Bitterwood (8 page)

“Bodiel was the kingdom’s greatest hope,” Kanst said, his voice hushed—or as hushed as a beast like Kanst could muster. Kanst was an enormous bull of a dragon, heavy and squat. He wore steel armor polished to a mirrored finish that was unblemished by any actual blow from a weapon. Albekizan liked Kanst, which to Zanzeroth spoke ill of the king. Kanst was all bluster and polish. The king had a bad habit of surrounding himself with advisors who were more show than substance. Kanst and Vendevorex were the two best examples.

Kanst continued his murmurs with the High Biologian. “Shandrazel hasn’t the thirst for blood that’s necessary for victory. What now? Will the king abandon Tanthia for a younger bride in hopes of another son? Or will he willingly turn the kingdom over to someone more capable of running it?”

“Someone like yourself?” Metron said.

“I’m not implying—”

“Then speak not of the matter,” said Metron.

“It’s only that time is the enemy,” Kanst said. “Even if the king were to father another son, will he remain strong enough twenty years hence to hold the kingdom together?”

Metron dismissed the notion with a wave of his fore-claw. “You’re young, Kanst, and think age is a barrier. But in twenty years Albekizan will be younger than I am now, and I’m more than able to perform my duties. Indeed, the king will be younger than Zanzeroth twenty years hence, and he’s as sharp and strong as any dragon in the kingdom.”

Zanzeroth felt Metron’s words like sharp blades stabbing at him. The hunter interrupted, saying, “Age matters, Kanst. Let no one tell you it doesn’t. I’m almost a century old and I feel it. They’ll tell you experience matters, but they lie. Once I would have had the speed to dodge the arrow. I’d trade all my experience for the strength of my youth.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Kanst said with perhaps a hint of condescension. “You survived when Bodiel did not. If it is truly Bitterwood we face you should consider yourself fortunate.”

“There is no ‘if,’ Kanst!” Albekizan thundered as the tall iron doors to the war room opened. The king strode into the room followed by Bander, the captain of the guard. A dozen members of the guard followed, their armor and weapons clanking as they marched into the room and took their ceremonial positions along the wall. “We deal with fact: Bitterwood lives!”

“Of course, Sire,” said Kanst. “I never doubted Bitterwood’s existence. I’ve always felt there was substance behind the shadows.”

“As Zanzeroth here learned only too well, yes?” Albekizan said with a glance toward the tracker.

Zanzeroth held his tongue. He was tempted to point out that he’d claimed all along they pursued a man, that it was the king who regarded their prey as some supernatural ghost, but he knew this was an argument he would not win.

 “Sire, I’ve done the research you requested,” Metron said. “I conferred with my fellow biologians and have the answers you seek.”

“And?”

“The minor rebellion of the southern provinces two decades ago is the source of the Bitterwood legend. Bitterwood was a leader of the rebellion. He preached a vile philosophy of genocide against all dragons. Even when the rebellion was crushed his radical rantings earned a small, faithful band of followers. The band eluded your troops for many years, but in the end they were chased into the City of Skeletons, where they were slain.”

“You are telling me that it’s a dead man we faced tonight?” said Albekizan.

“No, though one popular version of this legend holds that Bitterwood’s vengeful ghost still haunts the kingdom. A rival telling holds that Bitterwood eluded death and continues to fight to this day, alone, no longer trusting the help of other humans.”

“So you have nothing but legend to give me?”

Metron shrugged. “Sire, the truth is somewhat mundane, I suspect. All evidence leads me to conclude that Bitterwood died twenty years ago. Only his legend lives on. Now other humans occasionally summon the nerve to slay a dragon—usually in the most dishonorable ways, striking from ambush—and when your troops investigate, Bitterwood is blamed to keep us chasing after a myth.”

“The man who killed my son was no myth,” said Albekizan. “Bitterwood fletches his arrows with the feather-scales of dragons. We pulled thirteen pieces of evidence of his existence from Bodiel’s body.”

“Yes, Sire,” Metron said. “However, we should consider that the feather-scales of dragons are hardly a rare commodity. We shed old ones as new ones come in.”

Metron’s words once more pained Zanzeroth. He was losing old scales without new ones growing to replace them. He stared at the large, black patches of naked hide that covered his once crimson fore-talons.

“Our servants and field hands no doubt discover fallen feather-scales all the time,” Metron continued. “What if a human familiar with the legend is using it to his advantage to create fear among us? I’ve checked the records and found hundreds of dragon deaths over the past twenty years attributed to Bitterwood. It’s likely that other men have blamed Bitterwood for murders they themselves performed.”

