James Maxey: Bitterwood

Then, through the murk, he saw four tiny circles. He’d been washed back to the last disk. He dug his claws into the walls and thrust his head toward the light. He gulped in dank, moldy air, the sweetest air he’d ever tasted. He found his footing and reached down to grasp the heavy weight that still entangled his legs. He pulled it free, lifting it into the light. It was Bitterwood’s cloak.

Bitterwood.

The insanity of his pursuit struck home. Bodiel had been no match for the demon. Zanzeroth, the most skilled hunter in all the land, had been bested. What chance had he, a mere slave? He studied the darkness before him. The roar of water masked all other noise. Perhaps Bitterwood was near. But Gadreel knew in his heart that the only reason he was still alive was that Bitterwood was long gone. Gadreel abandoned his chase and inched his way back toward the entrance.

He reached the open hole and stretched to grab the edge. The king’s enormous talon reached down, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and lifted him clear.

“Did you find him?” Albekizan said, setting Gadreel before him.

“I-I…” Gadreel said, staring deep into the king’s hopeful eyes. Gadreel felt he should lie, should tell the king he’d fought the killer. But he only sighed and shook his head. Gadreel lifted the cloak. “I found this, Sire.”

Albekizan took the cloak and stared at it, his eyes filled with emotions that Gadreel could not fathom.

“I saw no other sign of him,” Gadreel said. “The water was quite powerful. The current pulled me under. No doubt, the man we chased has drowned.”

“No,” said the king, softly. “Not this monster. This dragon-slayer, he’ll not die a careless death. You did your best. Be grateful to have escaped with your life.”

Gadreel nodded. The king didn’t seem angry about his failure. Somehow that didn’t comfort him.

“Go tend your master’s wound,” Albekizan said.

Zanzeroth was squatting on the ground, pressing a bloodied bundle of leaves to his injured eye. No one alive knew more about the medicinal properties of forest plants; the entire world was his pharmacy. “‘It’s not a mortal wound, Sire,” said Zanzeroth, his voice a curious mixture of confidence and agony. “We’ll head back to the castle for more earth-dragons and fresh dogs. The hunt will continue. In daylight our prey no longer has the advantage of shadows.”

“No,” Albekizan said. “I admire your spirit, old friend, but we need not chase this demon into further traps. There’s a solution to this problem, an obvious one. We’ve paid a horrible price this night. I vow this-the debt of Bitterwood will be repaid in blood.”

Gadreel stared at the open circle at his feet. Outside the tunnel, free of the rushing water, he felt shame that he’d abandoned the chase. His failure lodged in his gut like an icy stone. He’d been brave enough to enter the hole, why hadn’t he been brave enough to stay? Proving his worth to the king no longer seemed important. The next time he faced Bitterwood, he must prove his worth to himself.

AT MID-MORNING, AFTER giving his orders to Bander, the earth-dragon in charge of the guards, Albekizan went to the roof of the palace to bask in sunlight. The night had left him with a chill despite the warmth of the day. It was late summer, nearing the time of harvest. The sky was flawless blue. From his high perch Albekizan surveyed the patchwork of land splayed out in all directions. The deep green forests, the golden fields, and the broad silver ribbon of the river: Albekizan ruled every inch of this land as undisputed master. His kingdom stretched from the impassible mountains two hundred miles west to the endless ocean a hundred miles to the east, north to the Ghostlands and far, far to the south, to the endless, trackless marshes that had swallowed many an army.

It was said that Albekizan owned the earth and was master of all who flew above it and all who crawled upon it. In over a half century of rule, he had bent the world to his will and had assured that there was no destiny other than his destiny. He woke each day secure in the knowledge that if he desired a thing, nothing and no one could deny him.

Until this morning.

Beloved Bodiel was dead. He’d trade his wealth and power, even his own life, to undo this horrible truth. But there was no one with whom he could demand such a trade.

Albekizan rushed to the edge of the roof, a great platform of stone, and leapt into the sky. His wings caught the wind; he soared upward, his face toward the mocking sun. In his youth he’d often tested his boundaries, climbing ever higher in pursuit of the yellow orb that remained beyond his reach. He pushed himself again, beating his mighty wings until they ached, scaling the sky like a ladder, upward, upward, until the chill in his blood was replaced by fire, by the burning in his chest, by the heat of the gasps that rushed from his throat as he pushed to his limits, then beyond.

The sun grew no closer than it had in his youth. There were some things even above a king.

Exhausted, Albekizan tilted earthward and abandoned his futile chase.

From high above his palace looked like a rocky mountain. A vast mound of stone heaped upon stone, the palace had been under construction for a thousand years, started by ancestors so long distant that their names were now legend. Asrafel, the Firebringer. Wanzanzen, the Lawgiver. Belpantheron, the Just.

Over the centuries, stone quarried from the western mountains had been floated downriver to this vast rich plain and used to build the home of kings. The structure was in many ways more fortress than palace, with vast walls designed to hold back enemy armies. From the sky the palace was a maze of courtyards and towers, winding alleys and great halls half open to the sky, as befits a race born to rule the air. Despite being built of gray granite, the palace was awash in colors, with terrace gardens bright with riotous flowers. The fiery flag of the sun-dragons -gold-thread suns set against scarlet silk backgrounds- flew by the thousands, on poles rising from every corner of the complex. Inside the palace the colors vanished. Over the centuries, as stone piled upon stone, the oldest rooms of the palace had become ever more enclosed. Immense caverns became hidden deep within the rock, connected by narrow, twisting passages. The vibrant, explosive life of the external palace hid a cold, stony heart.

Albekizan landed on the highest rooftop with the lightness of a leaf. Indeed, as he touched down, the wind of his passage sent a dried leaf skittering across the polished stone before him. Albekizan took the presence of the dry, dead thing as a sign. Autumn lay close. Cold days were coming to the kingdom.

He paused, steadying himself against a wall as he caught his breath. He looked over the fields and spotted a small army of earth-dragons at work piling wood in a nearby field. Albekizan’s heart skipped as he realized they were at work on his son’s funeral pyre.

“Bodiel,” he sighed.

Then, taking a slow, deep breath, he steeled himself. Once certain that his eyes would betray no emotion unbefitting a king, Albekizan marched down the wide steps into the dark depths of his home.

Albekizan descended ever further into the bowels of the palace, drawn to the very heart, the nest chamber. This was the most deeply enclosed structure of the palace, sunk into the bedrock. The cool, dank air of the place stirred primitive memories. This was his birthplace. More, it was the place where he had first gazed upon Bodiel, damp from birth. He’d licked away the thick, salty fluid that had covered his son’s still-closed eyes. The taste once again lingered on his tongue. The memory quickly faded, pushed away by the sour thought of Bodiel’s adult body clutched against his own, damp with rain and blood.