Bitterwood (2 page)

The crowd consisted of the village men, all three score of them. All were still naked from the sowing. The women stood on the nearby hill, clutching their children to them. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on the temple of the Goddess. The structure sat in the heart of the village. Its wooden columns were the ivy-covered trunks of ancient trees, and its walls were dense hedges. It held the most sacred artifact of the village; a carving of the Goddess, taller than a man, resting on a pedestal that was once the stump of an enormous oak.

Flames engulfed the temple. The fire roared with a noise like heavy rain. The stone steps leading up to the temple interior were covered with offerings: baskets containing bundles of fresh spring ramps, loaves of brown bread, and a catfish as long as a man’s arm. The woven reed baskets curled and warped in the heat of the blaze.

Then, from the smoke and flame rolling from the temple’s entrance, a giant stranger emerged, rudely dragging behind him the voluptuously carved mahogany statue of the Goddess. If the smoke stung his eyes or irritated his lungs, the stranger gave no sign. Nor did he cringe from the terrible heat. He kicked away the offerings as he moved forward. He placed the Goddess below him on the stone steps of the temple, moving her heavy wooden body as if it were weightless.

Confused voices ran through the crowd. Had this stranger set fire to the temple? Or was he saving the Goddess from the blaze?

The crowd fell silent as the stranger straightened to his full height, easily ten feet tall, his shoulders broad, unbent by fear or labor. Despite the commandment that no cloth could touch flesh on this night, he wore a black wool coat that hung down to his heavy leather boots. His skin, stained by soot, was as dark as his clothes. The only bright things about him were his eyes, glistening beneath a broad-brimmed hat. His giant right hand held a thick, black book.

In the stunned silence, the stranger opened the book, and read, with a thunderous voice, “THOU SHALT HAVE NO OTHER GODS BEFORE ME. THOU SHALT NOT MAKE UNTO THEE ANY GRAVEN IMAGE, OR ANY LIKENESS OF ANY THING THAT IS IN HEAVEN ABOVE, OR THAT IS IN THE EARTH BENEATH, OR THAT IS IN THE WATER UNDER THE EARTH.”

With this proclamation, the stranger opened his long black coat to reveal a woodsman’s axe, nearly four feet in length, its finely honed edge catching the firelight. It hung from his belt without touching the ground.

“It may be,” the stranger growled, “that you dwell in ignorance, unaware of your sin.” He lifted the heavy tool with a single hand high over his head. “I have been sent by the Lord to show you the way.” The axe flashed down like lightning, splitting the Goddess in twain. The two halves flew apart, clattering on the stone steps..

From the hillside the women began to wail. Even some of the men were weeping. Recanna clung tightly to Bant who felt numb. The Goddess was eternal; she had always dwelled at the center of the village. How could this be happening, unless they were in the presence of something —some god— even more powerful than Ashera?

“Now that this nonsense is behind us,” the stranger said, “the truth shall set you free.”

“Truth?” one man cried, stepping forward. It was Jomath. “You dare speak of truth in the face of such blasphemy?”

“I dare,” said the stranger. “Have care. Do not act in anger or haste. I am a servant of the Lord. He will not allow a hair on my head to come to harm.”

Jomath’s face twisted with rage. His hands were tight fists. But Bant knew his brother well, and could see something in his eyes that others might have missed. Fear. It was on the faces of all the men. Fear of the blasphemy they had witnessed, yes: fear of the coming wrath of the Goddess, no doubt; but more immediately, fear of this giant, this devil standing before the raging flames, his sharp axe gleaming.

Jomath looked back to the men. “Who’s with me? Who will join me in avenging this villainy?”

The men looked down in utter silence.

“Cowards,” Jomath cursed. He turned to face the stranger. “Let the Goddess give me the strength of the storms, the fury of lightning!”

He bellowed with rage as he rushed the steps. He drove his shoulders into the stranger’s stomach with a force that made Bant flinch.

The stranger did not bend. Jomath recoiled from the impact of the blow, stumbling on the steps. The stranger raised his axe. Then, a shout flew from the crowd. A blacksmith’s iron hammer flashed through the air. The heavy tool struck the stranger squarely in the face, knocking him backward. Namom, the stout-armed blacksmith, had hurled the weapon and now charged up the steps. Before Namon reached the man, Faltan, the huntsman, rushed from the edge of the burning temple and threw himself against the back of the stranger’s knees. The stranger staggered forward, allowing Jomath to grab his belt and pull until all three men and the stranger tumbled. Bant had difficulty discerning whose limbs were whose in the cursing ball of flesh and black cloth that landed in the square.

