Bitterwood (26 page)

“There’s a fountain in the garden,” he said. “Follow me.”

He led her through the side door that led to the walled garden. The water sparkled in the morning light making Jandra aware of her own thirst. She could drink directly from the fountain but what of Vendevorex?

“What can we put water in?” she asked.

“Hold on. I’ll find something,” Pet said, going back into the throne room. Jandra knelt by the fountain and drank deeply. The water was cold and clean as freshly melted snow. The garden was filled with pink flowers, opening their buds to the rising sun, filling the air with perfume. Yellow-breasted songbirds flitted among the branches of the low trees and greeted the day with music. The beauty made her feel ill. The garden was too lovely, too peaceful in light of the horrors she’d seen.

“Here,” Pet said, returning. He carried the pack she had seen him with earlier. He pulled a golden goblet from it and handed it to her. “I guess I won’t be needing this after all,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said as she took the goblet.

Delicate engravings of butterflies covered the golden cup. It was the loveliest thing she had ever seen and it broke her. The goblet fell from her hands as tears began to stream from her cheeks. She began to tremble, her body weak with sorrow.

Pet sat beside her. He took one of her hands and squeezed it. “It’s okay,” he said, stroking her hair with his free hand. “It’s okay.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “They’re going to die. Kanst doesn’t bluff. It’s all my fault.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“The dragons wouldn’t be here if Vendevorex weren’t here. He’s only here because of me. Maybe things would have been better if the guards had just killed me the morning after Bodiel died. I’ve been holding on to such foolish hopes. I thought… I thought everything would be all right. I thought we could win.”

“You can,” Pet said. “Vendevorex will be okay. You’ll both live through this.”

“But it’s too late for the villagers,” Jandra said. “They’re dying because of me.”

“Hush,” Pet said. “Don’t torture yourself. This isn’t your fault. It’s Bitterwood’s. He’s the one who killed Bodiel. He got the dragons all worked up. If he has a heart in him, he’ll turn himself in and end this.”

Jandra sniffed, wiping her cheeks. “A minute ago you were the one saying he wouldn’t surrender. I don’t think he gives a damn about saving people. He only wants to kill dragons. He won’t give himself up. We can’t do a damn thing to stop Kanst. I think we’ve proven tonight that we’re both pathetic at fighting.”

“Shhh.” Pet hugged her tightly for a long moment. Then he broke the embrace. “Bitterwood is going to surrender. You have my vow.”

“Oh, what good is your vow?”

Pet turned Jandra’s face toward him and brushed her hair away from her face. “You can’t worry about that right now,” he said. “Vendevorex needs you, honey. He’s thirsty, and hurting, and probably more scared than you are. Be strong for him, okay?”

Jandra swallowed. “Okay.”

Pet helped her to rise. He picked up the goblet from the green carpet of grass and filled it with water.

“Take this to him,” he said, then he sat by the fountain and lowered his face to take his own drink.

Jandra entered the throne room, breathing deeply. She would be strong, for now, at least, while Vendevorex needed her. She knelt and held the cup to the wounded wizard’s lips and helped him to drink.

“More,” he whispered as he swallowed the last drops.

Jandra returned to garden, both for water and to find Pet, to thank him for his words. She also felt a need to apologize for her earlier insults. Perhaps she’d expected too much of him. But Pet wasn’t sitting by the fountain anymore.

“Pet?” she asked.

Only the colorful birds answered, singing joyfully as they danced among the hedges.

ZANZEROTH WATCHED AS
Kanst gave the order. The earth-dragon lifted the little girl roughly by the hair. She screamed in pain and fear as Kanst slowly slid his sword from his scabbard.

“Stop this!” a man yelled, his voice coming from outside the circled humans. “I’m here.”

Zanzeroth smiled with satisfaction. The guards on the far side of the circle stood aside and the crowd parted. Zanzeroth struggled to rise, ignoring the pain of his injuries. He couldn’t wait to see the look of defeat in his enemy’s eyes.

The general motioned for the soldier to lower the girl. The cloaked figure walked forward haltingly, his shoulders sagging, his bow dangling from his weak grip, as if surrender sapped all his strength.

As the figure reached the platform, two earth-dragons rushed to him, knocking the bow from his hands, each grabbing an arm. They ripped his cloak away, exposing an old man, his skin weathered and tan, his hair thin and gray.

