Bitterwood (45 page)

Kamon raised his hands toward the sky as he cried, “It is as I prophesied! We have freed the savior from his bonds so that he may free us from ours!”

“No!” someone shouted.

The men turned to face another small crowd of men who had climbed onto the platform. They, too, were armed with weapons taken from the bodies of dragons. Their leader was a tall naked man with intense, angry eyes. His coal-black beard hung all the way down to his pubic hair. The only article of cloth on his body was a blood-red ribbon tied around his forehead, holding back a mane of dark hair that reached halfway down his back. He was thin yet well muscled, and tanned so darkly it seemed that his nakedness was a way of life. The naked man shouted, “I am the Prophet Ragnar! Bitterwood is the savior
I
prophesied! Release him, filthy Kamonites, and we’ll grant you swift, merciful deaths!”

“We’ll fight your blasphemy to our dying breath!” Kamon shouted.

“Then die, infidels!” Ragnar cried, brandishing his sword.

“Stop!” Pet shouted. To his surprise, they did.

“I don’t believe this,” Pet said. “The dragons are killing us by the hundreds and you fight among yourselves?”

 “These heathen dogs are undeserving to breathe the same air as you,” Kamon growled. “Let us remove their hideous faces from your sight.”

Ragnar stamped his feet in anger. Purple veins bulged in his neck as he shouted, “They are the dogs! Kamon has tainted three generations of men with the false doctrine of compliance with dragons. He has brought this horrible day upon us!”

Kamon shook his withered, age-speckled fist. “Fools! We were to obey the dragons until the savior arose! That day has come to pass, as I foretold! Now we must cleanse the awful stench of dragons from this world!”

“Shut up,” Pet said, running his fingers through his hair in exasperation. “You think I’m some kind of mythic figure from prophecy? You’re wrong. I’m not your savior. All I am is mad as hell. Albekizan must pay for what’s happened today. If it’s dragon blood you want, follow me. I’ll fight until there’s no life left in my body! What we do this day may decide the fate of all mankind. Who’s with me?”

“I am!” Ragnar shouted.

“We are!” Kamon said.

“For humanity!” Pet cried, grabbing the sword of a fallen dragon and lifting it high.

All around him they answered, “For Bitterwood!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: DEATH

WRONG. IT’S ALL
gone wrong…
Blasphet could see his dreams crumbling from the tower balcony. Albekizan had fled, Kanst and Zanzeroth had fallen, and now the mad mob of humans threatened to burst through the lines of the remaining, dispirited earth-dragons. Damn Albekizan!

And damn himself. All of this, he knew, was his fault for letting his brother live despite a thousand opportunities to slay him. His fatal flaw, he realized, was his love of torturing his victims. He was like a cat who played with mice, never quite learning that the mice too often escaped. But no more.

Blasphet stormed down the stairs of the tower toward the dungeon. Before he went to find Albekizan, he would kill Shandrazel. Nothing subtle. Nothing fancy. He’d simply slit his throat. The thought made him giddy. He felt liberated.

He turned the key in the lock and pushed the heavy door open, revealing the acid chamber. His jaw dropped at the sight. The glass cage lay in the pool with all but its uppermost bars submerged, revealing shattered glass at the joints where the iron chains had fastened. A slight mist hung over the pool bearing the scent of burnt scales and boiled flesh.

Androkom still lay slouched against the wall.

Blasphet stepped into the chamber toward the acid pool. Only one thing could have happened. He’d misjudged Shandrazel’s strength. The prince’s struggles must have shattered the glass bars, dropping him into the acid. Blasphet noted the wheel that lowered the cage hadn’t changed position. Wait. Something was missing. The long, iron handle that attached to the wheel had vanished.

The scales rose along his back. He turned and saw the steel handle, wrapped in the sinewy fingers of a large red fist. Both traveled toward his snout at an incredible speed.

WRONG. IT’S ALL
gone wrong…
Albekizan dropped from the sky toward the open doors of the throne room. He thought of the last time he’d seen his son here, his beautiful Bodiel, his feathers gleaming as if they truly were fragments of the sun. Such joy he’d known. Joy turned to grief so quickly. Shouldn’t grief turn to satisfaction, at least eventually? Didn’t he deserve this one small comfort?

