Bitterwood. Part 29

He stepped back a stall and pushed open the door. A human child, a little blonde girl maybe eight years-old, huddled in the corner of the stall, her arms wrapped around a small black and white pig.

"Um, hi," she said, then wiped her nose.

Wyvernoth didn't answer.

"I just wanted to see him. For a visit," she said.

"Why do you think I care?" Wyvernoth said, reaching down and grabbing the girl by her arm.

"Ow!" she yelled.

Instantly, the pens and stalls erupted in a cacophony of squeals. Seconds later, the rest of the animals in the neighboring barns joined in; a chaotic chorus of moos, baas, and clucks filled the air. The ox-dogs held in the nearby kennels began to yelp and howl, a sound that brought back bad memories for Wyvernoth.

"See what you've done," he said. "Set 'em all off. You're in a heap of trouble."

"You're hurting my arm," she cried as he lifted her from the ground and carried her outside. Given the noise, he guessed other guards would get here soon enough. He'd have one of them watch his post while he took her in to the captain. He could wind up looking good for this, especially if he trumped up the charges. He could blame her for the goat that'd gone missing yesterday. That way he'd get to enjoy not only his full belly, but also the fun of pinning the blame on someone else.

As he walked out of the barn, he noticed a figure approaching. He looked up, expecting to see a fellow guard. Instead he saw a tall, dark-robed man, his eyes hidden by the broad, black brim of his hat.

"You there," the man said. "What upset the ox-dogs?"

Wyvernoth noted that the man had a pack slung across his shoulder, and strapped to the pack was an axe, which worried him, for the man seemed familiar. Had he let this man in? What would his superiors say if they learned that he'd let someone bring in an axe?

An axe.

A broad-brimmed black hat.

An ox-dog.

Suddenly, Wyvernoth recalled quite clearly where he'd seen this man before, twenty years ago.

"Y-you?" Wyvernoth said, his voice trailing off in a little squeal. He dropped the girl who fell roughly to the ground.

"You were one of the soldiers on the road to Christdale," the man said. "It's been many years."

Wyvernoth turned, raised his tail, dropped his spear, and shot off like an arrow.

"YOU!" BITTERWOOD SHOUTED, unable to believe this turn of fate. Even after twenty years, the faces of the dragons who'd surrounded the wagon that night and thrust spears at him were burned into his memory. unable to believe this turn of fate. Even after twenty years, the faces of the dragons who'd surrounded the wagon that night and thrust spears at him were burned into his memory.

Bitterwood braced himself as the dragon barreled toward him, wondering why his opponent was charging without a weapon drawn. He could plainly see a sword in the sheath on the dragon's hip.

The dragon swerved as he approached, his eyes not fixed on Bitterwood but on the path beyond him. Bitterwood realized the dragon wasn't attacking him, but planned instead to run past him.

"No you don't," Bitterwood said, sticking his leg out as the dragon raced by. The impact of leg against leg nearly toppled Bitterwood, so great was the dragon's speed.

Only a balance honed by years of combat kept him on his feet while the dragon hit the hard-packed earth beak-first. The dragon's legs flipped over his shoulders and he rolled three times before sliding to a stop on his back.

Bitterwood pounced, landing on the dragon's chest, locking a hand around the beast's scaly windpipe while his free hand drew the sword from the dragon's scabbard.

"Let me go! He's after me!" the dragon whimpered.

"He's caught you," Bitterwood said, looking down into the dark terrified eyes of the dragon. "After all these years, we meet again."

"What?" the dragon cried. "Are you mad?"

"Yes!" Bitterwood said, tightening his grip on the dragon's throat. "Don't pretend you don't remember. The village of Christdale!"

The dragon's eyes opened wider. "You! You were with him! The young man in the wagon!"

"Bitterwood," Jandra said, placing her hand on his shoulder.

"Go away!" Bitterwood snarled. "Don't try to stop me. He's one of the ones who killed my wife and children! He dies now!"

Bitterwood raised the sword.

"Please!" the dragon squeaked. "We killed no women or children that day! All but the men were taken into slavery! Please spare me!"

Bitterwood felt his heart skip one beat, two. "What?" he said, lowering the sword.

