Bitterwood (17 page)

“Lie?”

“Vendevorex turned traitor the day after Bodiel’s death. He disobeyed the king’s orders and fled with his pet human in tow. Now Albekizan wants him dead. He’s not as big a prize as Bitterwood, but he’s worth following. Besides, I have a theory that Bitterwood and the wizard may be connected somehow.”

“But,” said Gadreel, “if Albekizan wants Vendevorex dead, why the lie? Why not just announce a price on the wizard’s head?”

“Because soon Albekizan will start his master plan against the humans and the wizard’s loyalty to humans is legendary. It’s best to have everyone think Vendevorex is ill rather than free and hidden somewhere in the kingdom.”

“Albekizan fears the humans might turn to Vendevorex for assistance?” asked Gadreel.

“It’s possible,” said Zanzeroth. “Even if the wizard never turns up again he’s still likely to be a hero to humans. One thing I’ve learned is that humans would rather spread a rumor than breed. You’ve seen what they’ve done with Bitterwood. They think he’s everywhere at once, ready to leap from the woods to save them at any moment, even though none of them have ever seen him. They think he’s a ghost or a god. If they would build such a legend around a mere man, imagine what they would do with a dragon wizard. But that’s not the real reason Albekizan wants to keep the wizard’s treason quiet.”

“Then, why?”

Zanzeroth shook his head as if disgusted to once again be explaining the obvious. “Albekizan has built his empire at the expense of many a former friend. More than a few sun-dragons would shelter Vendevorex, given the chance, and use him as a weapon in an open rebellion. In fact… we can’t be far from Chakthalla’s castle.”

“Three miles,” Gadreel answered. He’d spotted the graceful towers and colorful windows of Chakthalla’s palace during his reconnaissance flight of the area. Chakthalla was the widow of Tanthia’s brother Terranax. She managed this mountainous corner of Albekizan’s kingdom.

“She lost her mate to Blasphet,” Zanzeroth said. “I wonder if she’s learned that the Murder God is now among the king’s closest advisors?”

“Perhaps we should pay her a visit?” Gadreel said.

“Aye,” said Zanzeroth. “But first we should pay a visit to Kanst. His troops are camping near the village of Winding Rock in preparation for the round-up of humans after the harvest to take them to Blasphet’s city. I imagine Kanst might enjoy a visit with Chakthalla as well.”

ZANZEROTH LED GADREEL
to the east toward Kanst’s camp. Evening was coming on. The sun behind them cast their long shadows onto the earth. Below, a small band of humans trudged along a dirt path by the edge of a field. They looked up, their eyes wide and frightened, as the dragons’ shadows fell over them. Zanzeroth always loved the effect of the light at this time of day. The black outline of his shadow possessed a grand, ominous life of its own.

Half a mile away from Kanst’s camp, the shrieks of an injured earth-dragon reached Zanzeroth’s ears. Gadreel’s flight slowed when he, too, noticed the sound.

“By the bones,” Gadreel said, sounding worried. “What’s that noise?”

“I warned Kanst that the slop he feeds the troops would eventually kill someone,” Zanzeroth said.

As they raced ever closer to the camp, the source of the agonized cry became obvious. An earth-dragon was running through the camp, enveloped in bright white flames. The charred outlines of his body revealed his headlong rush straight through the walls of tents. A trail of crisp, smoldering footprints led straight as an arrow shot back toward Kant's personal tent.

As Zanzeroth landed a few yards from the action, the earth-dragon at last fell as the tendons of his legs turned to ash. The ground around him began to boil. All the dragons in the camp fled the horrible flames, save one. A youthful sky-dragon, bearing the wing-ribbons that marked him a member of the aerial guard, rushed toward the fallen earth-dragon and tossed a thick woolen blanket over him to smother the fire. He jumped back when the plan failed; the blanket erupted into a bright blaze.

The air took on the stench of burning sheep.

“Bring water,” the sky-dragon shouted, though no other soldier remained to hear him.

“Too late for that,” Zanzeroth said, walking toward the fallen dragon. He stepped around the wisps of smoke that wafted toward him. “Take care not to breathe the fumes,” he said. “A large enough dose will kill you.”

“What could possibly burn like that?” Gadreel asked, staring as the dragon’s body sank into the bubbling ground.

