James Maxey: Bitterwood

Pet knew it was rage against the day’s atrocities that gave the men the strength to fight, not his shouted commands. The men fought mercilessly, seeking vengeance against an oppressor who had held them beneath his heel their whole lives, only to have finally stumbled.

The fleeing dragons -a force of perhaps twenty- reached a dead-end and turned to face their pursuers. Pet was left behind as the majority of his men rushed into combat with them. A small force of Kamon’s men stayed by his side, and they set to work on the dozens of dragon bodies that lay trampled in the street, liberating them of weapons and shields.

“Hey,” one of the men said as he lifted the wing of a sprawled sky-dragon. “This one’s still breathing!”

“Then make him stop,” Kamon said. Pet looked at the dragon and thought he looked familiar. The man above the dragon raised his sword.

“Stop!” Pet shouted, recognizing the dragon.

“What?” the man asked, looking confused.

“Don’t you recognize him?” Pet moved forward and placed his arm on the man’s forearm, lowering the sword. “It’s Vendevorex, the wizard. He’s on our side.”

Kamon sneered, his braided mustache twitching, and said, “We ally ourselves with no dragons. All must die.”

“Look,” Pet said. “I’m Bitterwood. You’re Kamon. Which one of us is the unstoppable dragonslayer, the last hope of humanity; you or me?”

The old prophet grimaced. “You are,” he whispered.

“Then hold your tongue and fetch some water. Let’s see if we can revive him.”

Kamon’s wrinkled face turned red, but he turned around and headed for a nearby rain barrel.

Pet knelt next to the wizard, checking the pulse in his throat. It was weak and unsteady. Except for a few scorch marks and some nasty gashes in his legs, Vendevorex was nowhere near as bloodied and torn as he’d been the last time Pet had seen him. If he’d survived what happened in Chakthalla’s hall, he’d survive this. Or would he? His body had footprints all over where men and dragons had trampled him. Who knew what injuries bled deep inside him?

“Help me,” Pet said to one of the nearby men.

Together they turned the wizard onto his back, then carried him onto the closest porch. Vendevorex’s breath came in wet gasps. Blood drooled from his limp jaw. His silver skullcap was missing. Pet noticed how quiet the Free City was becoming, with distant cries and the occasional clash of steel on steel growing ever more rare. They had won this battle, but at what cost? For every dead body of a dragon he counted, he’d counted two humans, mostly women and children. After this day, things could never be as they had been. Albekizan had to be removed from the throne, and he was the only one left to do it, unless the wizard could be revived. He wondered what Jandra would say if she could see him now.

Jandra. Had she, too, died among the crush of bodies? What use was it to turn invisible when death touched you from all sides? He couldn’t help but hope she still lived. She was the most resourceful woman he’d ever met.

Kamon brought him a dirty rag, sopping with water.

“Thank you,” Pet said, dabbing at the fallen wizard’s brow. “Now, I have a new task for your men. I have reason to believe that somewhere in this city is a woman with long brown… Rather, make that short black hair. Her name is Jandra. Go through the city and call out her name, and bring her to me when you find her.”

“Yes,” Kamon said. “At once. But where will you be?”

“Right here,” said Pet, taking Vendevorex’s fore-talon into his hand and squeezing it. “If he’s going to die, I’m not going to let him die alone.”

THE HALL FLOOR was slick with blood. The horrified look on the severed head of the guard that lay before him told Albekizan that his foe had passed this way. How terrible Bitterwood must be to look upon.

The door to Vendevorex’s tower lay battered from its hinges. Bloodied footprints led over it and into the absolute darkness beyond. Without warning, the second arrow streaked toward him.

“PET!”

Pet looked toward the woman’s voice. At a nearby corner he saw a horse, its reigns held by one of Kamon’s men who led it toward him. On the back of the horse sat Jandra.

“You’re alive!” he shouted, releasing Vendevorex’s talon and running to meet her.

“I’ve come to rescue you,” she said, her voice full of jest. Then a horrified look passed over her face. “I’m sorry. How awful to make jokes at a time like this. I’m happy to see you again, but… all these people dead. I never imagined anything like this was possible.”

Pet reached for her arms and helped her down from the horse.

“I understand,” he said. “And you may rescue me yet. These men want a revolution. We’ve won this battle, but not the war. Albekizan must pay for this. He’ll die much quicker if we can save Vendevorex.”

“Save him? What happened? I was riding toward the Free City when I saw the light in the sky. I saw something that looked like him-”

“He was magnificent,” Pet said. “He appeared in the sky, a hundred feet tall. He looked like a god. His appearance alone put Albekizan to flight, and then he slew Kanst single-handedly. The sight broke the morale of the dragons. But Vendevorex vanished after that, until now. We found him but he’s not well.”

“Take me to him,” Jandra said.

BLASPHET FELT THE cold touch of manacles around his wrists and ankles, a familiar sensation from so many years waking from troubled sleep in the dark bowels of Albekizan’s dungeon. The cold was great, greater even than he remembered.

He opened his eyes. Shandrazel stood before him assisting Androkom, wrapping fresh bandages around the blunt stub of the biologian’s tail.

Blasphet rattled the chains, testing them. They held him securely but the locks wouldn’t hold him for even a second. He reached to his legs, for the lock-picks hidden amidst his scales. He suddenly found out why he was so cold.

“Looking for those?” Shandrazel said, pointing toward the mound of translucent feather-scales. “I remembered your nasty reputation for hiding poisoned needles. I didn’t want to take any chances.”

Blasphet felt his face burn at the indignity. Still his curiosity was greater than his embarrassment. “How did you escape?”

“It cost noble Androkom his tail, yet another crime for which you will be brought to justice. He reached the acid pool with his tail tip, soaked it, and then brought it back to eat away the iron chains which held him.”

“It took many soakings,” Androkom said. “Fortunately, after the first few, the nerves burned away. You may be interested to know that the acid cauterized the wounds, just as you predicted. Still, you’re lucky to have been apprehended in Shandrazel’s presence. I would have tossed you into the pool without a second thought.”

“We do have laws in this kingdom,” Shandrazel said, “even if my father seems to forget them.”

“You fool!” Blasphet laughed. “Albekizan is the only law. I’m too valuable to him. As long as he’s king, I will be free!”

“You’re right,” Shandrazel said. “Which is why he cannot remain king.”

JANDRA CRADLED VENDEVOREX’S head in her arms and closed her eyes, concentrating. The tiny machines that swam in Vendevorex were controlled by his mental commands. If he had lost consciousness before willing the molecular engines to heal him, they wouldn’t do so. Jandra wished she knew the skills needed to mend damaged tissue, to knit together once more the ruptured blood vessels. She couldn’t bear to lose him. All that had happened today, all the death, all the sorrow, had made her understand the lesson of Bitterwood. Holding onto hate, even for the most-deserved cause, would kill your soul. Hate would grow until there was no room for anything else. She couldn’t let that happen. Vendevorex had to live, not to kill Albekizan, not to fight to save mankind, but simply so she could tell him she forgave him.