“A valiant attempt,” Kanst said. “Alas, I’m not so easily fooled. You aren’t the one we seek.”

The old man looked up as Kanst’s words sunk in. Anger flashed in his eyes. “Are you mad?” he asked. “I’m Bitterwood. I’ve done as you asked. Let these people go.”

“Zanzeroth,” Kanst said. “Twice you’ve stood in the presence of the Ghost who Kills. Tell me, is this the man we seek?”

Zanzeroth looked at the aged figure before him. His clothes were caked with blood—Gadreel’s? Though he’d never been close enough to meet Bitterwood’s gaze, this man’s eyes looked as he’d imagined: hard, hateful, as dark and cold as a grave. But the old man was short, and while his arms revealed hard, wiry muscles, they were far too thin. The demon who stood in the window the night before had strength and stature. Still, if the Bitterwood who killed Bodiel were the same as the Bitterwood of legend, he would be old by now. Could this unimpressive specimen truly be the fabled dragonslayer? It seemed impossible. If only the arrow hadn’t pierced his nose; the scent would reveal the truth. As it was, he couldn’t smell a damn thing.

Zanzeroth weighed his answer carefully. If he named this old fool as Bitterwood, and dragons continued to die, no doubt Albekizan would have his head. His eye fell on the quiver slung over the old man’s shoulders. It was filled with arrows fletched with goose feathers. This told him all he needed to know.

“This is an imposter. Put him with the others,” Zanzeroth said. “Continue the executions.”

“No!” the old man shouted. “I am Bitterwood! I killed three score of you during the night! I am—”

An earth-dragon struck the gray-haired man hard in the stomach, silencing him. While the two dragons continued to hold him, another dragon began to bind his arms with rope.

“I like your spirit, old man,” Kanst said. “Your willingness to sacrifice yourself for others is admirable. I’m going to reward you by changing the order of the executions. You’re next.”

“But,” the old man gasped painfully, “no one else will come forth. I’m the man you seek! I am Bitterwood!”

“No he’s not!” a man shouted.

The crowd turned. On a nearby hill, astride a white stallion, another man could be seen. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his face fair, his hair long and golden. He was dressed in black silk and a velvet cape, and he held in his hand a well-crafted longbow. Over his shoulder a quiver hung, holding only three arrows, the feathers gleaming red in the morning sunlight.

The man shook the horse’s reins and rode toward the platform. The crowd of humans murmured, excited.

“Release them,” the stranger said in a firm, commanding voice. “The war is over. I’m the one you want. I’m Bitterwood.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: MASKS

SCREAMING WITH RAGE,
Zanzeroth lumbered toward the man on the white stallion as fast as his wounded frame would carry him. The horse bucked, panicking. The man somersaulted to the ground with acrobatic grace then turned his steely gaze toward Zanzeroth’s charge.

“Stop him!” Kanst bellowed.

Pertalon, a sky-dragon half Zanzeroth’s size, dashed into the hunter’s path. Both tumbled into the assembled humans, sending them scrambling in fear. The soldiers plunged into the crowd, beating people down with their spear ends, preventing them from fleeing. A mob of earth-dragons rushed toward the man in the velvet cape, surrounding him in a wide circle. Most kept a respectful distance from the fabled dragonslayer, but two of the braver—or perhaps dumber—members of the guard ran forward and grabbed his arms.

Pertalon and Zanzeroth rolled on the broken ground, each seeking to best the other. Zanzeroth had the advantage of size but his wounds sapped his strength. Pertalon proved to be a skilled brawler. In seconds, the smaller dragon had pinned his much larger opponent.

“Damn you!” Zanzeroth howled. “Why do you deny me my justice?”

“Justice is for Albekizan to dispense,” Kanst said. “Tell me, are you the one willing to face the king? To say we had Bitterwood captive, then killed him instead of giving Albekizan that pleasure?”

“I demand my revenge!” Zanzeroth said.

“I deny it,” Kanst said.

Kanst turned back to his captive, the blond-tressed hero of the humans who stood stoically in the grasp of the two earth-dragons. Borlon, the captain, stood nearby, a two-handed sword gripped tightly in his chunky green fists, his eyes wide in an alert expression that was set somewhere equally between fight and flight. Kanst said, “Chain this man, then take him to my tent. Keep him constantly under guard. Under no circumstances allow Zanzeroth to come near. Use whatever force is necessary.”

