James Maxey: Bitterwood

The darkening forest murmured as a breeze rustled through it. He thought for a moment he heard a woman whispering. From the corner of his eye he saw Recanna standing by the water’s edge, waving. He turned and saw it was only a low branch of a tree, draped with pale leaves, shuddering in the chill air.

Bitterwood shuddered as well, and drew the tatters of the blanket he wore as a cloak tightly around him.

WINDING ROCK HAD been looted. Only a month ago, the little mountain town had been clean and full of life. Now, the place looked haunted. The doors stood open to the elements. The panes of glass that had filled the windows were gone. Not smashed, Bitterwood noted, but carefully removed. Gazing into a nearby house, Bitterwood couldn’t see a scrap of furniture. The type of stuff that had been looted told a story. Dragons wouldn’t bother stealing window glass or chairs. This was done by humans – quite possibly Zeeky’s people, from Big Lick.

This was the sort of thing that had driven Bitterwood to hold humanity in nearly the same contempt as dragons. The people of Winding Rock had been rounded up in the middle of the night and forcibly marched to the Free City. The dragons had acted swiftly, gathering only those they found in a single night. Certainly these mountains were full of people the dragons had missed. Bitterwood had spotted other villages in the valley that were unmolested by the king’s attempted genocide. The neighbors of the town of Winding Rock could have banded together and attempted to rescue their captive brethren. Instead, they’d stayed hidden until the dragons were gone, then stolen everything that wasn’t nailed down. Passing a house from which the slate roof tiles were missing, Bitterwood realized that actually being nailed down hadn’t provided any protection from theft either.

“This place is spooky,” Zeeky said.

“It’s just empty,” said Bitterwood. A spark of anger ignited as he realized that this village was the vision Albekizan -the dragon king- had possessed for all of humanity. The spark of anger was instantly quenched by a wave of guilt. Albekizan’s genocide order had come in response to Bitterwood’s actions. He had triggered this violence by killing Bodiel, the king’s most-loved son. His hands weren’t clean in the death of this place.

They passed through the town, finding a well-worn trail that followed a creek higher into the mountains. The path was nothing but rocks and roots. Killer was a powerful mount, but even he slowed on the steep incline. The creek splashed beside the path in a series of waterfalls.

“We’re close!” Zeeky said, fidgeting in her seat.

“Hallelujah,” Bitterwood said. He felt somewhat better today, after the meal of crawdads and a solid night of sleep. Last night he’d slept free of dreams. He’d simply succumbed to exhaustion and illness and slumbered from dusk to dawn. His fever had broken. He was still tender, but he felt some of his old strength returning.

Poocher sniffed the air, then grunted.

“Smoke?” said Zeeky.

Bitterwood took a sniff. The pig was right. There was a slight hint of smoke in the air, burning wood, with an undertone of sulfur.

“They burn coal in these parts?” asked Bitterwood.

“Yes,” Zeeky said. “The menfolk dig it up and trade it down in Winding Rock.”

Poocher grunted again.

“You’re right,” said Zeeky. “It does stink.”

They continued up the mountain path. The rocks were rising at steeper angles now, the forest growing denser and darker. The cliffs high above were riddled with shadowy caves.

They’d come several miles from Winding Rock when Bitterwood heard a scream. Somewhere in the distance ahead, a woman -or perhaps a child- cried out in pain.

“Stop here,” said Bitterwood.

“No!” Zeeky said. “We’re almost there! It’s just around the bend!”

“Let me go ahead to check things out.”

“Run, Killer!” Zeeky yelled.

Killer lunged forward. Bitterwood grabbed fistfuls of bristly dog hair to keep from toppling as Killer swerved around a steep curve on the trail.

Zeeky let out a gasp.

Ahead, the village of Big Lick was nothing but a mound of smoking ruins. Killer stopped in response to Zeeky’s gasp, suddenly as paralyzed with shock as she was.

Bitterwood vaulted from the ox-dog and said, “Wait here,” before moving further up the path. The village had been burned several hours ago, judging from the remains. What had once been homes were now just heaps of charcoal, sending up a fog of smoke. The coal dust that had clung to the village gave the charred remains a sickly egg-fart stench.

Bitterwood searched the ground for tracks as he walked closer to the village. If an army of dragons had done this, they’d not traveled up this path. Of course, it could be sun-dragons or sky-dragons behind it. They could have flown in. However, for some reason he’d never understood, the winged dragons normally didn’t journey into these mountains.

He crept forward carefully, crouched low, his eyes seeking out natural areas of cover he could dive for in case of aerial attack. Unarmed, he searched the ground for a good heavy rock. Fortunately, Big Lick had no shortage of stones. As he picked up a smooth, fist-sized rock, he noticed a scrape in the ground beside it. A claw mark… a dragon? It was too small for a sun-dragon, and whatever had left the mark had been heavier than a sky-dragon. Quickly, his eyes picked out a dozen other marks, then a hundred more, in all directions, with human footprints mixed among them. Curiously, he spotted no blood. Sniffing the air, he found no trace of the sweet hammy smell of burnt human flesh. The dragons -if that’s what had attacked- must have taken the villagers as captives.

It was growing dark and cold as he stepped into a square of ash and blackened logs that had once been a cabin. A small tower of stone jutted up from the center, the remains of a fireplace. The smoke danced like ghosts as the wind pushed tiny ash-devils across the stone hearth. He spotted a fallen fireplace poker, a length of black iron with a forked end and a coil of wire for a handle. It was hot enough to blister a normal man when he lifted it, but his hands were tough as leather gloves. The poker had a pleasant heft. He’d killed dragons with lesser weapons than this.

The hair on the back of his neck rose. Something was running in the woods on the other side of the chimney, coming fast. It sounded like human footsteps. Bitterwood pressed himself against the chimney. Seconds later a boy rushed past, breathing hard, tears leaving trails down his soot-darkened cheeks. The boy was older than Zeeky, rail thin, with bright blond hair of a nearly identical hue. The boy caught sight of Bitterwood from the corner of his eye. As he turned his head he tripped, skidding amid the ash, sending up a shower of dull red sparks as he fell. Bitterwood gripped the poker tightly with his left hand, and readied the fist-sized stone in his right hand to throw.

As the boy struggled to stand, Bitterwood saw blood on his burlap shirt. The boy looked back over his shoulder, past Bitterwood and the chimney toward the woods beyond, his eyes wide with terror.

From the crunching of leaves, it sounded as if a small army was approaching.

Every muscle in Bitterwood’s body coiled, ready to spring. The pain in his chest vanished as a reptilian odor was carried toward him – a dragon! But what kind?

A copper-hued, horse-sized head of a dragon darted past the edge of the chimney, low to the ground. The creature’s long neck was quickly followed by a pair of shoulders supporting thick, strong legs that ended in three-clawed talons. This was the creature that had made the tracks. Another yard of the beast passed and another set of shoulders and a second set of legs appeared. The boy had gotten to his feet again, and was darting away like a rabbit. The dragon steered toward him, as a third set of legs scrambled past the chimney. Bitterwood had never seen anything like this creature.