha
t he’d witnessed today. But was it possible that he could lead these men to peace? Would they accept him as a leader if he weren’t marching them to war?

  “We aren’t in the mood for compromise,” Pet said. “What can you possibly have to offer us?”

  “I propose,” Shandrazel said, “that both a human and a dragon shall rule jointly, though neither as a supreme power. The age of kings is passing. If we wish to move forward, we will need new forms of government; a government where laws are based on reason rather than on the whims of a king. A government where courts make decisions based on truth and fairness rather than tradition and prejudice. I have many ideas, though this isn’t the proper place to discuss them. I invite you to join me in the castle, that we may peaceably discuss the creation of a new government. What say you?”

  “Never!” someone shouted. Pet recognized the voice.

  “Kamon,” he said, “come forth.”

  The old man left the crowd, marching as boldly as his frail limbs would carry him. Pet helped him rise to the platform.

  “Everyone knows me,” Pet said, “but you may not know Kamon. He was one of the men who freed me from the platform. I owe my life to this man. But we are of different minds on many things, I find.”

  “You dare to talk with this dragon?” Kamon said, his small body producing a surprisingly vital voice. “Human blood has been spilt this day, and the earth itself cries for vengeance!”

  The crowd shouted in agreement, raising their weapons. Even Ragnar and his followers, long foes of Kamon, seemed ready to follow the aged prophet into battle.

  They were ready to fight. Pet could see it in their eyes. If he gave the word, every last man before him was willing to put his life on the line to storm the castle.

  As he stood in silence, considering his options, the crowd lowered their weapons and grew quiet, waiting for him to speak. At long last he took a deep breath. There was only one thing to say.

  “Friends, earlier today, I said much the same thing as Kamon. I wanted to see dragon blood on my sword as badly as any of you. But the day has been long. It may be that I’m weak. Or it may be that I’m tired of death. I want justice, but I also want peace, and I’m willing to talk to anyone, man or dragon, to get it.” Pet took the sword that hung from his belt and handed it to Kamon. He said to the aged man, “If you want blood, I won’t oppose you.” Then, to the crowd, “No one has made me your leader but yourself, and no one can stop you if you want to follow Kamon into this castle and kill every living thing you find. If I’m to remain your leader, put down your weapons and wait while I speak with Shandrazel. By dawn, we may have our victory without further blood being spilled.”

  “You can’t mean this,” said Kamon.

  “I can,” Pet said. Then, addressing the crowd, “Now, choose. Kamon or Bitterwood. Vengeance or justice. Which path will you follow?”

  Pet looked at Kamon who glowered at him, looking ready to run him through with the sword he’d just been handed. Yet, something stayed his hand.

  “Bitterwood,” someone in the crowd mumbled.

  “Bitterwood,” another said.

  “Bitterwood,” the crowd shouted, as the last embers of the sun faded away.

  And at the edge of the mob, Ragnar and a handful of followers marched away, weapons still in hand, glancing back toward the Pet with a look of abject scorn.

  EPILOGUE: HOME

  KILLER GROWLED, CAUSING Zeeky to stir from her sleep. Poocher squealed as the ox-dog began to bark furiously. She rubbed her eyes. Zeeky scanned the darkness around them but saw no one. The air carried the smell of the last embers of the fire she’d built earlier in the night.

  Killer continued to bark into the dark voids among the surrounding trees.

  “Is that thing going to eat me?” a man said.

  Zeeky recognized the voice.

  “It’s okay,” she said, and Killer stopped barking.

  “Come on, Hey You,” she shouted.

  The old man emerged from the darkness as the moon slid from behind the clouds. He walked stiffly and sort of tilted to one side. His left arm hung limply, swaying as he moved. Bandages had been wrapped around his chest.

  Yet, as awful as he looked, Zeeky was happy to see him. She jumped up and ran to him, giving him a hug, though not a hard one, as he looked like he might not be able to take it.

  He placed his right hand on her back and said, “You don’t need to call me Hey You anymore.”

  “So what should I call you?”

  “Bant will do.”

  “Okay.”

  Bant grimaced as he lowered himself to the ground. She helped him sit then sat beside him.

  “I’m glad you’re alive,” she said. “After the-”

  “Shh,” he said. “Let’s not talk about what happened back there. Let’s talk about tomorrow. Where you heading to?”

  “Home,” said Zeeky.

  “You aren’t an orphan?”

  “I hope not.”

  “Didn’t think so,” Bant said. “Bet your dad was going to kill that pig ’cause it was a runt, so you ran away with it.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I was young once. A long time ago.” Bant shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll be young again one day.”

