by James Maxey
This was the sort of thing that had driven Bitterwood to hold humanity in nearly the same contempt as dragons. The people of Winding Rock had been rounded up in the middle of the night and forcibly marched to the Free City. The dragons had acted swiftly, gathering only those they found in a single night. Certainly these mountains were full of people the dragons had missed. Bitterwood had spotted other villages in the valley that were unmolested by the king's attempted genocide. The neighbors of the town of Winding Rock could have banded together and attempted to rescue their captive brethren. Instead, they'd stayed hidden until the dragons were gone, then stolen everything that wasn't nailed down. Passing a house from which the slate roof tiles were missing, Bitterwood realized that actually being nailed down hadn't provided any protection from theft either.
"This place is spooky," Zeeky said.
"It's just empty," said Bitterwood. A spark of anger ignited as he realized that this village was the vision Albekizan-the dragon king-had possessed for all of humanity. The spark of anger was instantly quenched by a wave of guilt. Albekizan's genocide order had come in response to Bitterwood's actions. He had triggered this violence by killing Bodiel, the king's most-loved son. His hands weren't clean in the death of this place.
They passed through the town, finding a well-worn trail that followed a creek higher into the mountains. The path was nothing but rocks and roots. Killer was a powerful mount, but even he slowed on the steep incline. The creek splashed beside the path in a series of waterfalls.
"We're close!" Zeeky said, fidgeting in her seat.
"Hallelujah," Bitterwood said. He felt somewhat better today, after the meal of crawdads and a solid night of sleep. Last night he'd slept free of dreams. He'd simply succumbed to exhaustion and illness and slumbered from dusk to dawn. His fever had broken. He was still tender, but he felt some of his old strength returning.
Poocher sniffed the air, then grunted.
"Smoke?" said Zeeky.
Bitterwood took a sniff. The pig was right. There was a slight hint of smoke in the air, burning wood, with an undertone of sulfur.
"They burn coal in these parts?" asked Bitterwood.
"Yes," Zeeky said. "The menfolk dig it up and trade it down in Winding Rock."
Poocher grunted again.
"You're right," said Zeeky. "It does stink."
They continued up the mountain path. The rocks were rising at steeper angles now, the forest growing denser and darker. The cliffs high above were riddled with shadowy caves.
They'd come several miles from Winding Rock when Bitterwood heard a scream. Somewhere in the distance ahead, a woman-or perhaps a child-cried out in pain.
"Stop here," said Bitterwood.
"No!" Zeeky said. "We're almost there! It's just around the bend!"
"Let me go ahead to check things out."
"Run, Killer!" Zeeky yelled.
Killer lunged forward. Bitterwood grabbed fistfuls of bristly dog hair to keep from toppling as Killer swerved around a steep curve on the trail.
Zeeky let out a gasp.
Ahead, the village of Big Lick was nothing but a mound of smoking ruins. Killer stopped in response to Zeeky's gasp, suddenly as paralyzed with shock as she was.
Bitterwood vaulted from the ox-dog and said, "Wait here," before moving further up the path. The village had been burned several hours ago, judging from the remains. What had once been homes were now just heaps of charcoal, sending up a fog of smoke. The coal dust that had clung to the village gave the charred remains a sickly egg-fart stench.
Bitterwood searched the ground for tracks as he walked closer to the village. If an army of dragons had done this, they'd not traveled up this path. Of course, it could be sun-dragons or sky-dragons behind it. They could have flown in. However, for some reason he'd never understood, the winged dragons normally didn't journey into these mountains.
He crept forward carefully, crouched low, his eyes seeking out natural areas of cover he could dive for in case of aerial attack. Unarmed, he searched the ground for a good heavy rock. Fortunately, Big Lick had no shortage of stones. As he picked up a smooth, fist-sized rock, he noticed a scrape in the ground beside it. A claw mark… a dragon? It was too small for a sun-dragon, and whatever had left the mark had been heavier than a sky-dragon. Quickly, his eyes picked out a dozen other marks, then a hundred more, in all directions, with human footprints mixed among them. Curiously, he spotted no blood. Sniffing the air, he found no trace of the sweet hammy smell of burnt human flesh. The dragons-if that's what had attacked-must have taken the villagers as captives.