Perhaps it wouldn’t be too late, once Kanst disposed of that meddling wizard. He would wait for the news of Vendevorex’s death on his throne, surrounded by his remaining guards.

“Guards!” he called out as he swooped through the wide doors and brought his feet down on the polished marble. The hall was gloomy, dark and shadowy, even in the early morning light. Then it struck him. The torches were all extinguished. The spirits of his ancestors were gone.

“No!” he cried, and rushed forward, grabbing the charred stick of wood that sat in the golden holder beside the throne.

“No,” he whispered, and touched the oily black tip, still warm. This faint heat was all that remained of Bodiel. His child of fire was gone forever.

“No,” he said, dropping the dead torch, craning his head toward the ceiling. His body felt weak. His knees buckled, and he slid against the golden pedestal of his throne, knocking the silk cushions onto the floor.

“No,” he said, though only the barest sound escaped his throat. But he knew, despite his protests, that it was true. Even the soul of his son was now dead.

Albekizan trembled. He clenched his eyes shut and prayed that he, right then and there, would burst into flames. He willed himself to spark, to burn, to explode in a holocaust that would ignite the torches once more, would set the whole castle ablaze, and the forests beyond, and even the oceans would become fire!

But it didn’t happen. It couldn’t happen. His powerlessness to make it happen burned at him more hotly than the heat of a thousand suns.

He opened his eyes to the distant ceiling. He lowered his gaze along the shadowed wall above the throne, down once more to the blackened stick that lay at his feet.

“Oh, Bodiel,” Albekizan whispered, his voice wet and weak. “Your father loved you.”

Suddenly, the burning in his heart became a chill and he looked up once more to the wall above the throne, to confirm with his mind what his eyes had already seen. The wall was empty save for the decorative tapestries.

The bow and quiver were gone.

“Guards!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the halls of the castle.

“They won’t answer,” someone said with a voice as cold as the winter wind. The last remnants of smoke from the dead torches swirled across the marble floor.

“Who?” Albekizan said, rising, spinning around, looking all about the shadowed hall. “Who speaks?”

“I, Bitterwood,” the voice answered, echoing in such a way that it could have come from any of the doorways leading into the room.

“It can’t be! You’re in the Free City! You’re chained to the post!”

“You captured only a man,” the cold voice answered. “I am the shadow on the stone. I am lighting striking forever against the earth. I am the Death of All Dragons, the Ghost Who Kills. I come this day for you, Albekizan. I do not meet thee as a man.”

A faint whistle cut through the air.

Albekizan pitched forward at the impact to his shoulder. He regained his balance and looked at the arrow shaft jutting through the muscle. Red feather scales crowned the shaft. The pain was distant, unreal. The flame once more flickered within Albekizan’s soul.

“It is you!” His voice trailed off into a laugh. “Is this your best? You’ll never kill me!”

“I have two more arrows,” the voice answered, mockingly.

Albekizan turned. The arrow and the voice had to come from the hall leading to what had been Vendevorex’s tower.

“Stand before me,” he demanded. “Kill me now, if you can.”

He listened hard. The voice didn’t answer but Albekizan was certain he heard footsteps. He ran into the hallway in pursuit of the fleeing ghost. He found the body of a guard and blood pooled on the stone… and beyond this, a mark in the shape of the human’s boot. Any force of nature solid enough to wield a bow and leave footprints was solid enough to rip apart with tooth and claw.

“FORWARD,” PET SHOUTED
as his band of men rushed in pursuit of a squad of fleeing dragons. His forces had grown from two dozen to two hundred, as men gathered about him to serve the legendary Bitterwood.

Pet knew it was rage against the day’s atrocities that gave the men the strength to fight, not his shouted commands. The men fought mercilessly, seeking vengeance against an oppressor who had held them beneath his heel their whole lives, only to have finally stumbled.

The fleeing dragons —a force of perhaps twenty— reached a dead-end and turned to face their pursuers. Pet was left behind as the majority of his men rushed into combat with them. A small force of Kamon’s men stayed by his side, and they set to work on the dozens of dragon bodies that lay trampled in the street, liberating them of weapons and shields.

“Hey,” one of the men said as he lifted the wing of a sprawled sky-dragon. “This one’s still breathing!”

“Then make him stop,” Kamon said. Pet looked at the dragon and thought he looked familiar. The man above the dragon raised his sword.

