James Maxey: Bitterwood

Time slowed, as it always did in the heat of battle. Though the creature charged as quickly as a galloping horse, it moved at a crawl in Bant’s eyes. He could see every individual scale of the creature as it passed. He watched its muscles as they moved in precise choreography beneath a gleaming metallic hide. A fourth set of limbs came around the edge of the chimney, then a fifth, but the fifth set wasn’t part of the creature’s body. They were human feet, resting in stirrups.

The human in the saddle was revealed as the creature advanced. He was a short man, with skin pale as milk, dressed in a shimmering white tunic. A large silver visor hid his eyes. He somehow guided his reptilian mount without the benefit of reins, leaving his hands free to aim a large crossbow at the boy. But, he too caught sight of Bitterwood and cocked his head, his lips parting as if he were about to speak.

Bitterwood wasn’t interested in what he might say. The springs in his legs uncoiled. He swung the iron poker in an upward arc, catching the rider underneath his chin. The rider was lifted from his saddle by the blow.

As the white-clad man fell through the air, the serpent’s back curved, instantly aware of rider’s missing weight. Bitterwood spun as the beast’s head whipped around, its jaws opening to reveal a pale pink mouth-roof. Twin rows of teeth hurtled toward him, the jaws spread wide enough to swallow his head.

Bitterwood raised the stone he carried, a good, hard chunk of stream-polished granite. As the dragon’s mouth reached him and the jaws began to snap, he placed the stone precisely at the back of the creature’s jaw. When the beast chomped down, its spiky rear teeth snapped. Bitterwood ducked to allow the dragon’s momentum to carry it over him. The dragon let out a grunt as it hit the chimney with a wet smack. Its body twitched and coiled as Bitterwood jumped free.

Long years of fighting dragons had left Bitterwood with a reliable internal map of where a dragon’s claws, teeth, and tail would be in close combat. Alas, he still hadn’t figured out how many limbs this weird long-wyrm had. As he jumped away something sharp snared his ankle. His leap to freedom was aborted in a painful crash. A second set of claws tore into his calves, then a third, and a fourth. Bitterwood twisted around to see the long-wyrm shake its bloodied head, then turn its dark eyes to face him.

Bitterwood kicked, loosening two of the claws. The beast jerked, dragging Bitterwood closer as claw after claw sank into his legs. By now the entire creature could be seen. It was fully fifty feet long from snout to tail, with fourteen pairs of claws. The long-wyrm’s mouth dripped blood, and the lower jaw was set at a funny angle, perhaps broken.

Behind the dragon, the rider rose to his knees, looking dazed. His visor had been knocked off, revealing large, pink eyes amid the ghostly flesh of his face. He raised a hand as if to shield his eyes from the light, despite the deepening shadows. The man looked around, and reached for his visor. Before he could grab it, a black and white form flashed into view and snatched it up in its jaws, then dashed away. Poocher?

The long-wyrm suddenly stopped pulling Bitterwood closer. Its eyes were set on something behind the fallen hunter. The creature braced itself. The ash all around Bitterwood swirled in a rush of wind. A large shadow flew over his head. Killer, the ox-dog, let out a thunderous bark in mid-air, then sank his massive jaws into the lizard’s copper throat. The long-wyrm released Bitterwood, coiling up to rake and tear at the giant dog. Killer whipped the wyrm’s head back and forth, its broken jaw flopping. The beast let out a series of hissing yelps as Killer pinned it to the ground and clamped his jaws even tighter.

Even though the serpent was losing, it continued tearing out bloody chunks of fur as it curled around the dog in a whirlwind of claws. Bitterwood scrambled back to his feet, taking the poker in both hands, and lunged for the long-wyrm, ignoring the slashing pain from his damaged legs. He planted the forked edge of the iron poker in the center of the beast’s left eye and threw his full weight onto the handle. The thin layer of bone behind the eye snapped as he drove the rod into the creature’s brain. The dragon fell limp, its claws stilled at last.

“Jeremiah!” Zeeky shouted.

Bitterwood looked down the path, the see the boy running toward Zeeky.

“Ezekia!” the boy shouted. Zeeky jumped into his arms as they reached each other. The boy’s legs collapsed at the weight, and they both wound up on the ground.

Bitterwood yanked the poker from the dead reptile’s eye. The white-skinned rider was now on his feet, his back toward Bitterwood. The rider, hearing Bitterwood’s approach, turned. He’d recovered his crossbow. He raised the weapon and pulled the trigger.

Bitterwood’s eyes were still swift enough to trace the razor honed tip as sliced through the air toward him. His arms felt like lead weights as he tried to lift the poker to knock the bolt from its path.

To the amazement of both the rider and himself, the poker reached the same point in space as the bolt less than a yard from Bitterwood’s chest. The bolt deflected upward, leaving a trail of sparks, as it whizzed past Bitterwood’s left ear.

The rider looked stunned. Bitterwood had witnessed the same look countless time in the eyes of dragons. It was a look that gave him a certain amount of pleasure, but experience had taught him it was not a pleasure that should be prolonged. He willed his torn legs to leap the few yards that separated him from the man, swinging the iron rod in a vicious arc. He slammed it against the side of the man’s neck with such force the poker bent. The stranger fell to his back, twitching, his eyes rolling up in their sockets.

Bitterwood sucked down air in great gasps, his legs trembling. The world slowed back to normal speed. He studied the fallen rider. Though blood was seeping from his ears, the man still breathed. Perhaps he would live. Perhaps he would have answers as to what had happened here.

On the other hand, the man had been riding a dragon, or something very much like a dragon. Bitterwood thought of women and children being dragged from their homes by reptilian claws, imagined the destruction of Big Lick with great clarity. He could hear the screams of the villagers, just as for twenty years he’d heard the screams of his own family.

There was only one way to silence those voices.

Glancing over his shoulder he saw Killer limping back to Zeeky and the boy, who were sitting on the ground, talking. No one was looking toward him.

Bitterwood fell to his knees. His arms were losing strength; his legs were bleeding in copious streams. He wanted to fall over, to collapse forever into sleep.

There could be no rest while the voices howled.

Bitterwood raised the poker above his head and swung it, planting the full weight into the man’s face. A bubble of blood rose from the man’s lips.

Bitterwood felt too weak to move as he stared at the damaged face. A lightness took hold of him, like the fevers that had given his world such a dreamlike quality. The unconscious man’s features suddenly struck him as familiar -eyes, ears, nose, mouth- a universal visage, belonging to almost any man. Bitterwood could see himself in the shared structures, and as the world slowly began to tilt he could no longer tell if it was the rider who lay upon the ground, or himself.

Bitterwood raised the poker and swung at the face that might be his own, then swung again, and again, until what he was hitting looked like a face no longer.

The screams now silent, Bitterwood toppled into the ash.

He closed his eyes, then opened them to discover Poocher by his head. The pig was wearing the rider’s visor, standing on two legs.