James Maxey: Bitterwood

Metron swayed as he stood before Albekizan, and Jandra wondered for a moment if the old dragon was about to collapse. The strength in Metron’s eyes allayed her fears. The High Biologian turned his back to the king to gaze out upon the sunset. It seemed as if the entire room held its breath. All that could be heard was faint thunder and the torches fretting in the rising wind.

Then, above the wind came the flapping of gigantic wings. Long shadows raced across the hall as Albekizan’s sons spiraled from the sky, spreading their wings to descend with downy grace in the center of the hall. Bodiel, the younger of the two, was the first to land, his outstretched wings nearly blocking from sight his brother, Shandrazel, who touched down behind him.

Bodiel was radiant. The crimson of his open wings blended with the sunset behind him as if all the sky were part of his being. The wind ruffled his feathery scales, making the mane of his long, serpentine neck flicker like flame. Light played on the rings of gold that pierced his wings. He stretched and relaxed the long, powerful talons at the mid-joint of each wing, displaying sharp claws painted with powdered emerald. The crowd nodded with silent approval at the display. Jandra’s heart fluttered at Bodiel’s beauty.

Shandrazel made no such display, keeping his wings folded. His brooding eyes stayed fixed on the floor. The long, reptilian faces of dragons didn’t display the same range of emotions as humans, but Jandra recognized a scowl when she saw one.

The focus once more shifted to Metron as he began the ritual greeting.

“Glorious salutations, oh mighty Albekizan!” Metron spread his wings as he spoke, and spoke with all the power his old lungs could muster. “You who own the earth, and all who fly above it, and all who walk upon it. We live in the shadow of your magnificent incandescence! Great is your mercy.”

Metron bowed deeply as the assembled dragons lowered their heads to touch the floor. Jandra bowed low, wishing she had a longer neck.

“Greater still is your bounty,” Metron continued, spreading his wings once more. “The seed you planted long ago has produced a bountiful crop. Your sons stand before you, mighty and tall. Their wings span the arcs of the heavens. The fire of their will cannot be quenched by rain, or river, or sea. Each is your pride, each is your promise, and one of them, we pray, will be your death!”

The assembly erupted in cheering as Metron lowered his wings. Twice before during Albekizan’s reign the dragons of the kingdom had gathered to witness this ritual in which the king’s older sons competed to earn the honor of banishment from the kingdom. The hope of the ritual was that a banished son would one day return to overthrow the father, and rule with even greater strength. This was the ritual of succession that had kept Albekizan’s family in power since time immemorial, with strong rulers replaced only by stronger ones. In previous contests the banished sons had returned only to be slain by Albekizan.

This year marked the first time Bodiel was eligible to compete. The king’s youngest son, Bodiel was universally recognized as the dragon most likely to best his father. He was strong, fast, and charming, a master of politics as well as combat. Shandrazel was larger and, most agreed, smarter, but few believed he could prevail. Bodiel possessed the will to win at all costs. The lust for victory boiling in his blood rivaled Albekizan’s and perhaps even surpassed it.

As the sun set, few in the great hall doubted that before dawn Bodiel would defeat his brother, who would be castrated and sent to the libraries to live out the rest of his days in service to Metron. Bodiel would then be granted one day of grace in which to flee the kingdom before all would have the duty to raise their claws against him.

Jandra saw no reason to doubt the consensus of the crowd. She believed that one day Bodiel would return and vanquish his father to seize the kingdom. She hoped he would be a fair and wise ruler.

“Ready the prey!” Metron shouted, tilting his staff toward the open end of the room where a dozen earth-dragons stood guard over the iron cages that held the slave men. The men were lean and tan, their oiled muscles gleaming like brass. Both were rebel slaves famous for their ability to escape; though, as evidenced by their presence, neither had yet perfected the skill of avoiding recapture.

Bodiel would be pursuing Cron, the younger of the two slaves. Shandrazel had the advantage of pursuing Tulk, the older slave. Tulk, though strong and wily, was rumored to be nearsighted. Jandra had reason to wonder if this was true because, from across the room, Tulk was staring at her. Jandra again felt a stirring of guilt. She was in awe of the ritual she was witnessing, swept up in the grandeur. Shouldn’t she feel some remorse over the fates of the slaves? She averted her eyes, unable to watch Tulk’s face. She stared at the sleeves of her gown, stitched with metallic blue thread to resemble the scales of a sky-dragon.

The thick-muscled earth-dragons grunted as they wheeled the iron cages to small doors in the rugged stone wall. Beyond the doors were mazes, and beyond the mazes lay the vast forest.

“Release the prey,” Metron said, lowering his staff to the ground with a crisp snap. On cue, the drummers pounded a bass rhythm that filled the night air. The cages rattled open. Tulk tripped as he left his cage. The crowd gasped. Jandra looked up to see Tulk jumping back to his feet. Tulk cast her one last glance then turned from her, vanishing into the dark tunnel. The crowd murmured in hushed tones. A human stumbling from the cage was a bad omen.

“Humans these days are worthless,” Albekizan said, addressing the High Biologian. “In my youth the humans had more spirit. They were always finding sharp rocks to wield as weapons, or hiding in tiny caves. I remember how one doubled back and hid within the palace for two days before being captured. Now, the slaves run blindly, leaving a trail of excrement any fool could follow. Why can’t we find good prey anymore, Metron?”

“Sire, the laws of nature are strict,” the sage dragon answered. “For centuries we have culled the finest men from the villages, only to kill them for their excellence. The breed must inevitably decline.”

Vendevorex startled Jandra by interrupting the conversation between the king and the High Biologian.

“Perhaps, Sire, a moratorium on the sport of hunting humans might improve things,” Vendevorex said. “If you banned the sport for a century, the human stock could recover. They breed at a much faster pace than our kind.”

“Bah!” Albekizan snorted, raising his bejeweled right talon dismissively. “You and your softness for humans. They make fine pets and adequate game, but you would let them breed like rabbits. The stench of their villages already sullies my kingdom.”

“Their villages fill your larders with food and your coffers with gold,” Vendevorex said. “Allow the humans to keep more of the fruits of their labors, and they will improve the conditions in which they live. They dwell in squalor only because of your policies.”

“Be silent, wizard,” Albekizan growled. “You shouldn’t speak to me thus.”

“You asked for my opinion, Sire.”

“Did I?”

“Indeed, Sire. Over a decade ago, you commanded me to speak freely in your presence. Your infallible decree still stands to this day, does it not?”

Albekizan ground his teeth and turned away from the wizard. Jandra always feared for her master’s safety during these exchanges. She admired Vendevorex’s boldness, but worried one day Albekizan might be pushed too far.

Metron broke the tense silence by saying, “Sire, it is time. You may give the word.”