It was growing dark and cold as he stepped into a square of ash and blackened logs that had once been a cabin. A small tower of stone jutted up from the center, the remains of a fireplace. The smoke danced like ghosts as the wind pushed tiny ash-devils across the stone hearth. He spotted a fallen fireplace poker, a length of black iron with a forked end and a coil of wire for a handle. It was hot enough to blister a normal man when he lifted it, but his hands were tough as leather gloves. The poker had a pleasant heft. He'd killed dragons with lesser weapons than this.
The hair on the back of his neck rose. Something was running in the woods on the other side of the chimney, coming fast. It sounded like human footsteps. Bitterwood pressed himself against the chimney. Seconds later a boy rushed past, breathing hard, tears leaving trails down his soot-darkened cheeks. The boy was older than Zeeky, rail thin, with bright blond hair of a nearly identical hue. The boy caught sight of Bitterwood from the corner of his eye. As he turned his head he tripped, skidding amid the ash, sending up a shower of dull red sparks as he fell. Bitterwood gripped the poker tightly with his left hand, and readied the fist-sized stone in his right hand to throw.
As the boy struggled to stand, Bitterwood saw blood on his burlap shirt. The boy looked back over his shoulder, past Bitterwood and the chimney toward the woods beyond, his eyes wide with terror.
From the crunching of leaves, it sounded as if a small army was approaching.
Every muscle in Bitterwood's body coiled, ready to spring. The pain in his chest vanished as a reptilian odor was carried toward him-a dragon! But what kind?
A copper-hued, horse-sized head of a dragon darted past the edge of the chimney, low to the ground. The creature's long neck was quickly followed by a pair of shoulders supporting thick, strong legs that ended in three-clawed talons. This was the creature that had made the tracks. Another yard of the beast passed and another set of shoulders and a second set of legs appeared. The boy had gotten to his feet again, and was darting away like a rabbit. The dragon steered toward him, as a third set of legs scrambled past the chimney. Bitterwood had never seen anything like this creature.
Time slowed, as it always did in the heat of battle. Though the creature charged as quickly as a galloping horse, it moved at a crawl in Bant's eyes. He could see every individual scale of the creature as it passed. He watched its muscles as they moved in precise choreography beneath a gleaming metallic hide. A fourth set of limbs came around the edge of the chimney, then a fifth, but the fifth set wasn't part of the creature's body. They were human feet, resting in stirrups.
The human in the saddle was revealed as the creature advanced. He was a short man, with skin pale as milk, dressed in a shimmering white tunic. A large silver visor hid his eyes. He somehow guided his reptilian mount without the benefit of reins, leaving his hands free to aim a large crossbow at the boy. But, he too caught sight of Bitterwood and cocked his head, his lips parting as if he were about to speak.
Bitterwood wasn't interested in what he might say. The springs in his legs uncoiled. He swung the iron poker in an upward arc, catching the rider underneath his chin. The rider was lifted from his saddle by the blow.
As the white-clad man fell through the air, the serpent's back curved, instantly aware of rider's missing weight. Bitterwood spun as the beast's head whipped around, its jaws opening to reveal a pale pink mouth-roof. Twin rows of teeth hurtled toward him, the
jaws spread wide enough to swallow his head.
Bitterwood raised the stone he carried, a good, hard chunk of stream-polished granite. As the dragon's mouth reached him and the jaws began to snap, he placed the stone precisely at the back of the creature's jaw. When the beast chomped down, its spiky rear teeth snapped. Bitterwood ducked to allow the dragon's momentum carry it over him. The dragon let out a grunt as it hit the chimney with a wet smack. Its body twitched and coiled as Bitterwood jumped free.
Long years of fighting dragons had left Bitterwood with a reliable internal map of where a dragon's claws, teeth, and tail would be in close combat. Alas, he still hadn't figured out how many limbs this weird long-wyrm had. As he jumped away something sharp snared his ankle. His leap to freedom aborted in a painful crash. A second set of claws tore into his calves, then a third, and a fourth. Bitterwood twisted around to see the long-wyrm shake its bloodied head, then turn its dark eyes to face him.
