by James Maxey
The time for planning abruptly ended as the vengeful rider shouted, “Fire!” The crossbow strings sang out with a single deadly note.
Chapter Ten:
The Battle of Dead Skunk Hole
Bitterwood charged as the bolts whistled through the air. A flash of light caught his eyes. The bolts flared, lit by an internal fire. Three feet from Hex’s hide the missiles vanished in puffs of smoke.
“Yes!” shouted Jandra, sounding pleased. “Finally!”
Hex looked puzzled by the dusty cloud wafting around him. Then he grimaced, as if in pain, before unleashing a sneeze that echoed through the cave like thunder.
With all eyes on Hex, Bitterwood grabbed a shovel that leaned against a mine cart as he closed in on the nearest long-wyrm. He jumped atop a crate and threw himself at the beast. The long-wyrm whipped toward him, drawn by the sudden movement. Bitterwood planted a hand on the dragon’s snout and somersaulted over its toothy maw. He landed on the beast’s back, two yards from the rider, who dropped his crossbow and hastily drew his sword. As the weapon cleared its scabbard Bitterwood swung. The wooden handle cracked as the iron blade of the shovel connected with the man’s head. The rider tumbled from his saddle, his sword flying from his fingers. Bitterwood dropped the shovel and snatched the sword as he leapt from the beast. He landed on the stone floor, crouching, his cloak concealing the blade. The shadows on the floor revealed the long-wyrm snaking back toward him. Bitterwood spun around, burying the blade in the underside of the beast’s jaw. Hot spittle flecked his cheeks as the long-wyrm’s mouth slammed shut. The upper six inches of the sword jutted from the creature’s snout like a bloody horn.
Bitterwood braced himself. He’d missed the long-wyrm’s brain. The beast recoiled in pain. Bitterwood held onto the blade with both hands as he was jerked him from his feet. With a slurp the blade pulled free, and Bitterwood dropped back to the stone. The creature shook its head back and forth in agony. Bitterwood aimed carefully and thrust upward, his feet braced for maximum leverage. The tip of the sword found the spot he wanted, nearer the back of the jaw. This time, the blade broke into the beast’s skull with a gratifying crunch. A spasm ran the length of the long-wyrm, all its claws clenching in sequence. Bitterwood pulled the blade loose as the beast slackened. He jumped free of the collapsing serpent, his eyes searching for the next target.
None of the long-wyrms even looked his way. Two of the remaining beasts were fighting Hex, one was locked in combat with Killer, and the last creature and its rider were engulfed in flames. Jandra was focused on their writhing bodies; her hands grabbed at the air. It looked as if she was gathering the smoke that rose from her victims into a tight ball.
Satisfied that Jandra was in no immediate danger, Bitterwood sprinted across the room toward the long-wyrm that fought Killer. In a replay of the earlier battle, the ox-dog had buried his teeth into the creature’s throat. Unlike the earlier battle, Killer’s new wounds were more than just scratches. The wyrm had coiled around it and was digging deep gouges in the giant dog’s underbelly. A pool of gore grew beneath them as the creature’s copper claws pulled out bluish-red loops of intestine. Killer’s jaws went slack. A noise, part howl and part sigh, came from somewhere deep inside him. The rider, still in his saddle, leaned forward with his silver blade and buried the tip of the weapon between the dog’s eyes.
Bitterwood had seen a lot of creatures die, but seldom had he ever felt such loss. Killer had been a good dog. Bitterwood snarled as he flew at the rider. The rider looked up, struggling to pull his sword free from the dying canine. Bitterwood leapt and swung his blade, chopping into the man’s sword arm near the elbow. The rider pulled back, a gasp of agony escaping his lips. The rider’s pale face turned even whiter as he saw his arm dangling by a thread of flesh. Bitterwood spun to face the jaws of the long-wyrm as the rider slipped from his saddle. Unfortunately, the rider wasn’t dead. With his good hand, he reached out as he fell and grabbed Bitterwood’s cloak, jerking him backwards.
Bitterwood fought for balance as his feet slipped on the slick gore beneath him. An instant later he was flat on his back. He clenched his jaws as the first of the long-wyrm’s talons dug into his right shin. With reflexes trained by years of constant battle, Bitterwood swung his blade without thinking, severing the talon at the wrist. He kicked, scooting backward, as the long-wyrm pulled back. He tried to rise, but everywhere his feet and hands fell he found the hot, stinking slime of Killer’s entrails. He could get no traction. The long-wyrm recovered and rose, swaying, then flashed toward him, a bolt of serpentine lightning.
