Bitterwood (39 page)

It all boiled down to this. Humans had created dragons. Dragons had no rightful claim to the world. As the sun sank, Bitterwood closed his strong, young hands into fists, digging the nails into his palms, until the pain would most surely wake him.

He didn’t wake up. Bitterwood opened his hands, then picked up his bow and arrow. He fixed his eyes on a single purple kudzu bloom across the grove thirty yards away. He fired an arrow, neatly severing the stem. The flower dropped, vanishing into the blanket of dark leaves.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: HOMONCULUS

VENDEVOREX STEPPED BACK
from the now paralyzed body of the prophet. The three smartwires continued to snake toward the silvery command homunculus he held. He reached out his free claw, fusing the tips of the three wires together so that they fell dead. The human whose life he’d just saved stood looking at him, slack-jawed.

“This is a very dangerous toy,” Vendevorex said. “Did you bring this with you from Atlantis? Are you still working with Cynthia?”

“No,” the man said. “I never saw her again. You’re Vendevorex? You survived Zanzeroth’s assault?”

“Yes and yes,” Vendevorex answered. “So, if you aren’t working with Cynthia, who are you?”

“I’m Bitterwood,” the man answered.

“I see,” Vendevorex said, furrowing his brow. “I expect you’ll be trying to kill me, then.”

Bitterwood shook his head. “I agreed to spare you. I gave my word. To Jandra.”

“Jandra,” Vendevorex said, remembering his reason for being here. With a thought, he encased the homunculus in a thin coat of lead, then turned away from Bitterwood and moved toward his fallen student. He knelt next to her, reaching out his hand to feel the pulse in her throat, then gently touched the gash above her ear. Jandra moaned slightly and turned her head away.

At that moment three guards ran around the corner of the nearest building.

“Halt!” one cried.

“No,” Vendevorex said, reaching into his pouch of powders. He flicked his dust-coated claws in the direction of the three green dragons. “My friends and I will be left alone.” Vendevorex closed his claw in a deliberate, dramatic gesture. Suddenly, the spears carried by the dragons began to glow. Then Vendevorex flapped a wing, sending a breeze across the dusty ground. The spear shafts crumbled to ash and were carried off by the gust.

The leader of the three dragons looked confused. His eyes glanced down to his empty hands, then looked toward the decapitated body of the slain soldier, before turning to the frozen form of the black-garbed man, then fixing, finally, on Vendevorex. The leader’s face flickered with sudden recognition.

“You’re the wizard!” he yelped.

“You’re right,” Vendevorex answered.

“Yaa!” they shouted in unison. Their scales suddenly stood on end as they spun about to flee.

“Stop!” Vendevorex commanded. “If you try to run, I will disintegrate your legs as easily as your spears. I want us to come to an understanding.”

The three guards didn’t take another step. Vendevorex could see their muscles trembling as if resisting an invisible spring that threatened to snap them away.

“You should know that now that I have seen your faces, I can kill you at any time with just a thought,” Vendevorex said. “I can make it as quick and simple as I did with your weapons, or I can prolong your agony, depending on my mood. I spare you on one condition. You must speak to no one of what you’ve witnessed. Understood?”

“Y-y-yessir.”

“Then go,” Vendevorex said.

The three dragons tripped over one another as they raised their tails high and raced back down the side street.

“It was foolish to let them go,” Bitterwood said. “To silence them, you should have killed them.”

“I didn’t see the need for bloodshed,” Vendevorex said. “I fear there may be blood enough spilled in the coming days. Now be a good fellow and carry Jandra for me, will you?”

“I’m not a slave to be ordered around by your kind,” Bitterwood said.

“No, of course not,” said Vendevorex. “However, given your status as a legendary hero, I assume you’re too gallant to simply let Jandra recover from her wounds in the middle of the street, yes?”

Bitterwood glowered. “I’ll help her, but don’t try to manipulate me.”

“Understood,” Vendevorex said. “I hate to even ask the favor of you. I’d carry Jandra myself but I doubt you have the strength to carry our friend here.” Vendevorex moved to the frozen body of the axe-wielding man and tilted him backward, catching him with a grunt.

“What did you do to Hezekiah?” Bitterwood asked as he slid his arms beneath Jandra’s shoulders and knees.

