Bitterwood (36 page)

Torgoz bristled at the man’s haughty attitude but decided he’d play along. It wasn’t as if the man would get away with anything once he was inside. “I’m Torgoz. And you?”

“I am Hezekiah,” the man said as he lifted a pack from beneath the wagon’s flatboard seat. Torgoz noticed an axe strapped to the side of the pack.

Torgaz said, “The king wants peace inside the city. You’ll have to leave the axe in your wagon, and I need to check your pack.”

Hezekiah turned his shadowed gaze toward him. He said, in a stern tone, “I do not recognize the authority of your king. I serve a higher power. Within my pack is a Holy Book containing the words of the one true Lord. It is sacred. You shall not look upon it.”

Torgoz gritted his teeth, nearly ready to lower his spear and run the insolent bastard through. With a second glance at Hezekiah’s broad hands, he paused. Hezekiah looked like he could snap a spear like a toothpick. Worse, Hezekiah had an ox-dog by his side. If the beast defended its master, Torgaz would have a real fight on his hands. He decided to pretend he hadn’t seen the axe.

“I guess I stand corrected,” Torgoz said, opening the gate. “Go on in.” The human strode through the opening. Torgoz closed the gate, hissing with soft laughter. The fate that awaited Hezekiah would more than repay the debts the insolent fool had incurred with his tongue. As for the axe, Torgoz didn’t see a real threat. How much damage could one man do?

CHAPTER NINETEEN: RECKONING

THE MORNING SUN
seeped through the open window, its rosy fingers touching Jandra’s face. She sat up, stretching her arms, blinking the sleep from her eyes. Something about the small, nearly bare room seemed wrong.

“Zeeky?” she said, realizing how still the girl lay beneath her blanket.

Zeeky didn’t stir. Jandra moved to her side and pulled back the covers, revealing a second blanket balled into the outline of a sleeping child.

Jandra rose, dressing quickly. She knew the fear that gripped her had little basis in reason. Zeeky was half her age but had spent more time fending for herself than Jandra had. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to the child.

Rushing down the stairs of the small building, she was surprised to find Bitterwood waiting outside on the steps. He looked more worn out than usual, and she wondered if he had been awake all night.

“Have you seen Zeeky?” she asked.

“When?” Bitterwood asked.

“This morning. She was missing when I got up.”

“No,” Bitterwood answered. “I’ve been sitting here since before dawn.”

“Where can she be?” she asked, looking down the empty street.

“Don’t worry,” Bitterwood said. “She can’t have gone far.”

“She’s been talking about the animals ever since we got here. I wonder if she’s gone to the barns?”

“We can go look.”

“Okay,” Jandra said. Then she was struck by the strangeness of their conversation. Bitterwood was actually speaking without her having to drag words out of him, and now he had offered to help her.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “Why were you waiting for me?”

“We can speak as we walk,” Bitterwood said, stepping away without looking back to see if she would follow. “The barns are several blocks from here.”

Jandra hurried after him. “You must be in a better mood. A different mood, at least.”

Bitterwood nodded. “I’ve given your words a great deal of thought. You request that I help you fight dragons. I came to give you my decision.”

“Then you’ll help me? It’s still not too late. For whatever reason, it looks like they want to round up people here before killing them. Here’s my plan: we sneak out invisibly and find weapons. Albekizan’s castle isn’t far. I know its layout by heart. We can walk right into the throne room and you can shoot him.”

Bitterwood didn’t answer at first as they walked down the nearly empty streets. Then he shook his head. “That’s not the decision I’ve made. Killing Albekizan is futile. All dragons hate us. Slaying the king will only prolong the inevitable.”

“The inevitable? You accept it as inevitable that we’re going to lose?”

“For twenty years I’ve slain dragons. What good have I done? There are as many dragons today as when I started. They breed as fast as I kill them.”

“You were only one man,” she said. “I’ll stand beside you.”

“It’s too late.” Bitterwood sighed. “My life has been utterly wasted.”

Jandra wasn’t shocked to hear his words. Bitterwood’s despair had been obvious to her ever since his capture. However, she took heart that he had come to her to talk about his decision. She took it as a sign that he wanted her to change his mind.