Bitterwood kicked, loosening two of the claws. The beast jerked, dragging Bitterwood closer as claw after claw sank into his legs. By now the entire creature could be seen. It was fully fifty feet long from snout to tail, with fourteen pairs of claws. The long-wyrm's mouth dripped blood, and the lower jaw was set at a funny angle, perhaps broken.
Behind the dragon, the rider rose to his knees, looking dazed. His visor had been knocked off, revealing large, pink eyes amid the ghostly flesh of his face. He raised a hand as if to shield his eyes from the light, despite the deepening shadows. The man looked around, and reached for his visor. Before he could grab it, a black and white form flashed into view and snatched it up in its jaws, then dashed away. Poocher?
The long-wyrm suddenly stopped pulling Bitterwood closer. Its eyes were set on something behind the fallen hunter. The creature braced itself. The ash all around Bitterwood swirled in a rush of wind. A large shadow flew over his head. Killer, the ox-dog, let out a thunderous bark in mid air, then sank his massive jaws into the lizard's copper throat. The long-wyrm released Bitterwood, coiling up to rake and tear at the giant dog. Killer whipped the wyrm's head back and forth, its broken jaw flopping. The beast let out a series of hissing yelps as Killer pinned it to the ground and clamped his jaws even tighter.
Even though the serpent was losing, it continued tearing out bloody chunks of fur as it curled around the dog in a whirlwind of claws. Bitterwood scrambled back to his feet, taking the poker in both hands, and lunged for the long-wyrm, ignoring the slashing pain from his damaged legs. He planted the forked edge of the iron poker in the center of the beast's left eye and threw his full weight onto the handle. The thin layer of bone behind the eye snapped as he drove the rod into the creature's brain. The dragon fell limp, its claws stilled at last.
"Jeremiah!" Zeeky shouted.
Bitterwood looked down the path, the see the boy running toward Zeeky.
"Ezekia!" the boy shouted. Zeeky jumped into his arms as they reached each other. The boy's legs collapsed at the weight, and they both wound up on the ground.
Bitterwood yanked the poker from the dead reptile's eye. The white-skinned rider was now on his feet, his back toward Bitterwood. The rider, hearing Bitterwood's approach, turned. He'd recovered his crossbow. He raised the weapon and pulled the trigger.
Bitterwood's eyes were still swift enough to trace the razor honed tip as sliced through the air toward him. His arms felt like lead weights as he tried to lift the poker to knock the bolt from its path.
To the amazement of both the rider and himself, the poker reached the same point in space as the bolt less than a yard from Bitterwood's chest. The bolt deflected upward, leaving a trail of sparks, as it whizzed past Bitterwood's left ear.
The rider looked stunned. Bitterwood had witnessed the same look countless time in the eyes of dragons. It was a look that gave him a certain amount of pleasure, but experience had taught him it was not a pleasure that should be prolonged. He willed his torn legs to leap the few yards that separated him from the man, swinging the iron rod in a vicious arc. He slammed it against the side of the man's neck with such force the poker bent. The man fell to his back, twitching, his eyes rolling up in their sockets.
Bitterwood sucked down air in great gasps, his legs trembling. The world slowed back to normal speed. He studied the fallen rider. Though blood was seeping from his ears, the man still breathed. Perhaps he would live. Perhaps he would have answers as to what had happened here.
On the other hand, the man had been riding a dragon, or something very much like a dragon. Bitterwood thought of women and children being dragged from their homes by reptilian claws, imagined the destruction of Big Lick with great clarity. He could hear the screams of the villagers, just as for twenty years he'd heard the screams of his own family.
There was only one way to silence those voices.
Glancing over his shoulder he saw Killer limping back to Zeeky and the boy, who were sitting on the ground, talking. No one was looking toward him.
Bitterwood fell to his knees. His arms were losing strength; his legs were bleeding in copious streams. He wanted to fall over, to collapse forever into sleep.
But there could be no rest while the voices howled.
Bitterwood raised the poker above his head and swung it, planting the full weight into the man's face. A bubble of blood rose from the man's lips.