Before it reached him, a second long-wyrm came flying through the air, catching Bitterwood’s attacker in mid-strike, knocking it backward.
Bitterwood rolled to his side, trying to figure out what had just happened. He saw one of the long-wyrms now lying dead and broken at the sun-dragon’s feet. Two riders lay still and bloody nearby. Hex was down on all fours, the tail of the remaining long-wyrm clamped in his mouth. He spun in circles, whipping his foe through the air in dizzying arcs. This was what had saved Bitterwood—Hex’s foe had collided with his. The rider of the spinning long-wyrm was still in his saddle, his feet tangled in the stirrups. His visor was gone, and he had a look of sheer terror in his eyes.
Rising to his feet, sword in hand, Bitterwood searched for the long-wyrm that had killed Killer. It was undulating toward the back of the shaft, vanishing once more into darkness. Bitterwood considered giving chase, but decided against it. The bleeding long-wyrm would leave an easy trail. Bitterwood was greatly interested in where it would lead.
With a sickening crunch, the long-wyrm in Hex’s jaws smacked into the wall of the mine, its body nearly flattening with the impact. Hex let the now-dead beast drop, pinning its still living rider beneath it.
Hex looked dizzy, swaying drunkenly in the aftermath of battle. He was covered with countless cuts, though none looked serious.
Bitterwood examined the body of the rider who’d grabbed him by the belt. The man had finally died from blood loss. He looked around the room. Jeremiah was nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s the boy?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Jandra said, looking down at something small in her hands. “I got a little overconfident after my success at dismantling the bolts and fried this one with Vengeance of the Ancestors. I forgot that I might kill the rest of you with the poison smoke. I had to gather up all the particulate matter and compress it so it wouldn’t be harmful.” She held up a black ball the size of a walnut. A skin of silver flowed over it like paint as she turned it in her fingers. “I’ll be more careful next time.”
Hex said, “I saw Jeremiah flee from the mine. I admire his finely honed instincts for avoiding danger.”
“He’s only a child,” said Jandra. “He’s probably safer wherever he ran to than wherever we’re going.”
Bitterwood knelt next to Killer, placing his hands on the dog’s bloodied body. The bristly fur was warm to his touch. He remembered Killer’s gentleness as a mount, the look of genuine gratitude the dog conveyed whenever Bitterwood had thrown it some scrap of food. Bitterwood’s leg throbbed from where the long-wyrm had dug into it, but the pain felt so distant compared to the cold fingers of grief that clamped around his heart.
“Jandra,” he said softly. “Can you help him? He’s… he’s a good dog.”
Jandra walked over and placed a hand on Bitterwood’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. Most of what I do is augment a body’s own healing mechanisms. I can’t bring the dead back to life.”
Bitterwood shuddered, feeling the icy hands inside him closing tighter. He closed his eyes, locating the core of hatred that forever burned in him, and instantly his grief washed away in a flood of outrage. These long-wyrm riders had much to pay for.
He stood and limped toward the only rider left alive, the one trapped beneath the long-wyrm. The man’s face was twisted in agony as he clawed at the floor, trying to pull himself free. His pale features were now smudged w
ith black coal dust.
Bitterwood stamped down with his full weight, using his uninjured leg to snap the man’s fingers beneath his boot. The man released an agonized cry.
“I’m going to kill you,” Bitterwood said, pressing down harder and giving the fingers under his heel a twist.
“Wait!” Jandra shouted, rushing up behind him. “We need him alive! We need to ask him questions.”
“I’ll never talk!” the rider vowed between clenched teeth. “I’d die before betraying the goddess!”
“Then die!” said Bitterwood, raising his sword.
“Stop,” said Jandra, taking Bitterwood’s arm and pulling him back. “He can tell us what happened to Zeeky!”
“He won’t talk. He’s a disciple of the goddess Ashera. I know better than anyone the blindness of faith. Let me end his pathetic life!”
“The goddess shall avenge me!” the man said, struggling to sit up. His legs were free of the long-wyrm now but they were twisted in a way that told Bitterwood he would never walk again.