“You’re wrong,” she said softly. “You think that you can’t win the war unless you kill every last dragon on earth. I agree that can’t be done. Don’t you see that’s not needed for true victory? Humans and dragons have lived side by side for centuries. Most dragons don’t hate humans, and would gladly embrace a return to our peaceful coexistence if Albekizan were removed.”

Bitterwood shook his head. “You think that peace was my goal? You don’t know me. No one does.”

“I know you’re a strong, willful man who fights for what he believes is right.”

“No,” Bitterwood said.

“Come on. You’re Bitterwood. You’re a legend to these people, even if they are too blind to recognize you. You’re a hero.”

“They call me the Ghost that Kills. I’m a dead man. I died when dragons killed my family. When I saw what they had done, it was like my heart froze within me. I’ve not been warm since.”

“I’m sorry,” Jandra said. “I, too, lost my family to dragons. It happened so long ago I don’t even remember them. I don’t even know their names.”

“Memory’s a curse,” said Bitterwood. “You’re lucky.”

“Lucky,” Jandra said, noting how sour the word tasted. “I don’t think luck had anything to do with my survival.”

“I don’t mean it’s lucky you lived,” Bitterwood said. “I mean it’s lucky you don’t remember. Memories will burn you and sear away all that’s soft inside, leaving only hard, hot hatred. Hate can feel like passion, like life, in the absence of anything else. It makes you feel strong and focused, eager for action. But now…”

His voice faded away and he turned his face from Jandra.

“Now?” she asked.

“Hate was all I had. I see that my greatest strength was my greatest weakness. My hate kept me going, gave me purpose. But it corrupted me. I’ve become an instrument of darkness, my every action bringing only ruin. If I had foreseen that murdering Bodiel would bring about the genocide of the human race, do you think I would have let the arrow fly? The time has come for me to surrender to the inevitable and do no more harm.”

Jandra contemplated his words, surprised at how they seemed directed at her. She wanted to hate Vendevorex. She was certain that he deserved only her fury, and that there could be no room for forgiveness. Did she want to become like Bitterwood? No. She could hate Vendevorex forever and still not lose her soul.

Suddenly, Bitterwood stopped. Jandra raised her head, looking down the street toward the focus of his attention. An aged earth-dragon, its tail raised high, charged toward them, screaming, kicking the ground so hard in his haste that he trailed a cloud of dust.

“My god,” Bitterwood said. “It’s one of them!”

Jandra recognized the passion that had returned to his voice. For some reason she couldn’t guess at, the sight of this dragon had ended his despair.

WYVERNOTH YAWNED AS
he left the barracks and headed for his assignment. The sky was still dark though tinged with the faintest red of the rapidly approaching day. Wyvernoth was tired despite having just arisen. He actually looked forward to his assignment today—guarding the animal pens. Not much action there. He’d have plenty of opportunity to catch a little extra sleep.

The sky had brightened by the time he reached his post near the pens. Borlon stood by the gate to the swine yard, his eyes wide and alert, his shoulders drawn back as if ready to fight the entire world.

“You don’t fool me,” Wyvernoth said.

Borlon jerked his head toward Wyvernoth’s voice and barked, “Sir!” Then he relaxed. “Oh. It’s you.”

“I used to be that good,” Wyvernoth said. “But now that I’m older, I find my eyes tend to shut.”

“I wasn’t asleep… Ah, who cares? Of course I was sleeping. By the bones, if I ever needed proof that any dragon with wings is insane, this job provides it. Pigs! We’re guarding pigs!”

“We’d have eaten them ourselves if I’d had my way,” Wyvernoth said. “The fact that I’m not a captain with my leadership experience is all the proof I need that our commanders are crazy.”

“Leadership experience?”

“It was twenty years ago. My first time out. I was assigned to a tax enforcement unit in the southern province. We met up with some resistance. They slaughtered the commanders. I led the survivors on to victory and completed the mission.”

“Ah,” said Borlon, nodding. “I heard about that. Only, the way I heard it, you and the others ran blindly from battle and by luck found the village you were headed for. Nothing but women and children and wooden shacks. Easy to burn. Some leadership…”

“Hmmph,” grunted Wyvernoth. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see the horrors we faced.”

“Nightmares most likely,” said Borlon. “Why don’t I get out of here so you can get some sleep?”

“You do that,” Wyvernoth said, no longer sparing the younger dragon from the full force of his wit.