Bitterwood felt too weak to move as he stared at the damaged face. A lightness took hold of him, like the fevers that had given his world such a dreamlike quality. The unconscious man's features suddenly struck him as familiar-eyes, ears, nose, mouth-a universal visage, belonging to almost any man. Bitterwood could even see himself in the shared structures, and as the world slowly began to tilt he could no longer tell if it was the rider who lay upon the ground, or himself.
Bitterwood raised the poker and swung at the face that might be his own, then swung again, and again, until what he was hitting looked like a face no longer.
The screams now silent, Bitterwood toppled into the ash.
He closed his eyes, then opened them to discover Poocher by his head. The pig was wearing the rider's visor, standing on two legs.
"Evil man," Poocher said, in a smooth and high-cultured tone. He pointed a cleft hoof at Bitterwood in a gesture of condemnation. "All your works amount to dust. All that remains of you will scatter with the winds."
Bitterwood found himself concurring with the judgment of the pig. He welcomed this fate. It seemed a very light thing, to be carried off by air, unremembered, unmourned.
"Take care of Zeeky," he whispered before the world spun in a whirl of white embers, then turned black.
Chapter Seven:
Magical Gifts
A misty rain veiled the mountains, hiding Zeeky's ruined village. Zeeky gazed out from the shelter of one of the caves overlooking Big Lick. It had taken hours for her and Jeremiah to drag Bitterwood to the shelter. Killer was too wounded to carry anyone, though he could limp along. Poocher sat beside her, watching her intently as she used Bitterwood's kit to start a fire. The logs they'd dragged up to the cave were damp. The flames from the kindling licked the bark, causing the logs to sizzle and put out fumes that were more steam than smoke.
She checked Bitterwood's bandages one last time. Jeremiah had found scraps of unburned blankets in the rubble and they'd used these to bind his wounds, but she was frightened by how much blood he'd lost. He was burning hot, and his breathing was shallow and raspy. She wished she knew something more to do.
Finally, with the fire putting out at least a little heat and everyone in safe from the drizzle, she asked, "What happened, Jeremiah?"
"For a couple of years, the menfolk have been whispering about the new kind of demon they were seeing in the mines," said Jeremiah. "Big copper-colored serpents with a hundred legs. But the demons were afraid of light; the men kept mining, they just needed more lanterns than before."
"I know that. I heard Papa talking to Uncle Silas about the demons," said Zeeky. "But why'd they attack?"
&n
bsp; "I don't know," said Jeremiah. "They just showed up in the middle of the night and dragged everyone out of bed. I tried to fight but the demons were too strong. The demon just got hold of me. There were men with them who tied me up. They carried everyone up to Dead Skunk Hole. I was slung over the back of one of the demons, but there was some slack in the ropes holding me. I wiggled loose and ran like a jackrabbit. Didn't look back to see if I was followed. I hunkered down in some bushes for better than a day. Then I took off running for Big Lick to see if anyone was left. I guess one of the demons also came back to look. I thought sure I was a goner when I heard it coming up behind me."
"You think Mama and Papa are still alive?"
"I reckon," said Jeremiah. "I didn't see nobody get killed. Wonder what them demons want us for?"
"I'll just have to go up to Dead Skunk Hole and find out," Zeeky said.
"Zeeky, you saw that demon. It ripped up your friend and hurt this big dog something fierce. You'll get eaten alive."
"No I won't," said Zeeky. "The serpents aren't demons. They're animals. I could make out some of what it was saying while it was fighting. I bet I could talk to one. Animals won't eat me if I tell 'em not to."
"Yeah," said Jeremiah. "You did talk that ol' bear out of eatin' Granny."
"Told him he'd only get indigestion," said Zeeky.
"But these long-wyrms ain't natural," said Jeremiah.
"It ain't natural that I can talk to animals," said Zeeky. "I'm not scared of things just 'cause they ain't natural. I'll just go into the mine and look around some. I'll take Poocher. You stay here with Mr. Bitterwood and Killer. Keep the fire going. Fetch them some water from the creek when they wake up."
"All right," said Jeremiah. "I know I ain't going to talk you out of it. Just promise you'll be careful."
Zeeky nodded but didn't actually say the words, so it didn't count.
