Dragonforge (11 page)

Bitterwood knelt next to the pool. Even in his weakened state, the swiftly darting crayfish didn’t stand a chance. Long ago, his hands had been bitten off by a dragon, and an angel—or perhaps a devil—had given him new ones. She’d also altered his eyes and arms, leaving him fast enough to empty a quiver in under a minute, with every arrow finding its target. The crawfish may as well have been frozen in place as his agile fingers dashed about the pool, quickly gathering a score of the fat mud-bugs.

“We should stop here for the night,” Bitterwood said, looking up at the darkening sky. “I’ll start a fire.”

“I want to keep moving,” Zeeky said. “I think we’re close. The air has a familiar smell to it. We’re almost home.”

Killer looked up from drinking and let out a quick snort.

“Oh, all right, I know you’re tired, stop complaining,” said Zeeky. “That’s two votes to one. What about you, Poocher?”

Poocher lowered his head in a human-like nod and gave a squeal that made Zeeky frown.

“I know you’re hungry,” she said. “You’re always hungry. Oh, all right. We’ll make camp here. Go ahead and start the fire, Mister Bitterwood.”

She said Bitterwood in a mocking tone. Zeeky knew Bitterwood only by legend, a near mythic dragon-slayer, a hero of humanity. Bant looked nothing like anyone’s hero. His hair was thinning; he was missing quite a few teeth, and, though he was strong and wiry, he wasn’t as tall as a hero should be. His clothes were little more than rags, and twenty years of survival beneath an open sky had left him with a face of wrinkled leather.

It wasn’t important to him who she thought he was. Though they journeyed together, in truth each traveled alone. They were refugees, survivors of Albekizan’s death camp. Except for the mundane details of travel, they had little to discuss. Zeeky was usually too busy talking to animals to allow bad memories to sweep over her. Bitterwood was nothing but his bad memories. Strip away the ghosts that haunted him, and his skin would collapse like an emptied sack.

Poocher bounded off into the woods to search for mushrooms and edible roots for dinner. Bitterwood pulled a wad of charred cotton wrapped in waxed parchment from his pocket. He set to work striking his fire flints together to make sparks. A moment later a tendril of acrid smoke rose from the cotton. He knew the smell well. It was the exact smell of the blackened remains of one of Adam’s diapers. It was an odor that had haunted him for twenty years. He lifted the black cotton to his lips and gently blew, giving birth to a delicate flame. He lowered it to the bed of twigs he’d prepared.

Zeeky had the pig and the dog for companionship and protection. The small useful role Bitterwood served in her world was maker-of-fire. It was enough. It was the one thing he could do that made him feel as if his continued existence served some purpose.

As the flames grew, he arranged the crayfish on a stone facing the fire. Some were still alive, struggling to crawl away. He pressed down on their backs, breaking them, until they could do nothing but lie there and cook.

“How close are we?” Zeeky asked.

“You said it smelled like home,” he said. “Your nose is pretty smart. After we follow this stream across the valley, we’ll be at what’s left of Chakthalla’s castle. The town of Winding Rock was near it. You say your village was close?”

“Big Lick,” said Zeeky. She sighed. “I miss everyone. Even Papa.”

“Still think he’ll try to eat the pig?” Bitterwood asked.

“He’s learned his lesson,” Zeeky said, in a firm, matter of fact way that spooked Bitterwood. For a little girl far from home and family, she sometimes sounded as if she were in control of the world.

The crayfish were turning red. Bitterwood snatched one up, snapped it in two, and chewed on the steaming meat in the tail. He sucked down the yellowish gunk inside the head. It tasted good, fatty and bitter. It felt like medicine sliding down his throat. A bucketful of these and a week in bed might cure his fever.

Zeeky wrinkled her nose. “It looks like a bug.”

Killer gave a huff and Bitterwood looked up to see the giant dog staring at him. The dog seemed to like him, even if the pig didn’t.

“Oh, you think everything smells good,” Zeeky said.

Bitterwood tossed Killer the remains of the head and watched him greedily gobble it down, the shell crunching between his teeth. The grateful look in his eyes led Bitterwood to throw him a second crayfish, a whole one this time.

The darkening forest murmured as a breeze rustled through it. He thought for a moment he heard a woman whispering. From the corner of his eye he saw Recanna standing by the water’s edge, waving. He turned and saw it was only a low branch of a tree, draped with pale leaves, shuddering in the chill air.

Bitterwood shuddered as well, and drew the tatters of the blanket he wore as a cloak tightly around him.

Winding Rock had
been looted. Only a month ago, the little mountain town had been clean and full of life. Now, the place looked haunted. The doors stood open to the elements. The panes of glass that had filled the windows were gone. Not smashed, Bitterwood noted, but carefully removed. Gazing into a nearby house, Bitterwood couldn’t see a scrap of furniture. The type of stuff that had been looted told a story. Dragons wouldn’t bother stealing window glass or chairs. This was done by humans—quite possibly Zeeky’s people, from Big Lick.

This was the sort of thing that had driven Bitterwood to hold humanity in nearly the same contempt as dragons. The people of Winding Rock had been rounded up in the middle of the night and forcibly marched to the Free City. The dragons had acted swiftly, gathering only those they found in a single night. Certainly these mountains were full of people the dragons had missed. Bitterwood had spotted other villages in the valley that were unmolested by the king’s attempted genocide. The neighbors of the town of Winding Rock could have banded together and attempted to rescue their captive brethren. Instead, they’d stayed hidden until the dragons were gone, then stolen everything that wasn’t nailed down. Passing a house from which the slate roof tiles were missing, Bitterwood realized that actually being nailed down hadn’t provided any protection from theft either.