“Yes sir,” Borlon answered. Then, he cast his gaze toward the assembled crowd. “What about the villagers we’ve gathered? Should we let them go?”

“Why bother?” Kanst shrugged. “In less than a month we were supposed to escort them to the Free City. We will take them now, as we return to the palace with Bitterwood.”

Kanst turned to Zanzeroth. His armor clanked and clattered as he lowered himself to all fours to address the pinned hunter. “Old friend, I know you are a dragon with more than his allotment of guts and guile. I’m tempted to put you in chains as well to insure Bitterwood survives. Still, in the years I’ve known you, I’ve come to respect you as a dragon of unparalleled integrity. If you give me your word, as one sun-dragon to another, that you will not seek revenge against Bitterwood until he is presented to Albekizan, I will spare you from bondage.”

“So be it,” Zanzeroth snarled. “Our precious king may have his prize. But you must tell him I was the one with the plan that snared him. Speak for me, tell him that I deserve to be appointed as Bitterwood’s executioner.”

“I shall grant this,” Kanst said, rising back to his hind-talons. Then, to Pertalon, “Let him go.”

“My apologies,” Pertalon said as he helped Zanzeroth to his feet.

“You had your orders,” Zanzeroth said, brushing dirt from his skin. He looked down at his worn and torn body. This impromptu wrestling match had not only reopened some of his wounds, it had also cost him many more scales. Faded, rust-colored flakes littered the ground like leaves. He sighed, then raised his head to address Kanst once more. “One last thing. We must retake the castle. The body of Vendevorex lies in the throne room. It is a prize for which the king will reward both of us highly.”

“Agreed,” Kanst said. His polished armor gleamed in the light of the morning sun. “Our retreat from the castle to gather the villagers came as our victory was imminent. We shall retake it within the hour.”

JANDRA TURNED FROM
the wall, running back toward the throne room. She had gone looking for Pet and arrived in time to witness the turmoil as a sky-dragon tackled Zanzeroth. She couldn’t make things out clearly from this distance, but it was apparent that Bitterwood had surrendered. The executions had stopped. So why didn’t she feel any better?

As she ran through the corridors she had to constantly step around the bodies of the dead. She wanted to think the defenders of the castle had been defending more than the walls. They had died opposing Albekizan’s cruelty and his vision of a world without humans. As shocking as it had been to watch the boy die at Kanst’s blade, she knew that atrocity paled before what was to come.

When the other sun-dragons learned of the assault against Chakthalla, would they be galvanized to rise against the king? Or would they instead cower before him, acquiescing to whatever mad scheme he might conceive? She feared the latter. Only Vendevorex could make a difference. He would listen to her now. He had to.

But as she entered the throne room she gasped in horror. Vendevorex had lapsed back into unconsciousness, causing his aura of invisibility to fade. Now an enormous sun-dragon crouched above Vendevorex’s helpless figure. Hearing her distressed cry the dragon turned his face toward her. He wore a black hood, hiding his features, so that only his eyes could be seen. Jandra had never seen a dragon in such a mask before. She thought it looked sinister, evidence enough that this was a servant of Albekizan—another assassin, no doubt.

Jandra knew that she stood little chance against a sun-dragon, even if she wasn’t exhausted already. Despite her sense of impending defeat she clenched her fists and braced herself for one last battle. She again summoned the illusion of flame around her hands.

“Get away from him,” she growled, stepping forward with all the menace she could muster.

“Jandra,” the dragon answered, stepping backward. “I mean no harm. I’m here to help.”

Jandra paused. She didn’t recognize the dragon’s voice, slightly muffled by the hood. “How do you know my name?” she asked. “Who are you?”

“A phantom,” the dragon said in a weary voice. “A faint echo of the being I once was. I heard whispers of a plot against Albekizan and came to investigate. It looks as if I came too late.”

“We’ve lost this fight,” Jandra admitted. “But no war is decided by a single battle.”

“Perhaps. But news of the slaughter here today will squelch any thought of rebellion among other sun-dragons.” The masked dragon sighed, his voice full of despair. “Albekizan need not rule with the respect of his subjects when all he needs is their fear.”

“Fear you must possess in abundance,” Jandra said. “You say you want to stand with us but you hide your face. You want to protect yourself if the war is lost. Obviously you fear for your name, or your power.”