by James Maxey
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 with 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-dr
agon, 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.
Still, there was an atmosphere of optimism about the palace. The red and gold flags that served as the banner of Albekizan fluttered everywhere. Earth-dragon guards in crimson uniforms stood at each door, and above the towers of the palace the brilliant blue figures of the aerial guard could be seen. The aerial guard were those rare male sky-dragons who had chosen lives of combat over scholarship. Graxen himself had wished to join the guard when he was younger. He'd trained his body to endure the hardship of combat, and his childhood as an outcast had toughened him for a life of constant vigilance. Yet, his letters of application to the commander of the guard had never been returned. No matter. As messenger of the king, his life at last had purpose.
The one dark spot on the landscape of this historic day was a literal one-the Burning Grounds, the blackened funeral field still smoking with the pyres of the previous night. Many noble dragons who had valiantly given all in the battle of the Free City still awaited the ceremonial cremations. All winged dragons were due this honor; it would be a long time before any hint of grass returned to that charred field.
Beyond the Burning Grounds, almost hidden by the long shadow of the palace, stood the Free City itself, the cause of much of the recent trouble. This city had been built as a trap for humankind. Albekizan had promised a life of luxury and ease to its chosen residents, a reward, it was said, for their faithful service. In truth, the city had been designed by Albekizan's demented brother, Blasphet, to serve as an abattoir. Albekizan had authorized the genocide in order to produce a definitive end to the legendary dragon-hunter Bitterwood. Of course, in the end, Albekizan had underestimated the humans; on the day the residents were to be massacred, a rebellion had spread. What was to be a day of human slaughter turned into a day of human victory.
The Free City was empty now. Graxen wondered what would become of it. It seemed pointless to tear down the structure after so much wealth and effort had been expended to construct it. The Free City could house thousands of people. Perhaps humans would one day settle there peacefully, if they could overlook its sinister origins.
Graxen's reverie ended as he passed over the palace walls. He tilted his body toward a balcony, angling his wings to slow his descent. He gracefully lit on the balcony then walked into the marble-tiled hall beyond. The murmur of voices told him many of Shandrazel's guests had already arrived.
This was the Peace Hall. Albekizan had always referred to it as the war room, but Shandrazel had renamed the chamber as a sign of his intentions. Yet, despite the room's new name, its history still hung on the walls. Tapestries depicted a dozen scenes of Albekizan's conquests. Even the floor of the room was inlaid with a map fifty feet long showing the entirety of Albekizan's kingdom, laid out in precious metals and polished stones of exotic colors.
Groups had gathered in the four corners of the chamber. Four enormous sun-dragons leaned in closely with one another in conference in the corner nearest the balcony. Graxen knew them all as dragons he'd personally summoned. In the opposite corner, a crowd of humans stood. Graxen recognized a few: the mayor of Richmond was noteworthy for being unusually squat and round, and the mayor of Bilge he remembered due to the fact he only had one arm. Few of the other humans looked familiar. Graxen prided himself on his eye for details and his excellent memory, but he still had difficulty telling one human from another. It wasn't that they all looked alike, rather, there was too much variance. It was impossible to catalogue all the countless configurations of the human form. Adult sky-dragons varied little in color and size; adult human came in hundreds of shades of tan, and could vary in height by several feet and weight by hundreds of pounds. Their faces were an equally exasperating mish-mash-some hairy, some hairless, some with h
air on their scalp and none on their cheeks and jaw, some with the pattern reversed. And that hair could come in an array of colors: white, black, gray, orange, brown, and gold, each in dozens of shades and mixtures.
With a fellow dragon, there were only a few simple identifying cues: the bumps of the snout; the curve of the jaw; subtle variations in the shape of the eyes; the way that no two sky-dragons scale patterns were ever exactly alike. A sky-dragon face instantly triggered recognition as the mind filtered through the logical system of organizing who was who by these differences. With humans, most identities were drowned out by the cacophony of possible features.
As he mused on identity, Graxen cast a glance toward a third cluster of gathered guests-sky-dragons like himself, all male-the biologians, the scholar-priests that guided the intellectual life of the kingdom. A few cast glances toward him with suspicious eyes. Graxen felt a sense of shame. Did the dismissive attitude he felt toward humans mirror the feelings the biologians had about him? Too different to ever be worth the effort of knowing? No biologian ever studied his face for his identifying features. He was forever marked as "other." Something deep in the brains of sky-dragons would never accept him as a fellow member of the species.
In the final corner of the room sat Shandrazel, resting upon a throne pedestal topped with a large golden pillow. The young king looked quite noble: his red scales freshly groomed, golden rings decorating the edges of his wings. Before him stood Androkom, the high biologian. Androkom wasn't much older than Graxen. It was odd to see a dragon of his youth wearing the green sashes that denoted such important rank. Androkom's most notable feature, however, was his lack of a tail; he'd lost most of the appendage after an encounter with Blasphet. Normally, sky-dragons placed great emphasis on physical perfection; the worst punishment any sky-dragon could face was to become a tatterwing. Graxen wondered if having an amputee dragon holding such high rank might lead to greater acceptance of deformities among sky-dragons.