As one, the men of the village gave a blood-curdling shout and rushed forward, drowning the stranger beneath a human wave.

Bant didn’t move to join them. He couldn’t, standing there, his arms around Recanna. His heart held an unspeakable desire. He wanted the stranger to live. He wanted the stranger to kill Jomath. Let the temple burn, let the Goddess send her wrath as storms, as floods, as plagues of locusts and flies: Bant feared none of these things. All he wanted was for Jomath to die, to satisfy the hate he’d felt only moments before.

The ox-dog at the edge of the square barked and charged forward, the wagon bouncing behind it like a toy. The beast’s teeth sank into the shoulder of one of the men on the ground who screamed as his bones snapped. His scream died as the ox-dog shook its enormous head, sending the man’s body hurtling through the air. It landed before Bant and Recanna, splashing them with blood. Bant recognized the man; it was Delan, his uncle, the man who’d been training Bant in the art of archery. Bant understood that it wouldn’t be only his brother who died tonight.

So be it
, he thought.

Recanna screamed, tugging away from him, trying to run. Bant tightened his grip on her, deaf to her cries. He couldn’t bear to part with her, and he didn’t dare to turn away from the carnage before him.

The ox-dog tossed men into the sky like rag dolls as the bright-eyed stranger fought to his feet once more, his robes now wet with blood. His axe rose and fell, chopping and hacking. Limbs were severed, skulls split, men died with each blow. The dog tore and savaged the men. Quickly, the few men with limbs still intact slipped and skittered on the bloody cobblestones before fleeing into the night.

The stranger didn’t pursue them. He stood in the middle of a mound of bodies, straightening his coat. He pulled the brim of his hat back down over his eyes and wiped his cheek with a gore-encrusted palm. He wasn’t even winded.

He kicked the bodies at his feet —two-dozen men at least— making a path for him to walk.

With a chill of satisfaction, Bant spotted Jomath, dead among the bloody mound. It was almost as if his hate had killed Jomath, as if it had been a palpable thing, a force, making his darkest desires real. He knew he should feel remorse or some sense of loss. Instead, he felt something that bordered on joy at seeing his brother’s torn and twisted corpse. It frightened him that he was capable of such hate. Nothing could ever wash the blood from him.

So be it.

The blood-soaked stranger walked toward Bant.

“You,” the stranger said. “Boy. What’s your name?”

Bant looked up into the giant’s eyes. They were piercing, unflinching. Bant knew the stranger was studying his terrible soul.

“B-Bant,” he said. “Bant Bitterwood.”

“You did not fight me,” the man said.

“No,” whispered Bant.

“Do you fear me, Bant Bitterwood?”

“No,” Bant said. In his hatred for Jomath, all other emotion had been lost.

“This marks you as a wise man in this village of fools.”

Of all the words that could have left the stranger’s mouth, these were the last ones Bant had expected.

“Tell me, Bant Bitterwood, is this woman you cling to your wife?”

“No,” said Bant.

“What is your name, girl?”

She turned her head away as she whispered, “Recanna Halsfeth.”

“Are you any man’s wife?”

“No,” she answered.

“Then the Lord’s work in this place shall begin with you. As you stand together tonight, so shall you stand for all eternity. Bant Bitterwood, look upon your wife. Recanna Bitterwood, look upon your husband.”

“But—” Recanna began.

The stranger raised his open palm, silencing her. “Do not question the commandments of the Lord.”

“T-the Lord?” asked Bant.

“Can you read, Bant Bitterwood?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you shall learn. It is important training for all servants of the Lord. One cannot know the Lord without knowing the Word.”

The stranger held forth a black book. Bant took it, surprised by the weight as the stranger released it. He knew it weighed only a few pounds, but somehow, it felt like the heaviest burden he’d ever carried.

Bant asked, “Are you… are you the Lord?”

“No. I am his prophet. My name is Hezekiah. Now go, Bant Bitterwood. Find clothes to cover your nakedness. Your days of living as a pagan savage are no more. Recanna Bitterwood, find clothes of your own then prepare food for your husband. He will need his strength. There is much work for him in the coming days.