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “Don’t know,” he said. “If you want me to, I’ll stick with you for awhile. I’m guessing you don’t know how to find your way back.”

  “No,” Zeeky admitted. “I’m so lost.”

  “So am I,” Bant said. “But home’s out there somewhere. Maybe, together, we’ll find it.”

  DRAGONFORGE PREVIEW CHAPTER: JUDGMENT BY SWINE

  With Albekizan dead and the kingdom entrusted to the kinder hands of Shandrazel and Pet, will a new age of peace blossom between men and dragons? Not if the radical prophet Ragnar and his mysterious partner Burke the Machinist have anything to say about it. Together they lead a human uprising that seizes the foundry town that produces armor and weapons for the king: Dragon Forge. Jandra’s loyalties are put to the test as she must choose whether to side with the rebels or with the dragons attempting to keep the kingdom together. Against the backdrop of war, Bitterwood helps Zeeky search for her lost family, while following his own clues that his son, Adam, may still be alive. But the path to reunion leads to one seemingly impassable obstacle: the latest schemes of genocide executed by the cult of the Murder God, Blasphet. Dragonforge is currently available in paperback; a Kindle edition will be released in Fall, 2010.

  BANT BITTERWOOD THOUGHT the valley below looked like a giant’s patchwork quilt, as squares of tan fields jutted up against blocks of gray trees. In the distance were mountains, the peaks barely visible through blue haze. Zeeky didn’t seem interested in the scenery. Zeeky, a nine-year old girl with golden hair and dirty cheeks, only had eyes for animals. It was she who guided their mount, Killer, a barrel-chested ox-dog that carried two humans and a pig on his back as if they weighed no more than kittens. Zeeky was currently occupied teaching the pig to talk.

  “Zeeky,” she said.

  Poocher, the pig, squealed, “Eee-ee.”

  Bitterwood hoped the pig would provide Zeeky better conversation than he could. Though he tried to hide it from Zeeky, he was currently wracked with fevers. The wounds he’d suffered when the dragon king Albekizan had buried his dagger-length teeth into him had festered. Yellow-brown puss glued his shirt to his torso and soaked through his makeshift bandages.

  Bitterwood sucked in a sharp, pained breath as Killer slipped on a slick rock along the stream bed they followed. The ox-dog was as steady a mount as could be hoped for, and Zeeky’s praise brought out an exceptional gentleness in him. Still, the terrain was rugged, and the broken things inside Bitterwood cut ever deeper.

  Bitterwood found the sharp focus of the pain a welcome distraction. It brought him momentary relief from the torment of his memories. He never intended to survive his final battle with Albekizan. He’d nearly died beneath that
river, drawn toward a light where he found his beloved wife, Recanna, dead to him for twenty years.

  She’d told him to turn back.

  She’d told him he wasn’t ready.

  For twenty years, Bitterwood had slain dragons, never wavering in his conviction that his cause had been just. Had he been turned away from death to continue that fight? Or had heaven shunned him because the struggle had warped him beyond redemption? Had twenty years with nothing but murder in his heart changed him into a worse monster than the creatures he battled?

  “You can end this,” Recanna had said.

  Bitterwood picked at those words like a scab. End what? End his struggle against the dragons? Or did she mean he wasn’t finished with the war, that he still had the power to end it by continuing to fight? Had she been telling him his life’s work had been worthwhile? Or had it all been a mission of vanity?

  Perhaps it had only been the dream of a drowning man. Could he tell the difference between dreams and reality any longer, after the life he’d led?

  “Zeeky,” said Zeeky.

  “Eee-ee,” said Poocher.

  The ox-dog paused to drink from a pool of clear water at the stream’s edge. Crayfish darted about the rocky pool, above a carpet of corn-yellow leaves. Bant grew more alert as he saw the crayfish. Despite his fever, he felt his appetite stirring.

  “Any objection to me eating those?” Bant asked, pointing toward the darting figures.

  Zeeky stared intently at the pool as she pondered the question.

  “They aren’t saying anything,” she said, her face relaxing. “I guess it’s okay.”

  Zeeky wouldn’t let him eat anything she could talk to. Fortunately, not all animals met this criterion. She didn’t seem to have any special rapport with bugs or fish, but late at night he’d caught her gossiping with owls, and she could be downright chatty with Killer and Poocher. Poocher was a few months old, no longer at an age where he could be called a piglet, not yet a full-fledged hog. He was at an awkward stage in a pig’s life, too long and hairy to be cute, yet still too skinny to make a man think longingly of bacon. Poocher had a mostly white hide marked with patches of glossy black, and his dark eyes would sometimes fix on Bitterwood with a contemptuous gaze that caused Bitterwood to look away.