“It’s called the Vengeance of the Ancestors,” said Zanzeroth, “and it confirms Vendevorex is near.”

As he spoke, the giant armored form of General Kanst appeared over the tent tops. He moved toward them in slow, clanking steps. Despite the clatter of his movements, he’d apparently heard Zanzeroth’s comments for he said, “It confirms nothing of the sort.”

“Only the wizard can create this flame,” Zanzeroth said. “I’ve seen it before. So have you, though I assume your memory isn’t what it once was. Have care. This magic flame burns everything.”

“Everything but iron,” Kanst said, unclasping his massive breastplate. He dropped the heavy oval of steel over the burning pit, capping the flames. He dropped to all fours and began to slap out the fiery footprints with his iron gauntlets. “It’s one reason I’ve spent the last decade and a half lumbering around in this armor.”

The young member of the aerial guard found an iron shield lying on the ground and began beating out the flames elsewhere.

Kanst rose and said to Zanzeroth, “I see I have at least one soldier worth his gruel.” Then, to the sky-dragon, “You, son. What’s your name?”

“Pertalon, sir,” the dragon answered without stopping his work.

“Pertalon, I like your face. I’m giving you a promotion.”

“Sir,” Pertalon said, standing straight. By now the flames were all extinguished.

“Come with me. You too, hunter. You’ll be interested in this.”

Kanst led them back along the charred footprints. They arrived at the largest tent in the camp, a palace built from gray canvas that covered almost an acre, Kanst’s personal home away from home. The wall they approached was neatly marked with the charred outline of an earth-dragon.

Leading them inside, Kanst said, “It was roughly fifteen years ago that the wizard first demonstrated the effects of the Vengeance of the Ancestors. On quiet nights I can still hear the screams of the family inside that house. I wasn’t a general back then, only a soldier.”

“We all knew you were destined for greatness,” Zanzeroth said. “You were a cousin of the king after all.”

“No matter my heritage, I knew power when I saw it,” Kanst said. “The Vengeance of the Ancestors was naked, unquenchable power. The wizard controlled it. And ever since that night, so have I.”

Kanst took them to a row of a dozen cauldrons: huge, black, cast iron affairs used to cook stews for armies. “That dead fool must have thought I was hiding supper in these things,” Kanst said. He lifted the iron lid a crack. White light as bright as the midday sun filled the room.

“I snuck back to the cabin later that night and found a few tendrils of the flame still flickering among the ruins. I placed them in an iron pot and carefully fed them. The wizard had said that below a critical mass the flame dies out. For fifteen years I’ve maintained that critical mass, feeding the fire with whatever fuel I had at hand. It really does burn anything—hard, dense fuels do especially well—stones, bricks and, from time to time, the remains of a particularly thick-skulled and disloyal soldier.”

“Albekizan knows of this?” Zanzeroth asked.

“Of course. It’s why he elevated me to general. But I’m certain that the wizard never knew. Aside from the king, the only dragons to know about the flames are the rare and trusted few I’ve selected to help me maintain the stock.”

He glanced toward Pertalon. “You rushed into danger while everyone else fled. You followed my lead to squelch the flame without waiting for my orders or asking a single question. Now your job will be to help keep this fire alive.”

“Sir,” said Pertalon. “It will be an honor.”

IT WAS A DARK
, cloudy night in Winding Rock. The windows of the score or so wooden houses that composed the village proper glowed with candlelight. A lone figure slipped along the streets; a small blonde-haired girl, clutching a bundle of blankets tightly against her chest. She dashed behind the largest house on the street, pausing to press her ear against the back door.

“Okay, Poocher,” Zeeky whispered as she carefully slipped her knife through the crack in the back door, lifting the latch. “You need to be really quiet.”

She looked down at the piglet snuggled warmly in the wool blanket. Poocher looked back, his dark eyes full of understanding. Zeeky was only nine, she felt very grown up to have a small thing like Poocher so dependant on her.

Zeeky slowly cracked the door open. The kitchen should be empty; she had watched the last of the help leave just after dark. Only Barnstack himself was still inside, but everyone knew the mayor was half-deaf. Even though the light still burned in the front room, Zeeky couldn’t wait any longer for him to turn in. The night grew colder by the minute and her stomach was a hard knot. She didn’t mind so much that she hadn’t eaten since yesterday, but poor little Poocher had to be starving.