Bant looked to Recanna. She was afraid. She tried to pull away but he held tight.

“I know you’re frightened,” Bant said. “I don’t understand what has happened tonight, but I have a feeling. I think everything is going to be all right. Don’t be afraid.”

“What you feel, Bant Bitterwood,” said Hezekiah, “is faith.”

Recanna nodded. Something changed in her eyes. Bant realized that she also had faith, faith in him. He stood straighter, feeling somehow more powerful.

He pulled her closer then looked to Hezekiah, who nodded.

“You may kiss your bride,” the prophet said.

Recanna surrendered as Bant placed his lips upon hers. The world spun beneath his feet. Gone the musty smell of the fields and the sweet scent of peach blossoms. Here, in this perfect kiss, in the first moment in his life where he felt no fear, no shame, all the world smelled of smoke, and sweat, and blood.

This is how Bant Bitterwood learned that hate could improve the world.

This is how Bant Bitterwood found God.

CHAPTER ONE: LIGHTNING

1099 D.A. The 68
^th
Year of the Reign of Albekizan

THE SAD LITTLE FIRE
gave out more smoke than warmth. The hunter crouched before it, turning a chunk of ash-flecked meat on the flat stone he’d placed amidst the coals. The movement of the stone stirred more smoke. The hunter coughed and wiped soot from his eyes. He stretched his bony, knotted fingers above the embers, fighting off the chill. He was a thin man, hair shoulder-length and gray, the deep lines of his leathery face forming a permanent frown. He pulled his heavy cloak more tightly around him.

In the tree above him hung the body of a dragon, blood dripping from its mouth.

The creature was a sky-dragon, the smallest of the winged dragon species. Strip away the ten-foot wings and the long tail and a sky-dragon was no bigger than a man and half his weight. They were known as sky-dragons both for their prowess in flight and their coloring, the pale, perfect blue of a cloudless day. The hunter had killed many sky-dragons over the years. They weren’t particularly dangerous. Despite talons ending in two-inch claws and crocodilian jaws full of saw-like teeth, sky-dragons prided themselves on being civilized. The beasts fancied themselves as artists, poets, and scholars; they considered it beneath their dignity to engage in such menial work as hunting.

The hunter had brought the sky-dragon down with a single arrow, expertly placed on the underside of the jaw, the iron tip coming to rest dead center in the dragon’s brain. The beast had fallen from the air like a suddenly dead thing, catching in the crook of a tree. The hunter had climbed the tree and retrieved the leather satchel the dragon had slung over its back. He’d tugged at the beast’s body but found the corpse jammed too tight to budge. Lowering himself even with the beast’s head, he’d stared into its glassy, catlike eyes. Sky-dragon heads always reminded him of goat heads, albeit goats covered in smooth, opalescent scales. With a grunt, he cut out the beast’s tongue.

Moments later, a fire had been built and now the tongue sizzled on the flat rock at the center, giving the smoke an oily, fishy tinge. To pass the time as the tongue cooked, the hunter searched the contents of the dragon’s satchel. Food, of course. A bottle of wine wrapped in burlap, a loaf of rock hard bread powdered with flour, two apples, some eel jerky. He also discovered a fist-sized crock capped with oily parchment bound with string. He punched through the parchment and recoiled at the stench. The crock was filled with strong-smelling horch; a paste that dragons loved that consisted of fish guts and chilies ground together then buried in a ceramic jar and fermented. The hunter tossed the jar as far into the woods as his arm could heave it.

Turning his attention once more to the satchel, the hunter found a map, a rolled-up blanket of padded green silk, and a small jar of ink. He sniffed the cap and judged the ink to be made from vinegar and walnut husks. Several quills crafted from the dragon’s own feather-scales were in the bag. No wonder the beasts fancied themselves scholars — they were covered with the tools of writing.

The hunter paused to examine a leather-bound book, the linen paper a pristine white, the opening pages covered with sketches and notes about flowers. The drawings were meticulous. Rendered in dark walnut ink, the flowers had a life and beauty. The blossoms swelled on the page seductively enough to tempt bees.

The hunter ripped out the drawings and fed them to the crackling fire. The paper writhed as if alive, curling, crumbling into large black leaves that wafted upward with the smoke, the inky designs still faintly visible until they vanished in the dark sky.