"Spare me!"

"Slavery?" Bitterwood said, studying the dragon's eyes. "You sold my family into slavery?"

"Yes. Oh, please let me go, let me go, let me go. He's after me!"

Bitterwood felt his heart resume beating as hope sparked within him for the first time in memory. Recanna could still be alive. And Ruth, and Mary, and Adam.

The dragon beneath him suddenly stopped squirming. His eyes opened even wider until they looked as if they might pop from his skull. He opened his beak wide to scream but no sound came out.

A long, dark shadow draped over Bitterwood. Suddenly, he understood he wasn't the one causing this dragon to feel such terror.

"Bant Bitterwood," a voice said, deep and familiar as thunder. "Your day of reckoning has come."

BITTERWOOD GRIPPED THE sword in his hand so tightly it trembled. The dragon he held had information he couldn't afford to lose. He couldn't let the dragon go, he couldn't kill him, and he couldn't take time to think about the problem with Hezekiah stepping closer. sword in his hand so tightly it trembled. The dragon he held had information he couldn't afford to lose. He couldn't let the dragon go, he couldn't kill him, and he couldn't take time to think about the problem with Hezekiah stepping closer.

"Jandra," Bitterwood said. "Run."

"Why?" she asked, sounding confused. "Who is this?"

"The devil," Bitterwood said. "Go!"

"Bant Bitterwood," Hezekiah said, "the Lord is merciful. If you will confess the error of your blasphemy those long years ago, I will spare you."

"By the bones," the dragon whispered, tears welling in his eyes. "Let me go. He'll kill me."

"You'll stay until I'm done with you," Bitterwood said. With a grunt he brought the sword down. The dragon screamed, arching his back in pain, as the tip of the sword was driven through his right shoulder and deep into the hard earth, pinning him.

Bitterwood rolled off the dragon and onto his feet, facing the giant who stood only a yard away and was casually drawing an axe from his pack.

"Who are you?" asked Jandra, who hadn't run.

"I am Hezekiah, child," the prophet answered. "I have come to bring the word of the Lord to the people of this new city. The man beside you has turned his back on the Lord and, unless he repents, he must be removed, lest he poison the minds of others with his blasphemy. What say you, Bant Bitterwood? Will you accept the Lord's mercy?"

"Go to h.e.l.l," Bitterwood said, the tight muscles of his legs uncoiling to drive him forward into the breast of the demon.

Hezekiah stood steady as a rock, just as Bitterwood had antic.i.p.ated. His hands closed tightly around the axe the prophet carried and he leapt up, curled his feet under him, then drove them both into his foe's stomach. He knew the blow would cause Hezekiah no pain, but at least he could pry the axe from the demon's grasp.

Unfortunately, the axe didn't budge. Bitterwood dropped back to the ground, continuing to push and pull against the axe handle. It was like trying to remove a stone from a wall.

Then Hezekiah moved, pushing his arms forward with a snap. Bitterwood was thrown backward. He landed on his back, hard, but years of experience allowed him to roll with the force so that the momentum carried him to his feet. Jandra was running now, not fleeing, but moving to his side as she tossed a handful of silver dust into the air.

"Stay quiet!" she whispered as the morning sunlight dimmed.

"What witchcraft is this?" Hezekiah shouted. "Where have you vanished to, Bant Bitterwood?"

Bitterwood started to speak, uncertain of what was happening, but Jandra placed her fingers on his lips and whispered, "Shh."

"There," Hezekiah said. He hurled his axe in the direction of Jandra's whisper. The tool raced more swiftly than an arrow. Bitterwood tried to push Jandra from its path but succeeded only partly, for the steel tip grazed her ear, spinning her around. Her body went limp and she fell into Bitterwood's arms. Bitterwood lowered her to the ground and looked up, expecting to see death hovering overhead. Instead, Hezekiah had turned his attention toward the pinned dragon, wrapping his thick hand around the hilt of the sword.

"It's best you not speak of what you've witnessed," he said, and effortlessly drew the buried blade from the dragon's shoulder. He lowered the blade again, swinging sideways, silencing the dragon's sobs suddenly and permanently.