“Stop!” Pet shouted, recognizing the dragon.

“What?” the man asked, looking confused.

“Don’t you recognize him?” Pet moved forward and placed his arm on the man’s forearm, lowering the sword. “It’s Vendevorex, the wizard. He’s on our side.”

Kamon sneered, his braided mustache twitching, and said, “We ally ourselves with no dragons. All must die.”

“Look,” Pet said. “I’m Bitterwood. You’re Kamon. Which one of us is the unstoppable dragonslayer, the last hope of humanity; you or me?”

The old prophet grimaced. “You are,” he whispered.

“Then hold your tongue and fetch some water. Let’s see if we can revive him.”

Kamon’s wrinkled face turned red, but he turned around and headed for a nearby rain barrel.

Pet knelt next to the wizard, checking the pulse in his throat. It was weak and unsteady. Except for a few scorch marks and some nasty gashes in his legs, Vendevorex was nowhere near as bloodied and torn as he’d been the last time Pet had seen him. If he’d survived what happened in Chakthalla’s hall, he’d survive this. Or would he? His body had footprints all over where men and dragons had trampled him. Who knew what injuries bled deep inside him?

“Help me,” Pet said to one of the nearby men.

Together they turned the wizard onto his back, then carried him onto the closest porch. Vendevorex’s breath came in wet gasps. Blood drooled from his limp jaw. His silver skullcap was missing. Pet noticed how quiet the Free City was becoming, with distant cries and the occasional clash of steel on steel growing ever more rare. They had won this battle, but at what cost? For every dead body of a dragon he counted, he’d counted two humans, mostly women and children. After this day, things could never be as they had been. Albekizan had to be removed from the throne, and he was the only one left to do it, unless the wizard could be revived. He wondered what Jandra would say if she could see him now.

Jandra.
Had she, too, died among the crush of bodies? What use was it to turn invisible when death touched you from all sides? He couldn’t help but hope she still lived. She was the most resourceful woman he’d ever met.

Kamon brought him a dirty rag, sopping with water.

“Thank you,” Pet said, dabbing at the fallen wizard’s brow. “Now, I have a new task for your men. I have reason to believe that somewhere in this city is a woman with long brown… Rather, make that short black hair. Her name is Jandra. Go through the city and call out her name, and bring her to me when you find her.”

“Yes,” Kamon said. “At once. But where will you be?”

“Right here,” said Pet, taking Vendevorex’s fore-talon into his hand and squeezing it. “If he’s going to die, I’m not going to let him die alone.”

THE HALL FLOOR
was slick with blood. The horrified look on the severed head of the guard that lay before him told Albekizan that his foe had passed this way. How terrible Bitterwood must be to look upon.

The door to Vendevorex’s tower lay battered from its hinges. Bloodied footprints led over it and into the absolute darkness beyond. Without warning, the second arrow streaked toward him.

“PET!”

Pet looked toward the woman’s voice. At a nearby corner he saw a horse, its reigns held by one of Kamon’s men who led it toward him. On the back of the horse sat Jandra.

“You’re alive!” he shouted, releasing Vendevorex’s talon and running to meet her.

“I’ve come to rescue you,” she said, her voice full of jest. Then a horrified look passed over her face. “I’m sorry. How awful to make jokes at a time like this. I’m happy to see you again, but… all these people dead. I never imagined anything like this was possible.”

Pet reached for her arms and helped her down from the horse.

“I understand,” he said. “And you may rescue me yet. These men want a revolution. We’ve won this battle, but not the war. Albekizan must pay for this. He’ll die much quicker if we can save Vendevorex.”

“Save him? What happened? I was riding toward the Free City when I saw the light in the sky. I saw something that looked like him—”

“He was magnificent,” Pet said. “He appeared in the sky, a hundred feet tall. He looked like a god. His appearance alone put Albekizan to flight, and then he slew Kanst single-handedly. The sight broke the morale of the dragons. But Vendevorex vanished after that, until now. We found him but he’s not well.”

“Take me to him,” Jandra said.

BLASPHET FELT THE
cold touch of manacles around his wrists and ankles, a familiar sensation from so many years waking from troubled sleep in the dark bowels of Albekizan’s dungeon. The cold was great, greater even than he remembered.