1100 D.A. The 69th Year of the Reign of Albekizan
“TOUCH NOTHING,” ZANZEROTH said.
Though angered by his master’s assumption that he would disturb the scene, Gadreel held his tongue. He had grown used to Zanzeroth’s mood by now. For months Bitterwood had eluded them, though not by much. Zanzeroth’s instincts led him again and again to Bitterwood’s trail, but always the trail was lost when it returned to the river. Gadreel doubted they would ever catch him.
Perhaps this time would be different. Even Gadreel could see the leaves were relatively fresh, no more than a week old. The hunter tugged at the pile of wilting branches. He lifted the branches one by one, holding each to his eye, searching for any clues it might hold before tossing it aside. He repeated the task until at last the hidden boat was uncovered completely.
“Step carefully,” Zanzeroth said. “We need to flip this over gently.”
Gadreel grabbed the end of the flat-bottomed boat and helped Zanzeroth to lift it, taking care not to disturb the ground around or beneath it. They set the boat aside. As they moved it the odor of charred wood caught his nostrils. Gadreel saw that their care had been merited for beneath lay the remains of a campfire.
Zanzeroth knelt next to the ash-filled ring of rocks. He lowered his scarred snout close to the ground and sniffed. The master hunter then examined the site pebble by pebble, and by following Zanzeroth’s eye, Gadreel began to see the nearly invisible scuffs and scratches that made Zanzeroth frown in contemplation. Zanzeroth continued to crawl over the arcane runes, piecing together syllable by syllable the story they told.
“It’s not Bitterwood,” he said, rising at last, stretching his limbs. His joints popped as he limbered them, unleashing a flurry of pale scales. “A human’s been here, but the boot prints are too small.”
“Then we’re wasting our time,” Gadreel said.
“What does time matter to a slave?” Zanzeroth said.
Gadreel wanted to answer Zanzeroth’s insult with the strongly worded speech he had recited in his mind again and again. But he didn’t. Zanzeroth had treated him abusively ever since he had climbed from the tunnel carrying Bitterwood’s cloak. Words wouldn’t turn aside the hunter’s anger. Only Bitterwood’s death would bring peace to the hunter, and relief to Gadreel.
“I merely meant,” Gadreel said, keeping his voice low, “that it is a shame that this lead has been unrewarding.”
“Unrewarding? I think not,” Zanzeroth said. “Following this trail will prove most satisfying.”
“Why?”
“How is it that even with two eyes you are so blind?” The hunter used a fore-claw to circle a small footprint in the dirt.
“I see the footprint, Master,” Gadreel said, looking closer. “From the size I assume it is the footprint of a child or a woman.”
“But don’t you see this as well?” Zanzeroth’s claws pointed to the faint outline of a feather beneath the sandy dirt. He pulled the feather free of its grave and held it to the light, revealing it as the pale blue wing-scale of a sky-dragon.
“A sky-dragon and a human female traveling together,” Zanzeroth said. “Surely this tells you whose trail we’ve found.”
“Why?” asked Gadreel. “Many dragons have human slaves. It’s not uncommon to find human and dragon footprints on the same site.”
“Even though you weren’t present, surely you must have heard rumors. Albekizan wanted the matter kept secret, but how can you not have heard about Vendevorex?”
“He’s the king’s wizard,” Gadreel said. “It’s common knowledge that he’s taken ill. He’s been too sick to leave his bed for months.”
Zanzeroth’s one good eye rolled up in its socket. “I wondered what kind of fool would be taken in by that lie.”
“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.
“Forgive me for sitting. My knees ache when the weather turns cooler. You insist we meet so late. Yes. Yes that was my other question, Dekron. The secrecy. You want me to move all the people of my village from their homes into this Free City. You say it’s for their good. Yet you insist that we meet in secrecy.”
“The very fact that you ask that question answers it,” Dekron said. “Humans distrust dragons. I want to persuade you before we approach the others. Many of them will no doubt speak against us. I must know that you will stand with me and won’t be swayed by their objections.”
Barnstack sighed loudly. “I’m an old man. I have good land and a comfortable home. Leaving for a city so far away, a place I’ve never-”
“Barnstack, may I remind you, you have no land,” Dekron interrupted. “You humans may divvy up its usage however you please, but the land belongs to Albekizan. This house, this kitchen, the chair you sit it, belong to him. You are his guest. If your host offers you the use of more spacious quarters, it is impolite to refuse, just as it would be impolite of me to refuse your tea.”
“But-”
“Albekizan has allowed you to farm his land for generations. The years of his rule have been marked by peace and prosperity. Now he offers further largesse.”
Barnstack paused a moment, contemplating the dragon’s words. “I suppose it’s as you say. I promise to talk to my people. Perhaps the young will want to go. But I want to stay.”