Bitterwood went numb as if the sword had pierced his own throat. The dragon was his only lead, his sole hope of learning Recanna's fate. He turned and raced to where the hurled axe had fallen. His muscles strained to their limits to move the heavy weapon. Perhaps its weight would tilt the scales toward the justice due him.

He looked over his shoulder and gasped as Hezekiah stood mere feet from him, raising the sword above his head. Bitterwood leapt sideways as the demon drove the blade down in a savage blow that left a long crack in the packed earth of the street. Before Hezekiah could recover his balance, Bitterwood struck, bringing the axe down with all his strength into the center of his opponent's back.

Sparks leapt into the air. The axe clanged and quivered as if it had struck metal, numbing Bitterwood's hands with the vibration. The blow was sufficient to knock the sword from Hezekiah's hands.

The black-robed prophet needed no weapon. Hezekiah struck sideways with his fist, catching Bitterwood in the chest, sending him spinning. The axe flew from his grasp. He landed on his stomach, skidding in the dirt. He blinked through the dust of his landing, looking sideways. He spotted the fallen axe and extended his arm toward it.

As his fingers touched the handle, a heavy black boot dropped onto Bitterwood's hand, grinding a cry of pain from him as Hezekiah's incredible weight crushed down. He tried to pull free but he was pinned and could only watch helplessly as the prophet bent over and lifted up the axe.

Bitterwood could hear the beating of the mighty wings of the Angel of Death. The dust around him rose in a cloud as Hezekiah raised his axe heavenward. With a surge of fear-driven strength, Bitterwood pulled his hand loose and rolled to his back, hoping to avoid the blow, but knowing the cause was lost. Hezekiah towered over him, the axe held high in both hands, his body tensed to deliver the killing blow.

The moment lingered, frozen in time, with Hezekiah waiting to strike, his body motionless, as if he considered the perfect placement of the axe-head. The dust in the air began to settle. The axe did not lower. Hezekiah stood still as a statue. Bitterwood scrabbled back from his enemy. Hezekiah's eyes didn't follow.

Bitterwood could see a trio of glowing threads floating in the air behind Hezekiah, writhing like snakes striking at an unseen opponent. The air beyond their reach shimmered like heat over hard ground on a summer day, then broke into countless tiny shards that vanished as they fell. In their place stood a sky-dragon, his eyes fixed upon a small silver sphere no larger than an acorn that he held in his talons. The dragon wore a silver skullcap similar to the one worn by the dragon that Jandra had asked him to spare. His wings were studded with jewels in an identical pattern. Nonetheless, this dragon's blue belly didn't have a scar on it. This couldn't be the same creature.

"Intriguing," said the dragon, snaking his neck forward to closely study Hezekiah's frozen face. "I haven't encountered one of these since I escaped Atlantis."

"Atlantis?" Bitterwood said. The word triggered memories. The southern rebellion... The dragon's tongue beneath his fingertips... The kudzu-draped grove... His eyes widened as he studied the face of the sky-dragon before him. "You were in the cage," he said, "in the City of Skeletons."

"What a small world," said the dragon, glancing toward Bitterwood. "I wouldn't have recognized you. You've aged poorly. In retrospect, you did me a favor not opening the cage."

CHAPTER TWENTY: SKELETONS.

1081 D.A. The 50th Year of the Reign of Albekizan Year of the Reign of Albekizan

GLANCING OVER HIS shoulder, it seemed as if the whole world was on fire. Bitterwood whipped his horse to have it run faster along the cracked, vine-covered stones of the ghost line. He looked back once more, still clinging to the hope that he might see one of his men following. All that lay behind him, though, was the black tower of smoke rising from the fort. No living thing traveled the cursed ground with him. Most likely, everyone he'd fought beside was dead. shoulder, it seemed as if the whole world was on fire. Bitterwood whipped his horse to have it run faster along the cracked, vine-covered stones of the ghost line. He looked back once more, still clinging to the hope that he might see one of his men following. All that lay behind him, though, was the black tower of smoke rising from the fort. No living thing traveled the cursed ground with him. Most likely, everyone he'd fought beside was dead.

