James Maxey: Bitterwood

“We’ll fight your blasphemy to our dying breath!” Kamon shouted.

“Then die, infidels!” Ragnar cried, brandishing his sword.

“Stop!” Pet shouted. To his surprise, they did.

“I don’t believe this,” Pet said. “The dragons are killing us by the hundreds and you fight among yourselves?”

“These heathen dogs are undeserving to breathe the same air as you,” Kamon growled. “Let us remove their hideous faces from your sight.”

Ragnar stamped his feet in anger. Purple veins bulged in his neck as he shouted, “They are the dogs! Kamon has tainted three generations of men with the false doctrine of compliance with dragons. He has brought this horrible day upon us!”

Kamon shook his withered, age-speckled fist. “Fools! We were to obey the dragons until the savior arose! That day has come to pass, as I foretold! Now we must cleanse the awful stench of dragons from this world!”

“Shut up,” Pet said, running his fingers through his hair in exasperation. “You think I’m some kind of mythic figure from prophecy? You’re wrong. I’m not your savior. All I am is mad as hell. Albekizan must pay for what’s happened today. If it’s dragon blood you want, follow me. I’ll fight until there’s no life left in my body! What we do this day may decide the fate of all mankind. Who’s with me?”

“I am!” Ragnar shouted.

“We are!” Kamon said.

“For humanity!” Pet cried, grabbing the sword of a fallen dragon and lifting it high.

All around him they answered, “For Bitterwood!”

WRONG. IT’S ALL gone wrong… Blasphet could see his dreams crumbling from the tower balcony. Albekizan had fled, Kanst and Zanzeroth had fallen, and now the mad mob of humans threatened to burst through the lines of the remaining, dispirited earth-dragons. Damn Albekizan!

And damn himself. All of this, he knew, was his fault for letting his brother live despite a thousand opportunities to slay him. His fatal flaw, he realized, was his love of torturing his victims. He was like a cat who played with mice, never quite learning that the mice too often escaped. But no more.

Blasphet stormed down the stairs of the tower toward the dungeon. Before he went to find Albekizan, he would kill Shandrazel. Nothing subtle. Nothing fancy. He’d simply slit his throat. The thought made him giddy. He felt liberated.

He turned the key in the lock and pushed the heavy door open, revealing the acid chamber. His jaw dropped at the sight. The glass cage lay in the pool with all but its uppermost bars submerged, revealing shattered glass at the joints where the iron chains had fastened. A slight mist hung over the pool bearing the scent of burnt scales and boiled flesh.

Androkom still lay slouched against the wall.

Blasphet stepped into the chamber toward the acid pool. Only one thing could have happened. He’d misjudged Shandrazel’s strength. The prince’s struggles must have shattered the glass bars, dropping him into the acid. Blasphet noted the wheel that lowered the cage hadn’t changed position. Wait. Something was missing. The long, iron handle that attached to the wheel had vanished.

The scales rose along his back. He turned and saw the steel handle, wrapped in the sinewy fingers of a large red fist. Both traveled toward his snout at an incredible speed.

WRONG. IT’S ALLgone wrong… Albekizan dropped from the sky toward the open doors of the throne room. He thought of the last time he’d seen his son here, his beautiful Bodiel, his feathers gleaming as if they truly were fragments of the sun. Such joy he’d known. Joy turned to grief so quickly. Shouldn’t grief turn to satisfaction, at least eventually? Didn’t he deserve this one small comfort?

Perhaps it wouldn’t be too late, once Kanst disposed of that meddling wizard. He would wait for the news of Vendevorex’s death on his throne, surrounded by his remaining guards.

“Guards!” he called out as he swooped through the wide doors and brought his feet down on the polished marble. The hall was gloomy, dark and shadowy, even in the early morning light. Then it struck him. The torches were all extinguished. The spirits of his ancestors were gone.

“No!” he cried, and rushed forward, grabbing the charred stick of wood that sat in the golden holder beside the throne.

“No,” he whispered, and touched the oily black tip, still warm. This faint heat was all that remained of Bodiel. His child of fire was gone forever.

“No,” he said, dropping the dead torch, craning his head toward the ceiling. His body felt weak. His knees buckled, and he slid against the golden pedestal of his throne, knocking the silk cushions onto the floor.

“No,” he said, though only the barest sound escaped his throat. But he knew, despite his protests, that it was true. Even the soul of his son was now dead.

Albekizan trembled. He clenched his eyes shut and prayed that he, right then and there, would burst into flames. He willed himself to spark, to burn, to explode in a holocaust that would ignite the torches once more, would set the whole castle ablaze, and the forests beyond, and even the oceans would become fire!

But it didn’t happen. It couldn’t happen. His powerlessness to make it happen burned at him more hotly than the heat of a thousand suns.

He opened his eyes to the distant ceiling. He lowered his gaze along the shadowed wall above the throne, down once more to the blackened stick that lay at his feet.

“Oh, Bodiel,” Albekizan whispered, his voice wet and weak. “Your father loved you.”

Suddenly, the burning in his heart became a chill and he looked up once more to the wall above the throne, to confirm with his mind what his eyes had already seen. The wall was empty save for the decorative tapestries.

The bow and quiver were gone.

“Guards!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the halls of the castle.

“They won’t answer,” someone said with a voice as cold as the winter wind. The last remnants of smoke from the dead torches swirled across the marble floor.

“Who?” Albekizan said, rising, spinning around, looking all about the shadowed hall. “Who speaks?”

“I, Bitterwood,” the voice answered, echoing in such a way that it could have come from any of the doorways leading into the room.

“It can’t be! You’re in the Free City! You’re chained to the post!”

“You captured only a man,” the cold voice answered. “I am the shadow on the stone. I am lighting striking forever against the earth. I am the Death of All Dragons, the Ghost Who Kills. I come this day for you, Albekizan. I do not meet thee as a man.”

A faint whistle cut through the air.

Albekizan pitched forward at the impact to his shoulder. He regained his balance and looked at the arrow shaft jutting through the muscle. Red feather scales crowned the shaft. The pain was distant, unreal. The flame once more flickered within Albekizan’s soul.

“It is you!” His voice trailed off into a laugh. “Is this your best? You’ll never kill me!”

“I have two more arrows,” the voice answered, mockingly.

Albekizan turned. The arrow and the voice had to come from the hall leading to what had been Vendevorex’s tower.

“Stand before me,” he demanded. “Kill me now, if you can.”

He listened hard. The voice didn’t answer but Albekizan was certain he heard footsteps. He ran into the hallway in pursuit of the fleeing ghost. He found the body of a guard and blood pooled on the stone… and beyond this, a mark in the shape of the human’s boot. Any force of nature solid enough to wield a bow and leave footprints was solid enough to rip apart with tooth and claw.

“FORWARD,” PET SHOUTED as his band of men rushed in pursuit of a squad of fleeing dragons. His forces had grown from two dozen to two hundred, as men gathered about him to serve the legendary Bitterwood.