“It’s a little hard to explain,” Vendevorex said, his voice strained as he tried to get a grip on Hezekiah’s heavy form. “I suppose you might say I’ve taken his soul from his body.” Vendevorex looked up and down the row of buildings. “I'm surprised your fellow humans haven't been drawn to the commotion. Are most of these dwellings still empty?”

“My 'fellow humans' tend to cluster together.  I stick to this area because I like my privacy,” Bitterwood said, carefully lifting Jandra. He tilted his head toward an empty building. “Follow me.”

BLASPHET PULLED THE
weed from the soil and tossed it aside. Laboring on the balcony beside the trellis full of poison ivy, he had occasion to contemplate the sunlight on his skin, still a novel sensation after his years in the dungeon. The sensual pleasures the world offered thrilled him anew each day. How could others be so insensate to a world full of life? Blasphet doubted that Albekizan felt even one-tenth of the satisfaction when he looked out over his kingdom that stretched as far as the eye could see, as Blasphet felt tending this small potted garden. He reached for the watering can, tilting it, releasing a shower of fresh human blood to nourish the soil in a pot that contained a belladonna shrub. Ah, the simple pleasures of gardening.

Sometimes, while contemplating the life that burst from the soil, the answers seemed so close. The dark, wholesome earth was made rich by decay and excrement—surely a key to life’s mystery. But what lock did this key fit?

A shadow passed over him. He looked up to see his brother descending from the sky. Blasphet drew back to allow his brother room to land.

“Blasphet,” Albekizan said as he came to rest on the balcony, knocking over potted plants. “Thanks to your sage words, I’ve made a decision.”

“I see,” Blasphet said, wincing as his brother crushed flowers beneath his heavy talons. “Odd. I don’t recall advising you to come here and wreck my garden.”

“I speak of Bitterwood,” said Albekizan. “I’ve decided his fate. But first, I need information about the Free City. Everyone tells me it’s filling ahead of schedule. How many now dwell there?”

Blasphet shrugged. “It’s difficult to say. The numbers increase daily, though the real influx will begin after next week’s full moon. The harvest moon, the humans call it.”

“You didn’t answer my question. I want a number. How many humans are within the Free City?”

“Why do you need this information so urgently?” Blasphet said, crouching to turn a potted nightshade upright once more. Its pink blossoms were horribly mangled. “You said you’d made a decision about Bitterwood. Is it possible you’ve decided upon a course of action before you’ve gathered the relevant information?”

“I grow impatient, Blasphet.”

“Very well, if it will get you to leave my balcony quicker. The total at present is eight thousand, approximately.”

“A fair number,” said the king. “And how many guards are currently stationed in the city?”

“Right now, most of the guards are out in the countryside preparing to herd the humans here,” Blasphet said.

“But in the city itself? How many?”

“Kanst could answer this for you,” Blasphet sighed.

“You know everything about the city. Don’t pretend otherwise,” said Albekizan.

Blasphet felt contrary, wanting instinctively to hold back any information that Albekizan might consider useful. However, a second part of him was curious. What did Albekizan have in mind? “By my count, there are six hundred earth-dragons. Fifty sky-dragon officers. What are you planning to do with them?”

“There is a square at the center of the city? Large enough to hold a crowd of eight thousand?”

“Not comfortably,” Blasphet said.

“Order the guards to gather the humans in the square tomorrow morning. During the night, Kanst’s army will join with the city’s guards, bringing the force of dragons to two thousand. This should be more than enough.”

“Enough?” Blasphet asked. “For what? To keep order?”

“You’ll find out tomorrow,” said Albekizan.

“You are no good at being coy,” Blasphet said. “There’s only one reason you could want to herd the humans together. You plan Bitterwood’s public execution.”

“A public execution, yes,” the king answered. “You’re right; I shouldn’t be coy. A public execution is precisely what I desire. Order the guards to cooperate with Kanst’s troops.”

“Of course,” Blasphet said, disturbed by Albekizan’s intrusion into his affairs, but feeling it unwise to press the issue now. Most likely, upon Bitterwood’s death, his brother’s interest in the Free City would wane. He said, in his most sincere tone, “I live but to serve you.”

“You live to torment me,” Albekizan said, turning away and spreading his wings. “But you live because I allow it. Remember that.”