“I understand,” Dekron said, walking to the table. “Perhaps this will change your mind.”
A sudden metallic clatter rained upon the table. A gold coin rolled from the table’s edge and bounced against Dekron’s clawed foot. He leaned down, reaching for the coin, his beaked, tortoise-like profile suddenly visible to Zeeky. He then tilted his head toward the fire as the kettle whistled. He rose, taking the coin with him.
“There must be a hundred coins here,” Barnstack said.
“More than enough to start a new life anywhere, even at your age,” Dekron said as he moved to the fireplace, his claws clicking against the wooden tiles. “In Free City your housing, food, and clothing will be provided at no cost. The gold can be used for luxuries befitting a man of your authority.”
Poocher’s snout twitched as Dekron carried the aromatic kettle to the table. Zeeky sniffed deeply; the steam smelled of spiced apples and sassafras.
“Very well,” Barnstack said. “When we finish with the harvest, I will ready the town to move.”
“Then it is settled?”
“Yes,” Barnstack said with a grunt as he rose from his chair. “Come, let us return to the front room. The chairs there are easier on my back. You’ll still have some tea, won’t you?”
“Of course, friend.”
Barnstack left the room carrying the kettle and a pair of cups. Dekron followed. Zeeky let out her breath in relief. Dekron suddenly turned toward the table. Zeeky held her breath again as Dekron walked toward her. He reached the table, and with his clawed hand he scooped the coins back into the leather pouch. He then turned and walked into the front room, closing the door behind him.
Zeeky crawled from beneath the table and stood on shaky legs. She saw a basket of fruit sitting on the counter near the cutting board. She grabbed it and silently slipped out into the night.
“Poocher,” she said. “We sure picked a good time to run away. Free City or not, I don’t trust nobody green.”
Poocher snorted and shook his head in agreement.
DEKRON PULLED HIS cloak close about him as he hurried along the dark streets of the town. He checked his pocket again for the agreement Barnstack had signed, wondering at the ways of kings. Only Albekizan would want a soldier who couldn’t read to obtain the mark of a man who couldn’t write on a document that would never be honored.
Barnstack had been right about one thing; the night had turned cold. He turned from the road, going deep into the woods, his eyes searching the darkness for a good spot to rest. He wished he weren’t so far from the rest of Kanst’s army. He would have to sleep on the ground tonight. He’d rather spend the night in a warm tent heated by a proper fire. He could almost smell the smoke.
He stopped to sniff the air. He did smell smoke. Was it from the village? The wind was from the wrong direction.
He followed the scent, moving cautiously through the darkness. His attempt at stealth, however, was foiled by his surroundings. The leaves crunched beneath his heavy feet with each step.
He came into a small clearing and found a circle of stone, within which smoldered the dim remnants of a fire.
He knelt down and grabbed a stick, stirring the coals. Feeble golden flames flickered to life.
Dekron looked around. He could see no sign of whoever had built the fire. He listened, but the night made no sound now that he’d stopped moving.
No sense in letting the fire go to waste. He tossed in the stick he used to stir the fire, then gathered some pine needles and tossed them on as well. As they flared up he searched the area for more sticks and branches. In a moment, the fire was burning properly again. He held his claws toward the blaze, warming them.
Now that the fire had taken the chill from his stiff claws, it was time to take care of the rest of his body. He dug into the pocket of his cloak and found a small ceramic flask that was stopped with a cork. He popped the cork to unleash the powerful, musk-sharp stench of goom, a powerful alcohol distilled from wild swamp cabbage and seasoned with cayenne. He tilted his head back and gulped down the eye-watering brew. The vapors gave his whole head a hot, buzzy feel.
Then, there was a whistling sound, and his right arm went numb. The flask tumbled from his suddenly useless claws, toppling to his chest. The goom spilled all over his torso. The burning sensation wasn’t unpleasant. He looked down, his eyes struggling to understand what he saw in the dim flicker of the fire. He found a stick jutting from his arm: a long, straight stick, decorated at the top with red feathers.
Dekron sniffed. Beneath the goom and the rising smoke, he detected a hint of fresh blood. He noticed the flask resting against his thigh. He reached for it, wondering if there was any goom left.
Another whistle.
Now there was a stick in his chest. He touched it with his left claw, stroking the red feathers, wondering if this was some sort of goom fantasy that made him imagine that he had sticks growing from him. Where the stick met his chest, air leaked with a bubbling hiss. It reminded him of the noise of Barnstack’s kettle.
He realized he was suddenly very tired. He fell onto his back. Spots danced before his eyes. It would be good to sleep. High in a nearby tree, the silhouette of a cloaked man crept among the branches.