“Your goddess has no power,” Bitterwood said. “I’ve seen her temples gutted, her idols desecrated. She cannot stop these things, just as she cannot save you!”
“Blasphemer!” The rider spat the word out as if it tasted vile. “I’ve seen the goddess with my own eyes! If you were to gaze upon her glory, you would tear out your own tongue in penance for your foul lies!”
Hex’s long face drew closer to the rider. His jaws still dripped blood. “I, for one, would like to meet this goddess. Can you take us to her?”
The man grimaced as he tried to move his broken legs. He sighed, sagging back against the long-wyrm’s corpse. “It would serve you right if I were to lead you to her, dragon. She would melt the flesh from your bones with but a glance.”
Jandra knelt before the rider. “I’m willing to take that chance. I have the power to heal your legs. Would you lead us to your goddess if I do?”
The man looked at her skeptically.
Jandra reached out and placed her hands on the man’s foot. His boot had been lost beneath the long-wyrm, leaving his bloodied and twisted flesh exposed.
She closed her eyes as a look of concentration fell over her features.
“Compound fractures in both legs,” she said. “Extensive internal bleeding. You’ll die if you don’t accept my help.”
In answer, the man’s one good hand darted out and grabbed Jandra by her hair. Her helmet flew from her head as he yanked her to his chest, pinning her with his other arm. His free hand flashed to his belt and an instant later a dagger rested against her throat.
“Stay back!” he snarled. “I’ll kill her if you move so much as an inch!”
“This really isn’t a smart move on your part,” Jandra grumbled.
“I’ve summoned other riders,” the man said, eyeing Bitterwood, then the dragon. “You should flee if you value your life. I’ll release the girl when they arrive.”
Bitterwood raised his sword and took a step closer. “The girl is a witch. It was only a matter of time before I killed her myself.”
“I swear I’ll do it,” the rider screamed, jerking Jandra’s hair back and denting her throat with the tip of the blade.
Before Bitterwood could react, Jandra grabbed the man’s wrist. Though the man’s arms were twice as thick as her own, she pushed the dagger away from her throat as the man struggled to regain control.
Suddenly Hex darted in, his jaws wide. He clamped down with twin rows of knife-length teeth over the man’s head. The rider screamed briefly before Hex silenced him forever with a sharp twist that tore the man’s neck from his torso. Hex rose, his jaws spraying blood as he crunched the man’s skull into ever-smaller fragments.
Jandra turned pale as she watched Hex swallow. She scrambled away from the corpse who still had an arm around her and grabbed her helmet.
“He tasted better than his mount, at least,” said Hex, wiping blood from his jaws onto his wing. “Why didn’t you simply melt his dagger, Jandra?”
Jandra didn’t look back at Hex as she pulled on her helmet.
“I need my helmet to…” her voice trailed off, as if she thought better of completing her sentence. “It’s not important.”
Her eyes caught Bitterwood’s. Bitterwood could tell that this was the first time she’d ever seen a dragon devour a man. Perhaps now she could understand his hatred of the beasts. She turned away, looking ill.
Hex remained oblivious to the unspoken communication between the humans. His eyes were fixed on the back of the shaft.
“There’s one more,” he said.
Bitterwood looked into the gloom. A single long-wyrm slithered forward. At first, he thought it might be the one he wounded, but he soon saw that this one was unscathed, as was the rider upon its saddle. The rider’s outfit was slightly modified from that of his brethren, with a large red star above his left breast. Like the others, he wore a silver visor. Unlike the others, whose hair had been cropped short, this new rider’s locks hung to his shoulders. His skin was the same pale tint, but his hair was a dark chestnut, a shade that reminded Bitterwood of his now dead wife, Recanna. He carried a crossbow, but it wasn’t loaded. Bitterwood had learned to read bodies well over the years; whoever this was, he wasn’t planning to attack.
“What a waste,” the new rider said, looking over the corpses of his brethren. “This combat wasn’t authorized. They betrayed the goddess by coming here on a mission of petty revenge. They’ve paid the ultimate price for their folly.”
“You’ll not try to avenge them, then?” asked Hex.
“No,” the rider said. “Through our visors, we may send messages to one another. They signaled that they were entering combat; I ordered them to stand down and they disobeyed my orders. I watched the battle as if through their eyes. They struck first. You fought in self defense. There is nothing to avenge.”