Borlon headed off, leaving Wyvernoth alone.

Wyvernoth muttered curses as he took his position before the pens. He braced his tail against the ground and locked his muscles, ready for a little nap. As he settled in, closing his eyes, he heard someone sneeze.

He looked around. No one was there. Had he imagined it?

He went into the large barn. The structure was long, opening out onto several pens that held pigs. Could pigs sneeze? He thought they could, but he wasn’t certain. He was a soldier, not a farmer.

One by one, he walked down the center of the barn, peeking over the stall doors.
Pigs.Pigs. Pigs. Girl. Pigs. Hold on!

He stepped back a stall and pushed open the door. A human child, a little blonde girl maybe eight years-old, huddled in the corner of the stall, her arms wrapped around a small black and white pig.

“Um, hi,” she said, then wiped her nose.

Wyvernoth didn’t answer.

“I just wanted to see him. For a visit,” she said.

“Why do you think I care?” Wyvernoth said, reaching down and grabbing the girl by her arm.

“Ow!” she yelled.

Instantly, the pens and stalls erupted in a cacophony of squeals. Seconds later, the rest of the animals in the neighboring barns joined in; a chaotic chorus of moos, baas, and clucks filled the air. The ox-dogs held in the nearby kennels began to yelp and howl, a sound that brought back bad memories for Wyvernoth.

“See what you’ve done,” he said. “Set ’em all off. You’re in a heap of trouble.”

“You’re hurting my arm,” she cried as he lifted her from the ground and carried her outside. Given the noise, he guessed other guards would get here soon enough. He’d have one of them watch his post while he took her in to the captain. He could wind up looking good for this, especially if he trumped up the charges. He could blame her for the goat that’d gone missing yesterday. That way he’d get to enjoy not only his full belly, but also the fun of pinning the blame on someone else.

As he walked out of the barn, he noticed a figure approaching. He looked up, expecting to see a fellow guard. Instead he saw a tall, dark-robed man, his eyes hidden by the broad, black brim of his hat.

“You there,” the man said. “What upset the ox-dogs?”

Wyvernoth noted that the man had a pack slung across his shoulder, and strapped to the pack was an axe, which worried him, for the man seemed familiar. Had he let this man in? What would his superiors say if they learned that he’d let someone bring in an axe?

An axe.

A broad-brimmed black hat.

An ox-dog.

Suddenly, Wyvernoth recalled quite clearly where he’d seen this man before, twenty years ago.

“Y-you?” Wyvernoth said, his voice trailing off in a little squeal. He dropped the girl who fell roughly to the ground.

“You were one of the soldiers on the road to Christdale,” the man said. “It’s been many years.”

Wyvernoth turned, raised his tail, dropped his spear, and shot off like an arrow.

“YOU!” BITTERWOOD SHOUTED,
unable to believe this turn of fate. Even after twenty years, the faces of the dragons who’d surrounded the wagon that night and thrust spears at him were burned into his memory.

Bitterwood braced himself as the dragon barreled toward him, wondering why his opponent was charging without a weapon drawn. He could plainly see a sword in the sheath on the dragon’s hip.

The dragon swerved as he approached, his eyes not fixed on Bitterwood but on the path beyond him. Bitterwood realized the dragon wasn’t attacking him, but planned instead to run past him.

“No you don’t,” Bitterwood said, sticking his leg out as the dragon raced by. The impact of leg against leg nearly toppled Bitterwood, so great was the dragon’s speed.

Only a balance honed by years of combat kept him on his feet while the dragon hit the hard-packed earth beak-first. The dragon’s legs flipped over his shoulders and he rolled three times before sliding to a stop on his back.

Bitterwood pounced, landing on the dragon’s chest, locking a hand around the beast’s scaly windpipe while his free hand drew the sword from the dragon’s scabbard.

“Let me go! He’s after me!” the dragon whimpered.

“He’s caught you,” Bitterwood said, looking down into the dark terrified eyes of the dragon. “After all these years, we meet again.”

“What?” the dragon cried. “Are you mad?”

“Yes!” Bitterwood said, tightening his grip on the dragon’s throat. “Don’t pretend you don’t remember. The village of Christdale!”

The dragon’s eyes opened wider. “You! You were with him! The young man in the wagon!”

“Bitterwood,” Jandra said, placing her hand on his shoulder.