Barnstack’s kitchen was the size of her father’s house. The warm space smelled of corned beef, onions, and sauerkraut. Pots and pans hung from the ceiling, gleaming in the faint light that seeped around the door leading to the front room. Zeeky tiptoed inside, easing the door shut behind her.

Cradling Poocher, she crept toward the pantry. The silence was suddenly disturbed by a series of bangs. She looked around, terrified that she had knocked something over. But the noise came from the other room. Someone was knocking at the front door with a force that sounded like hammer blows. She held her breath as she listened to the silence that followed. Then the sound erupted again followed by the creaking of floorboards as the mayor limped to the door.

“You shouldn’t knock so hard,” Barnstack hissed loudly though he probably thought he was whispering. “Do you want the whole town to know?”

“I’d been knocking for five minutes. Answer your door more promptly in the future,” replied a deep, smooth voice.

“I came as soon as… oh, never mind. Come in before someone sees you.”

“We are alone?”

“What?” Barnstack shouted.

“Are we alone?” the strange voice said forcefully.

“Yes, yes. I sent the help home hours ago.”

Zeeky tried to peek through the gap between the doorframe and the door to the front room, but she couldn’t see with whom Barnstack spoke. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t match the deep voice with any of the village men.

Barnstack said, “Heavens, the night’s turned cold. Would you like some tea?”

“It would be rude to refuse,” the stranger answered.

Zeeky gasped as Barnstack came into view, shuffling toward the kitchen. She hurried for the pantry. When she opened the pantry door she saw a row of cured hams hanging from the ceiling. She closed the door before Poocher could notice and looked around for another hiding place. As light poured into the kitchen from the opening door, she crawled beneath a large table and climbed into the seat of one of the chairs, curling into a tight ball. With her left hand she scratched Poocher beneath his chin to make sure he’d keep calm.

From her vantage point, she watched the elderly man walk slowly toward the stove. She looked at the doorway to the front room. Her eyes grew wide. The visitor’s legs were green, scaly, and thickly muscled. A broad, pointed tail hung behind the legs, reaching to within inches of the floor.  The tail swayed as the stranger followed Barnstack into the kitchen.
 

Barnstack stirred the coals in the fireplace as he hung the teapot on the metal hook within. He tossed a slender wedge of wood onto the coals. The smoke reached Zeeky’s nose; she prayed Poocher wouldn’t sneeze.

“There,” Barnstack said as the flame took life. “It will only take a few minutes.”

“Your hospitality is appreciated,” the visitor said. “I hope this means you are receptive to our offer.”

“What?”

“Our offer,” he repeated, louder this time. “I hope you intend to accept it?”

“It’s generous,” Barnstack said.

“Yes.”

“Too good to be true, almost.”

“It may seem that way at first. But think about it. All of Albekizan’s wealth flows from the labor provided by your village and countless other villages like it. Is it any wonder he would choose to repay you?”

“Everything good comes with a price,” Barnstack said.

“Consider your past labor as advance payment.”

“But if everyone accepts this offer, who will plant the crops next year? Who will harvest them? If everyone goes to this Pre-City…”

“Free City.”

“What?”

“Free City.” The visitor said the words in a warm tone, as if he were talking about someplace wonderful. “It'’s called Free City, not Pre-City.”

“Oh,” Barnstack said, sounding confused. “I thought it was called Pre-City because they were still building it. They only started it a few weeks ago, yes?”

“True. It’s a testament to the king’s leadership that he’s devoted enough money and labor to the Free City that it is already open to humans. Free City awaits those lucky few who will live the rest of their lives in peace and plenty.”

“Lucky few? You said it was for everyone.”

“Everyone in this village, yes. Of course, it couldn’t be for everyone everywhere; as you say, who would do the work? No, Free City is a reward to those villages that have served Albekizan faithfully and completely over the years of his reign. Your village is among the chosen. We are especially pleased by the teachings of your spiritual leader, Kamon. His vision of harmony between man and dragon is most enlightened.”

The hair rose on the back of Zeeky’s neck as Barnstack pulled the chair across from her from under the table. Poocher started to wiggle but Zeeky held him tighter and rubbed his belly, calming him. Barnstack sagged into the chair.