“Have no fear about my memory,” Blasphet said as his brother leapt into the air. The king’s long tail whipped around, knocking over another flowerpot. Blasphet looked down at the shattered terra-cotta and crushed blossoms that marked his brother’s visit. He glanced back up at Albekizan’s retreating form. He said, softly, “I remember everything.”

THE BLACK CURTAINS
that shrouded Jandra’s mind parted. She opened her eyes with a start, expecting to find Hezekiah towering over her, preparing to kill her with a final strike in the middle of the dusty street. Instead, she found herself alone in a darkened room on a scratchy wool blanket. Her head throbbed as she sat up. She raised her hand to discover bandages around her brow. In the next room, she could hear a muffled but familiar voice.

“Ven,” she whispered.

She rose on wobbly feet and tiptoed toward the door. She paused, listening to her former mentor speaking with someone else. A human’s voice. Bitterwood?

Feeling unready to face Vendevorex, she steadied herself with her palms against the wall and peeked through a small crack in the door. She could see Hezekiah propped against the far wall, his body rigid, his eyes unblinking. Vendevorex walked into view holding a small metal sphere in his claws.

From beyond her view, Bitterwood said, “Hezekiah hasn’t aged a day in all the years I’ve known him.”

“Understandable,” Vendevorex said, pulling free a yellow wire from the clump he had fused earlier. “He isn’t really alive. He’s a simulacrum.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Long ago, people were able to make copies of themselves, or anyone, really.” Vendevorex pried open the left eye of the paralyzed prophet and examined it closely. “The artificial bodies were practically indestructible, could mimic the human form perfectly, and were designed in such a manner that the maker of the simulacrum could feel and see and hear anything his double did. More, actually.” He let the eye close. “This one sees into the infrared and ultraviolet, I think.” He turned back to face Bitterwood. “Humans once used these doubles for sport. Normally, the simulacrum only did what its maker told it to do, but a few were fitted with the ability to think and act on their own. That’s where this comes in,” Vendevorex said, raising the sphere. “The homunculus. The soul of the machine.”

“This is a soul?” Bitterwood asked. “I’ve cut open many dragons and never seen this organ. Are dragons truly soulless?”

“You won’t find these in people, either. ‘Soul’ is merely an analogy.” Vendevorex turned back to the black-garbed prophet and picked up one of the three wires draped over its shoulder, a yellow one. He said, “It’s more accurate, perhaps, to say that this is Hezekiah’s mind. It’s the source of his intelligence and what passes for free will. For us,” Vendevorex said, touching the yellow wire to the sphere, “it’s the source of answers.”

“Online. Testing,” Hezekiah said, though his lips didn’t move and his body remained motionless.

“Skip diagnostics,” Vendevorex said.

“Diagnostics aborted. Activating personality core. Activated.”

Vendevorex spoke toward the orb he held. “What is your mission?”

“To spread the word of the Lord,” answered Hezekiah’s seemingly disembodied voice.

“Who gave you this mission?”

“I was programmed by Jasmine Danielle Robertson.”

“When?”

“In the year of our Lord 2077.”

Vendevorex glanced toward Bitterwood. “He means A.D. The numbering system of years that preceded the Dragon Age.” Then addressing the sphere once more: “Hezekiah, do you know why Robertson gave you this mission?”

“The world was falling into chaos and decadence. Few people remembered the word, and my maker believed it likely that the world would be cleansed once more, just as the Lord had cleansed it in the days of the flood. I was created to survive the coming cataclysm, and to spread the word among the survivors.”

“I see,” said Vendevorex. “Somehow this mission involves chopping off people’s heads?”

“I am designed to remove any obstacles to the success of my mission.”

“Excellent,” said Vendevorex. “As long as you’re programmed for violence, I think you should put that programming to good use. Only your mission will change when I let you go’

“Let him go?” Bitterwood said. “You can’t mean to release him from this spell you have on him.”

“I can,” Vendevorex said. “Don’t be afraid. He’ll be no threat to you when I’m done with him.”

“No threat?” Bitterwood said, moving forward into Jandra’s line of sight at last. His fists were clenched. “Hezekiah’s not human!”

Vendevorex looked impatient. “That’s been established. However, being inhuman doesn’t make one a threat to humans. I’m proof of that. Hezekiah is too useful a tool to discard. As a fighter, he’s nearly unstoppable. He’ll be the perfect weapon if things turn ugly with Albekizan.”