“No,” Albekizan said. “I am certain that one being, be he man or ghost, is responsible. I’ve seen him with my own eyes.”

Now it was the king’s words that tortured Zanzeroth as he realized that he would never see anything with his
eyes
again.

“Still, I am not blind to the possibility that other humans assist Bitterwood,” Albekizan said. “That’s why I’ve called you here. Together, we will remove the stench of humans from my kingdom forever. I’ve tolerated their kind far too long. They breed like rats. Their dung-encrusted villages spread disease. They create nuisance by leeching off dragons as beggars and thieves. Now their greatest crime of all: They give shelter to Bitterwood. We must eliminate every last safe harbor for the villain. We can only be certain of victory over Bitterwood when all the humans are dead.”

For a moment no one spoke. Zanzeroth wasn’t quite sure what Albekizan meant. Did he want to kill all the humans in the nearby villages?

Metron broke the silence by clearing his throat, then asked, “All humans, Sire?”

“Every last one.”

“From what area?” he asked.

“From the world,” answered Albekizan.

Again, there was a long silence as Kanst looked to Metron, who looked to Zanzeroth, who studied a patch of air near the king with rapt fascination.

“Respectfully, Sire,” said a voice from the empty air Zanzeroth watched, “you’ve gone quite mad.”

Albekizan whirled around, searching for the source of the rebellious voice, looking straight past the point where Zanzeroth’s ears fixed the sound.

“Show yourself at once, wizard!” Albekizan commanded.

In a spot a yard from the suspicious voice, the air began to spark and swirl. The sparks fell away like a veil to reveal a sky-dragon, his wings pierced with diamond studs, sparkling like stars against his blue scales. Light gleamed from his silver skullcap. His eyes were narrowed into a scowl of disapproval. Vendevorex, Master of the Invisible, had made his grand arrival.

“Very well, Sire,” Vendevorex said. “You see me. Now hear me. Humans and dragons have existed side by side for all of history. Mankind poses no threat to dragons; indeed, humanity makes our lives more pleasant. If you kill the humans, who will tend to your crops? Who will do the basest of labors? The humans as a race didn’t kill your son. Bitterwood alone is responsible. Turn your resources to finding him. Don’t distract yourself with a costly war against all mankind.”

“The humans number in the millions,” Albekizan said. “Bitterwood could hide among them for years. But if all die, he dies.”

“Then consider this,” Vendevorex said. “Your course of action could lead to rebellion among dragons you now count as allies and friends. The earth-dragons won’t be eager to tend the fields. The sky-dragons rely on human labor to keep their colleges running smoothly. Your fellow sun-dragons often keep humans as pets. Do you expect them to sit idly while you slaughter their companions?”

“I anticipate resistance,” Albekizan said. “But my war against the humans will take place on many fronts. Metron’s battleground will be the minds of dragons.”

“Sire?” said Metron.

“In your role as protector of all knowledge, do you not teach that millions of years of evolution have produced the dragon as the highest form of life? We are by rights the masters of the earth. The human religions claim that they were created separate from other species. If they are not part of nature, why should we tolerate these parasites? Your task, Metron, will be to educate all dragons to this fact. Persuade them to the logic of our cause.”

“Of course, Sire,” Metron said, though Zanzeroth could hear traces of doubt.

“Metron, I expected more spine from you,” Vendevorex said. Then, addressing Albekizan once more, he said: “Even if all dragons stood with you, which they won’t, the humans themselves will rise against you. They may not be our physical equals, but they are capable of great cunning, and they outnumber dragons ten to one. You rule them now because they expend their aggression in petty tribal squabbles. They bicker and war over not just the meager resources you allow them, but also kill each other in the name of competing mythologies. Far more humans die each year at the hands of fellow humans than are killed by dragons.”

Albekizan stood silent. It seemed to Zanzeroth that he was actually considering the wizard’s argument.

Vendevorex expanded on his case. “Humans have the skill and the passion to fight; we are fortunate that they turn their energies against each other rather than on us. If you wage war against them, they will certainly unite. You will face an army of Bitterwoods. How many dragon lives are you willing to throw away in pursuit of your madness?”