“Perhaps you have nothing to avenge,” said Bitterwood. “But there’s a town below that was destroyed by your riders. Why?”
“The goddess decreed it was a time of harvest,” the rider said in a matter-of-fact tone as his long-wyrm carried him to within a few yards. To be coming into the presence of a sun-dragon, the rider and his long-wyrm looked strangely unworried. “The goddess planted them. She may reap them.”
“Planted them?” Jandra said. “They weren’t stalks of corn.”
“Are they still alive?” Hex asked.
“The fate of the villagers should not concern you,” the rider said.
“The fate of one villager is of great concern to me,” said Bitterwood. “Her name is Zeeky.”
The wyrm-rider smiled. “The girl with the pig. Quite resourceful, that one. The goddess has taken special notice of her.”
“We want to meet this goddess,” said Hex.
“Her temple is a long journey from here,” said the rider. “You must travel underground for several days. It isn’t a journey to be taken lightly; men have gone mad contemplating the weight of the earth above them.”
“Perhaps men do go mad,” said Hex. “I believe I’m made of sterner stuff.”
“I’m not afraid,” said Jandra. “Take us.”
Bitterwood didn’t answer. It didn’t seem, from his posture, that the rider was planning to lead them into a trap. Still, if the temple was many days away, had Zeeky arrived there yet? He wasn’t certain how many days he’d lost to the fever.
“Before we go, introductions are in order,” Hex said, apparently impatient with Bitterwood’s silence. “I am Hexilizan; my friends call me Hex. The woman is named Jandra. I fear I haven’t been introduced to the gentleman yet.”
Bitterwood thought carefully of what to say. Jandra apparently had kept his true identity secret. A wise move, perhaps, but now that he had a sword in his hand he didn’t care what Hex knew about him.
“My name is Bant Bitterwood,” he said. He saw the muscles beneath Hex’s hide go instantly tense. More curiously, the rider also stiffened in his saddle. The
man’s mouth opened, but he seemed unable to speak.
Shaking off his shocked expression, the rider dismounted. He took off his visor and stepped toward Bitterwood. The look on his face was an expression half of disbelief, half of reverence.
“Do you…” he asked, his voice soft. “Can you truly be Bant Bitterwood?”
“Is my name known so well in the underworld?” Bitterwood asked.
The rider drew closer. Despite the pallor of the man’s skin, Bitterwood noted the rider’s features in many ways echoed his own, from the sharp angle of the nose to the firm line of the brow. Yet while Bitterwood’s face was leathery and wrinkled, the rider’s visage had a baby-skin smoothness that no doubt came from avoiding the sun. The man was taller than Bitterwood, better muscled and much younger, at most a few years older than Jandra.
“I worried you were dead,” the rider said.
“I’ve done little to discourage that belief,” Bitterwood said.
“Your legend has preceded you,” the rider said. “As I grew up, I took pride in your exploits whenever Gabriel reported back news from the world of men. I feel as if I’ve known you my whole life, though I have no true memories of you.”
“No memor… who are you?” Bitterwood asked, his voice trailing to near silence as he realized why this man might resemble him.
The rider nodded, as if recognizing that Bitterwood had figured out the puzzle. “Yes,” he said. “I’m Adam Bitterwood.”
Chapter Eleven:
Unhealthy Philosophies
The brilliant morning sun was a welcome change from the gloom and rain Graxen had flown through the last few days. The palace of Shandrazel stood in the distance, a small mountain of granite. The frost that covered this ancestral seat of power sparkled like jewels. Since Shandrazel had taken the throne, Graxen had spent little time at the palace. He’d traveled to the far reaches of the kingdom to summon guests to Shandrazel’s conference. Today, sun-dragons would arrive, lords of the various territories that swore alliance to the king. Humans would attend as well, represented by the mayors of the larger towns, like Richmond, Hampton, Chickenburg, and Bilge. The earth-dragons would be underrepresented. Save for Dragon Forge, they claimed no territory as their own. They lived primarily in the service of sun-dragons, and depended upon these superior beasts for leadership. Male sky-dragons from all nine of the Colleges would be in attendance, but the female sky-dragons would only have one voice—the representative from the Nest. Graxen wondered how Shandrazel could hope to bring equality to races of such uneven power and resources; he couldn’t even bring equal numbers of representatives to the discussions.
