James Maxey - Bitterwood

BLASPHET WHEELED OVER the scene below. It was early morning; the sun was just peeking over the eastern horizon. All of the residents of the Free City had been gathered in the square, packed in tightly by the guards that stood in thick columns in the adjoining streets. They looked groggy, disoriented. Blasphet’s research had taught him that humans were most sluggish and compliant in the predawn hours. Apparently, his brother knew this as well.

Toward the front of the crowd, a large platform had been hastily erected overnight. The platform was surrounded by dark-green, heavily armored earth-dragons-nearly the entire unit of the Black Silences-separating the crowd from the platform by rows three dragons deep. On the unpainted boards of the impromptu stage stood Albekizan, looking too smug and satisfied for Blasphet’s comfort.

Behind Albekizan stood Tanthia, her eyes dark and sunken with depression, a look that Blasphet found quite attractive in a female.A heavy wooden post protruded from the center of the stage next to the king; beside this stood Pertalon, who was laboring to chain the captive Bitterwood with his back to the post and his arms stretched high above his head. Bitterwood’s wrists were fastened to an iron ring, leaving his toes barely touching the platform. Completing the group on the dais were the hunter, Zanzeroth, and Kanst, dressed in his full ceremonial armor. With a turn of his wings and a rustle of scales, Blasphet dropped to the platform to complete the assembly.

Albekizan didn’t acknowledge Blasphet’s arrival. Instead he checked Bitterwood’s chains as a leather strap was placed around the prisoner’s head. He then tied the strap around the post in such a manner as to ensure that the human couldn’t look away from the crowd.

The crowd murmured in speculation. Blasphet noted one voice in particular in which he could recognize madness, always an interesting quality.

“The prophecy!” the madman shouted. “It is as I foretold! Bitterwood must suffer this hour so that we can be free!”

Small chance of that, Blasphet thought.

“Well, Brother,” Blasphet said. “Today’s your big day. Tell me, do you intend to kill him quickly? Or perhaps make it last hours, as if that will bring release from these endless days of mourning he has inflicted upon you?”

“His fate will be prolonged,” the king said. He moved behind the post and reached his claws around, placing them on Bitterwood’s face.

“Do your worst,” Bitterwood said, though Blasphet’s trained ear could hear the deep current of fear flowing beneath his brave words. “I don’t fear death!”

“Nor should you,” King Albekizan said. With his sharp claws he grabbed the skin above and below the captive’s eyes and forced them open. “For it is not your death we are here to witness. This is a public execution.”

Blasphet felt the scales along his back rise.

The king continued. “You’ll watch as my troops slaughter this mass before you, an unspeakable tableau of gore and agony. When this crowd is exhausted, we shall gather another, and another, and another, and all will die, day after day after day, because of you. Only when the last human in my kingdom has been killed will I grant you the surrender of death.”

“No!” shouted Bitterwood.

“No!” shouted Blasphet, rushing forward. He wouldn’t allow his brother to ruin his plans for the Free City by killing everyone before the experiment had even begun. Before he could reach the king, Pertalon jumped into his path and held him from his goal.

As the two struggled, Bitterwood cried, “Kill me! My life for theirs! I’m the one who wronged you!”

“Kanst,” Albekizan said, his eyes gleaming in the dawn light. “Give the command.”

HEZEKIAH TWISTED HIS neck from side to side as Vendevorex sat back, exhausted. The artificial man flexed his hands, almost like a human would flex a limb that had been asleep. “My mobility is restored,” Hezekiah said in a tinny, hollow voice. “I assume you’re done with me?”

“You assume wrong,” Vendevorex said, handing the prophet his broad-brimmed hat. As Hezekiah donned the hat, Vendevorex lifted the heavy axe with a grunt. He held it to the artificial man and said, “You and I are just getting started.”

KANST LIFTED HIS gleaming ceremonial sword high over his head, then sliced it down in a swift arc. With his deep, booming voice, he shouted, “Kill them!”

WHEN AT LAST Bitterwood spoke, Jandra could barely hear him.

“What?” she asked.

“Go,” Bitterwood whispered.

“Not yet,” she said.

“Go,” he repeated, more forcefully.

“But-”

“Go!” he screamed. “Go!”

The look on his face -a twisted mask of distorted pain and anger- told her he would never listen to her words. Still she had to speak them.

“Fine,” she said. “Blame yourself. Act as if nothing matters but your own guilt. Let Pet die in your place, let Zeeky rot away inside the Free City, let the whole world come crashing down. But I’m going to try to stop it!”

Jandra turned and ran, not bothering to render herself invisible. She had been a fool to trust him.

THE CROWD SCREAMED as the guards surged forward.

Zeeky hadn’t seen or heard what had happened on the stage, for she was near the back of the crowd. She cried out, frightened, as the crowd pushed her about like a mouse batted by a dozen cats. “What’s happening?” she begged.

Suddenly, the adults closest to her screamed louder, and the crushing pressure of bodies abated as the crowd parted. The people were fleeing from a snarling ox-dog, a whip-wielding earth-dragon mounted in the large saddle on its back. As the adults ran the gigantic beast locked its dark eyes on Zeeky’s small figure and bounded toward her, barking, its teeth bared, its tan neck hairs standing up like brush bristles.

“Aw,” said Zeeky, in an instant forgetting the confusion of the crowd. Here was something she understood. “Aren’t you a big ’un?”

The ox-dog skidded to a halt before her, thrusting its face into hers, growling, its steaming breath foul with the smell of fresh blood.

“You’re just a big puppy, ain’t ya?” she said.

The ox-dog stopped growling. “Hrunmph,” it snorted.

Zeeky reached out and scratched the dog above his big, wet, black nose. The hair on the dog’s neck relaxed. It showed gratitude for her scratches with a big, wet lick of its pink tongue.

The dragon in the saddle lashed the beast’s flanks with his whip. “Forward, Killer! Attack! Attack!”

The ox-dog’s right legs buckled and he rolled over, tossing the dragon from the saddle. As the dog rolled, he crushed the dragon with the whole of his massive weight before coming once more to his feet. The humans in the crowd scrambled to stay out of the beast’s way.

“Damn you, Killer,” the dragon wheezed as he struggled to stand. He raised his whip. “I’ll thrash some obedience into you yet!”

Killer opened his huge jaws and leaned forward, placed his maw over the dragon’s head, then closed his mouth.

“Ret goo!” the dragon shouted, his voice muffled.

The ox-dog shook his head from side to side, jerking the screaming dragon from his feet. Zeeky ducked as the dragon’s feet passed just over her head. It was too awful to watch, even if it was happening to a dragon.

“Put him down!” she said, placing her hands on her hips and looking stern. “Right now!”

The ox-dog paused, looking at her. Then he flipped his head to the side once more, hard, and let go. The dragon sailed for a few brief seconds of flight, his wingless limbs beating the air in a vain attempt to control his motion. Then he fell among the turbulent crowd of humans and was gone.