The king didn’t react angrily to this insult, as Zanzeroth expected. Instead, Albekizan said, in a patient tone, “That is why I summoned you, wizard. I’ve tolerated your insolence all these years because I recognize your cleverness. Your task will be to devise the most efficient method of eliminating the humans. You are adept at curing disease. Could you not create a disease as well, one that slays only humans?”

“No,” said Vendevorex.

“Then perhaps some poison would serve our purpose, something which could be introduced into their wells.”

Vendevorex closed his eyes, shook his head, and took a deep breath, a breath that, to Zanzeroth’s ears came from well behind the place where the wizard seemingly stood. Was his lone eye playing tricks?

“I don’t mean I’m incapable of doing as you ask,” the wizard explained as if speaking to a child. “I won’t do it because I find the idea abhorrent.” The wizard looked around the room. “Kanst, I’m not surprised by your silence. You’ve never displayed the smallest hint of backbone. But Metron, you must know better. And Zanzeroth—you, of all dragons save myself—you have always spoken truth with the king. Will you not stand for the truth now?”

Zanzeroth nodded. “You’re correct, wizard. Sire, let me be blunt. I don’t believe Bitterwood to be beyond our grasp. You called off the hunt too early. His trail may yet be warm. This genocide you dream of is unnecessary. That said, what do I care if humans are slaughtered? I’ve killed so many for sport, I can hardly object on any moral grounds. If it is to be war, Sire, I stand beside you.”

“Cowards, the lot of you,” said Vendevorex. “I want no part of this.”

“I anticipated your answer,” said Albekizan. “Your close companionship with the human girl—Jandie is her name? Jandra? I believe she clouds your judgment. If you will not help voluntarily, consider this: I’ve ordered all humans within the castle be gathered together and slaughtered.” As the king spoke he glanced toward Bander who nodded toward the guards. They drew their swords and crept toward the wizard. Albekizan continued, “I’ve spared your pet, imprisoning her, for now. Assist me and she will live. Defy me and she dies. A simple choice.”

Vendevorex calmly studied the approaching guards then looked the king squarely in the eyes. “If she’s been so much as scratched you’ll regret it!”

“Don’t threaten me, wizard,” the king growled. “Bander! Place this fool in chains. A few days in the dungeon will change his mind.”

“Y-y-yes, Sire,” Bander said. His arms trembled as he lowered his spear toward Vendevorex. “P-place your talons above your head!”

“Gladly,” the wizard replied, spreading his wings wide. The ruby in his silver skullcap glowed brightly. With a crackle Bander’s spear crumbled to ash. The black particles swirled from the shocked dragon’s talons, flying in a dark stream toward the wizard to encircle him in a shadowy vortex.

“Kill him!” shouted Albekizan.

The guards rushed forward. A weighted net was thrown over the black vortex, the wind of its passage causing the miniature tornado to collapse into an expanding cloud. One by one the earth-dragons lunged, tackling the cloud of ash. The sound of steel striking steel, then ripping muscle and cracking bone reverberated through the hall.

Zanzeroth drew his hunting knife, a yard-long blade that would have been a sword in anyone else’s grasp. He flung it with a grunt, missing the black vortex by a wide gap, the blade flying narrowly beneath the beak of one of the guards to fly out the open doorway before burying itself in the mortar of the stone wall beyond.

By now, the ash lost its momentum and drifted to the stone floor. It was difficult to make out from the tangle of bloodied limbs and gore exactly what had happened. When the earth-dragons who could stand had finally risen, all that remained on the marble floor was the tattered remains of one of the guards, chopped beyond recognition. Of the wizard, not even a single scale could be found.

“He’s gone?” said Bander.

“Surround the palace at once,” Kanst ordered. “Summon the aerial guard. The wizard must not escape.”

“If he survives, I fear he could prove quite a powerful figurehead for a human resistance,” said Metron.

Albekizan shot the High Biologian an evil glance. Then he turned his focus on Zanzeroth. “Find him,” he snapped. “Do something more useful than almost killing a guard with an ill-thrown blade.”

Zanzeroth nodded. “Yes, Sire.” He wandered into the hall and yanked his knife free from the gap between the stones. As he suspected, there was a thin, wet red line along the edge. He held the blade to his nose and sniffed. The wizard’s scent was unmistakable; no other blood would smell of lightning. Perhaps a foot more to the right and this would have been over. Zanzeroth felt confident he could find the escaped wizard in short order, but on a deeper level he felt a certain satisfaction in letting the wizard go, for now. The king had created this mess by placing his trust in such a fool for so long. Let Albekizan deal with the consequences.