For the last few years, Bitterwood had stirred up rebellion in the southern reaches of Albekizan's kingdom. It hadn't been difficult. The king's unreasonable taxation had planted the seeds of the resistance. Bitterwood's tale of the king's injustice and cruelty, which he'd told from town to town, had helped bring the rebellion to harvest. Albekizan's tax collectors for the last two years had faced an increasingly hostile population, until at last the town of Conyer had built a wooden fort and declared its independence from Albekizan completely.

Now, Conyer was burning. Albekizan's dragons had swarmed the place in unimaginable numbers, ruthlessly slaughtering men, women, and children. Bitterwood had fought as long as he could until a small band of his fellow rebels had announced a plan to fall back and retreat to the ghost lines. They would reband and continue the fight on more favorable grounds at the City of Skeletons. Two dozen of them had fled on horseback. One by one, in the dark of night, dragons had swooped from the sky and picked off Bitterwood's companions. Now, Bitterwood alone raced into the twisted, rusting towers of the City of Skeletons.

This was haunted ground. Legend said it had once been a great city of men. Now it was deserted, a maze of ruins countless miles across covered in avenues of cracked concrete and crumbling, oily-black stone. The sh.e.l.ls of countless buildings still stood, walls of brick and gla.s.s, over towering frames of rust-red beams. Thick blankets of kudzu covered much of the remains, softening the edges, hiding pits and jagged gla.s.s and snakes. Bitterwood rode into the heart of the city, the one place he hoped the dragons wouldn't dare follow.

A shadow pa.s.sed over him. He recognized the leading edge of the shadow as that of a wing. He knew then that he'd been wrong about any safety the city might offer. There was no place in the world Albekizan's forces wouldn't follow.

Suddenly, a talon dug into his left shoulder. He was jerked up from his horse. His leg tangled in the stirrups. With a yank so forceful it lifted his horse, Bitterwood was s.n.a.t.c.hed upward. His ankle snapped as the dangling horse twisted around. His knee felt as if it were torn from his body entirely. Bitterwood rose, a dozen feet in the air, two dozen, three... Then the talon released his b.l.o.o.d.y shoulder and he plummeted feet first toward the gray ground below. He looked up to see the bright red plumage of a sun-dragon pa.s.s over him. He glanced down in time to see his horse crumpling against the ground and his own feet inches from impact.

A moment of darkness followed. The heavy thump of giant wings woke him. He was propped against a mound of torn meat. His legs lay twisted before him, as limp and boneless as the limbs of a rag doll.

Twenty feet away, a sun-dragon stood.

"You're going to wish the fall had killed you," said the dragon.

Bitterwood looked around for a weapon. By chance his bow and quiver lay within reach, still strapped to what remained of the horse. He s.n.a.t.c.hed them up and with quivering, scarred fingers placed an arrow against the string. He pulled with what remained of his strength. His shoulder felt as if it had a knife through it. His vision blurred as stars danced before him. He could barely see the outline of the dragon as he let the arrow fly.

He closed his eyes and sagged back against the dead horse. If he'd still believed in a merciful G.o.d, he would have prayed that the arrow he'd just fired had found its target.

Hot, stinking breath blew against his cheek.

"You missed," the dragon whispered into his ear.

Bitterwood opened his eyes and found himself staring straight into the nostrils of the dragon. The white wispy feathers around the snout wafted with the dragon's breath. Bitterwood fumbled to draw a second arrow from the quiver.

The dragon lowered his snout to intercept Bitterwood's hand. A sound that was half a slurp, half a crack, echoed through the stony wastes. Bitterwood felt a numb pressure at the end of his arm.

The dragon once more brought his face level with Bitterwood's eyes. In his dagger-like teeth lay Bitterwood's severed hand. The dragon began to chew leisurely.

Some last remnant of resistance stirred in Bitterwood and he raised his good hand to the dragon's snout, punching it. He drew back to punch again. The dragon spit out Bitterwood's hand. The drool-covered palm slapped Bitterwood's cheek. The dragon caught Bitterwood's second punch in his mouth. Bitterwood's arm was in the beast's maw up to the elbow. The last sensation he felt was of his fingers against the dragon's raspy tongue. Then the beast clamped his jaws together and Bitterwood felt nothing at all.