James Maxey: Bitterwood

Jandra swallowed hard and nodded.

“Don’t be mean to her, please,” said Mary, quietly. “She only came for a little visit.”

Vendevorex didn’t acknowledge her. He grabbed Jandra by the wrist and dragged her away.

“This is a dangerous morning to be defying me, Jandra,” he grumbled. “I can confirm one rumor: Bodiel is dead.”

“Then Cron…?”

“Not Cron. Bitterwood.”

“B-but Bitterwood is only a myth, you said. A boogeyman dragons use to frighten their young.”

“Perhaps there is a man behind the myth after all,” said Vendevorex. “With any luck, Zanzeroth has Bitterwood’s corpse displayed in the war room right now, and that will be the end of this affair.”

As they reached the edge of the shantytown, Vendevorex released his grasp on Jandra’s arm. She rubbed the area he’d held.

“Go back to our chambers. Go to the third bookshelf, the biology texts, you know the ones?”

“I think so. Yes.”

“There is a book concerning the alchemical properties of sea mollusks. Don’t leave the chambers until you memorize it.”

“What? Why?”

“There will be a test,” Vendevorex said.

“But-”

“Go!” said Vendevorex. “Time is of the essence.”

“Aren’t you coming with me?”

“No,” said Vendevorex. “I’m wanted in the war room. I’ll need a few moments to prepare a dramatic entrance.”

THE WAR ROOM was the size of a cathedral, the towering roof supported by a forest of white columns. High-arched windows opened onto broad balconies that overlooked the kingdom. A rainbow of tapestries covered the walls, embroidered with scenes from Albekizan’s unparalleled reign. One tapestry portrayed a youthful Albekizan, standing in triumph on the corpse of his father. Nearby was Albekizan in ceremonial gold armor, leading his armies to victory against the cannibal dragons of the once notorious Dismal Isles. It had been the first in a string of triumphs against the smaller kingdoms that had once ringed the land. While the tapestries caught the eye with their bright colors, the most arresting feature of the room was the gleaming marble floor, inlaid with colored stone, precious metals and gems into an elaborate map of the world. Zanzeroth, Metron, and Kanst waited for the king within the vast space.

Zanzeroth was in a foul mood. He crouched in the middle of the world map, his belly covering the spot on which the palace rested. He studied the map with his remaining eye, finding in its jagged contours something of the king’s soul. For the map, he knew, was a lie. It showed the world as a narrow sliver of land a thousand miles in length, a few hundred miles wide at its thickest part, surrounded by trackless ocean. It showed, to be blunt, all the world that Albekizan had conquered, and not all the world that was. Over the decades Albekizan had supported the myth that there were no lands other than a few stray islands beyond the borders of his kingdom. But Zanzeroth was old enough to remember that, in his youth, he’d learned differently. He’d traveled far in his younger years. There was a kingdom north of the Ghostlands, a vast land of ice populated by dragon and man. Beyond the western mountains Zanzeroth had explored a huge continent: a land of immense rivers and trackless deserts, endless forests and towering mountains. He’d faced genuine monsters in these lands, reptiles large enough to dwarf sun-dragons, just as the true world dwarfed the small sliver of earth dominated by Albekizan.

If Albekizan didn’t rule a place he deemed it did not exist. For many years Zanzeroth had thought this a harmless quirk of the king’s ego. Now he wondered if the king’s blindness to reality would lead them all to doom.

Far across the room near a broad balcony, Kanst, a sun-dragon and commander of the king’s armies, spoke with Metron. Zanzeroth listened to their conversation with distant interest. He tilted his head to catch their words. This tiny movement created a change in the map to which his eye was drawn. One of his spiky neck scales, pink and ragged, had fallen out. He could barely move without losing bits of himself these days. He sighed, contemplating the dull scale against the polished floor. He wondered if this was his eventual fate, to simply flake away to dust. The conversation between the general and the High Biologian caught his attention once more as they lowered their voices to whispers.

“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.”