“This place is spooky,” Zeeky said.

“It’s just empty,” said Bitterwood. A spark of anger ignited as he realized that this village was the vision Albekizan—the dragon king—had possessed for all of humanity. The spark of anger was instantly quenched by a wave of guilt. Albekizan’s genocide order had come in response to Bitterwood’s actions. He had triggered this violence by killing Bodiel, the king’s most-loved son. His hands weren’t clean in the death of this place.

They passed through the town, finding a well-worn trail that followed a creek higher into the mountains. The path was nothing but rocks and roots. Killer was a powerful mount, but even he slowed on the steep incline. The creek splashed beside the path in a series of waterfalls.

“We’re close!” Zeeky said, fidgeting in her seat.

“Hallelujah,” Bitterwood said. He felt somewhat better today, after the meal of crawdads and a solid night of sleep. Last night he’d slept free of dreams. He’d simply succumbed to exhaustion and illness and slumbered from dusk to dawn. His fever had broken. He was still tender, but he felt some of his old strength returning.

Poocher sniffed the air, then grunted.

“Smoke?” said Zeeky.

Bitterwood took a sniff. The pig was right. There was a slight hint of smoke in the air, burning wood, with an undertone of sulfur.

“They burn coal in these parts?” asked Bitterwood.

“Yes,” Zeeky said. “The menfolk dig it up and trade it down in Winding Rock.”

Poocher grunted again.

“You’re right,” said Zeeky. “It does stink.”

They continued up the mountain path. The rocks were rising at steeper angles now, the forest growing denser and darker. The cliffs high above were riddled with shadowy caves.

They’d come several miles from Winding Rock when Bitterwood heard a scream. Somewhere in the distance ahead, a woman—or perhaps a child—cried out in pain.

“Stop here,” said Bitterwood.

“No!” Zeeky said. “We’re almost there! It’s just around the bend!”

“Let me go ahead to check things out.”

“Run, Killer!” Zeeky yelled.

Killer lunged forward. Bitterwood grabbed fistfuls of bristly dog hair to keep from toppling as Killer swerved around a steep curve on the trail.

Zeeky let out a gasp.

Ahead, the village of Big Lick was nothing but a mound of smoking ruins. Killer stopped in response to Zeeky’s gasp, suddenly as paralyzed with shock as she was.

Bitterwood vaulted from the ox-dog and said, “Wait here,” before moving further up the path. The village had been burned several hours ago, judging from the remains. What had once been homes were now just heaps of charcoal, sending up a fog of smoke. The coal dust that had clung to the village gave the charred remains a sickly egg-fart stench.

Bitterwood searched the ground for tracks as he walked closer to the village. If an army of dragons had done this, they’d not traveled up this path. Of course, it could be sun-dragons or sky-dragons behind it. They could have flown in. However, for some reason he’d never understood, the winged dragons normally didn’t journey into these mountains.

He crept forward carefully, crouched low, his eyes seeking out natural areas of cover he could dive for in case of aerial attack. Unarmed, he searched the ground for a good heavy rock. Fortunately, Big Lick had no shortage of stones. As he picked up a smooth, fist-sized rock, he noticed a scrape in the ground beside it. A claw mark… a dragon? It was too small for a sun-dragon, and whatever had left the mark had been heavier than a sky-dragon. Quickly, his eyes picked out a dozen other marks, then a hundred more, in all directions, with human footprints mixed among them. Curiously, he spotted no blood. Sniffing the air, he found no trace of the sweet hammy smell of burnt human flesh. The dragons—if that’s what had attacked—must have taken the villagers as captives.

It was growing dark and cold as he stepped into a square of ash and blackened logs that had once been a cabin. A small tower of stone jutted up from the center, the remains of a fireplace. The smoke danced like ghosts as the wind pushed tiny ash-devils across the stone hearth. He spotted a fallen fireplace poker, a length of black iron with a forked end and a coil of wire for a handle. It was hot enough to blister a normal man when he lifted it, but his hands were tough as leather gloves. The poker had a pleasant heft. He’d killed dragons with lesser weapons than this.

The hair on the back of his neck rose. Something was running in the woods on the other side of the chimney, coming fast. It sounded like human footsteps. Bitterwood pressed himself against the chimney. Seconds later a boy rushed past, breathing hard, tears leaving trails down his soot-darkened cheeks. The boy was older than Zeeky, rail thin, with bright blond hair of a nearly identical hue. The boy caught sight of Bitterwood from the corner of his eye. As he turned his head he tripped, skidding amid the ash, sending up a shower of dull red sparks as he fell. Bitterwood gripped the poker tightly with his left hand, and readied the fist-sized stone in his right hand to throw.

As the boy struggled to stand, Bitterwood saw blood on his burlap shirt. The boy looked back over his shoulder, past Bitterwood and the chimney toward the woods beyond, his eyes wide with terror.

From the crunching of leaves, it sounded as if a small army was approaching.

Every muscle in Bitterwood’s body coiled, ready to spring. The pain in his chest vanished as a reptilian odor was carried toward him—a dragon! But what kind?

A copper-hued, horse-sized head of a dragon darted past the edge of the chimney, low to the ground. The creature’s long neck was quickly followed by a pair of shoulders supporting thick, strong legs that ended in three-clawed talons. This was the creature that had made the tracks. Another yard of the beast passed and another set of shoulders and a second set of legs appeared. The boy had gotten to his feet again, and was darting away like a rabbit. The dragon steered toward him, as a third set of legs scrambled past the chimney. Bitterwood had never seen anything like this creature.

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 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 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.