THE MORNING SUN seeped through the open window, its rosy fingers touching Jandra’s face. She sat up, stretching her arms, blinking the sleep from her eyes. Something about the small, nearly bare room seemed wrong.
“Zeeky?” she said, realizing how still the girl lay beneath her blanket.
Zeeky didn’t stir. Jandra moved to her side and pulled back the covers, revealing a second blanket balled into the outline of a sleeping child.
Jandra rose, dressing quickly. She knew the fear that gripped her had little basis in reason. Zeeky was half her age but had spent more time fending for herself than Jandra had. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to the child.
Rushing down the stairs of the small building, she was surprised to find Bitterwood waiting outside on the steps. He looked more worn out than usual, and she wondered if he had been awake all night.
“Have you seen Zeeky?” she asked.
“When?” Bitterwood asked.
“This morning. She was missing when I got up.”
“No,” Bitterwood answered. “I’ve been sitting here since before dawn.”
“Where can she be?” she asked, looking down the empty street.
“Don’t worry,” Bitterwood said. “She can’t have gone far.”
“She’s been talking about the animals ever since we got here. I wonder if she’s gone to the barns?”
“We can go look.”
“Okay,” Jandra said. Then she was struck by the strangeness of their conversation. Bitterwood was actually speaking without her having to drag words out of him, and now he had offered to help her.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “Why were you waiting for me?”
“We can speak as we walk,” Bitterwood said, stepping away without looking back to see if she would follow. “The barns are several blocks from here.”
Jandra hurried after him. “You must be in a better mood. A different mood, at least.”
Bitterwood nodded. “I’ve given your words a great deal of thought. You request that I help you fight dragons. I came to give you my decision.”
“Then you’ll help me? It’s still not too late. For whatever reason, it looks like they want to round up people here before killing them. Here’s my plan: we sneak out invisibly and find weapons. Albekizan’s castle isn’t far. I know its layout by heart. We can walk right into the throne room and you can shoot him.”
Bitterwood didn’t answer at first as they walked down the nearly empty streets. Then he shook his head. “That’s not the decision I’ve made. Killing Albekizan is futile. All dragons hate us. Slaying the king will only prolong the inevitable.”
“The inevitable? You accept it as inevitable that we’re going to lose?”
“For twenty years I’ve slain dragons. What good have I done? There are as many dragons today as when I started. They breed as fast as I kill them.”
“You were only one man,” she said. “I’ll stand beside you.”
“It’s too late.” Bitterwood sighed. “My life has been utterly wasted.”
Jandra wasn’t shocked to hear his words. Bitterwood’s despair had been obvious to her ever since his capture. However, she took heart that he had come to her to talk about his decision. She took it as a sign that he wanted her to change his mind.
“You’re wrong,” she said softly. “You think that you can’t win the war unless you kill every last dragon on earth. I agree that can’t be done. Don’t you see that’s not needed for true victory? Humans and dragons have lived side by side for centuries. Most dragons don’t hate humans, and would gladly embrace a return to our peaceful coexistence if Albekizan were removed.”
Bitterwood shook his head. “You think that peace was my goal? You don’t know me. No one does.”
“I know you’re a strong, willful man who fights for what he believes is right.”
“No,” Bitterwood said.
“Come on. You’re Bitterwood. You’re a legend to these people, even if they are too blind to recognize you. You’re a hero.”
“They call me the Ghost that Kills. I’m a dead man. I died when dragons killed my family. When I saw what they had done, it was like my heart froze within me. I’ve not been warm since.”
“I’m sorry,” Jandra said. “I, too, lost my family to dragons. It happened so long ago I don’t even remember them. I don’t even know their names.”
“Memory’s a curse,” said Bitterwood. “You’re lucky.”
“Lucky,” Jandra said, noting how sour the word tasted. “I don’t think luck had anything to do with my survival.”
“I don’t mean it’s lucky you lived,” Bitterwood said. “I mean it’s lucky you don’t remember. Memories will burn you and sear away all that’s soft inside, leaving only hard, hot hatred. Hate can feel like passion, like life, in the absence of anything else. It makes you feel strong and focused, eager for action. But now…”
His voice faded away and he turned his face from Jandra.
“Now?” she asked.
“Hate was all I had. I see that my greatest strength was my greatest weakness. My hate kept me going, gave me purpose. But it corrupted me. I’ve become an instrument of darkness, my every action bringing only ruin. If I had foreseen that murdering Bodiel would bring about the genocide of the human race, do you think I would have let the arrow fly? The time has come for me to surrender to the inevitable and do no more harm.”
Jandra contemplated his words, surprised at how they seemed directed at her. She wanted to hate Vendevorex. She was certain that he deserved only her fury, and that there could be no room for forgiveness. Did she want to become like Bitterwood? No. She could hate Vendevorex forever and still not lose her soul.
Suddenly, Bitterwood stopped. Jandra raised her head, looking down the street toward the focus of his attention. An aged earth-dragon, its tail raised high, charged toward them, screaming, kicking the ground so hard in his haste that he trailed a cloud of dust.
“My god,” Bitterwood said. “It’s one of them!”
Jandra recognized the passion that had returned to his voice. For some reason she couldn’t guess at, the sight of this dragon had ended his despair.
WYVERNOTH YAWNED AS he left the barracks and headed for his assignment. The sky was still dark though tinged with the faintest red of the rapidly approaching day. Wyvernoth was tired despite having just arisen. He actually looked forward to his assignment today-guarding the animal pens. Not much action there. He’d have plenty of opportunity to catch a little extra sleep.
The sky had brightened by the time he reached his post near the pens. Borlon stood by the gate to the swine yard, his eyes wide and alert, his shoulders drawn back as if ready to fight the entire world.
“You don’t fool me,” Wyvernoth said.
Borlon jerked his head toward Wyvernoth’s voice and barked, “Sir!” Then he relaxed. “Oh. It’s you.”
“I used to be that good,” Wyvernoth said. “But now that I’m older, I find my eyes tend to shut.”
“I wasn’t asleep… Ah, who cares? Of course I was sleeping. By the bones, if I ever needed proof that any dragon with wings is insane, this job provides it. Pigs! We’re guarding pigs!”
“We’d have eaten them ourselves if I’d had my way,” Wyvernoth said. “The fact that I’m not a captain with my leadership experience is all the proof I need that our commanders are crazy.”
“Leadership experience?”
“It was twenty years ago. My first time out. I was assigned to a tax enforcement unit in the southern province. We met up with some resistance. They slaughtered the commanders. I led the survivors on to victory and completed the mission.”
“Ah,” said Borlon, nodding. “I heard about that. Only, the way I heard it, you and the others ran blindly from battle and by luck found the village you were headed for. Nothing but women and children and wooden shacks. Easy to burn. Some leadership…”
“Hmmph,” grunted Wyvernoth. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see the horrors we faced.”
“Nightmares most likely,” said Borlon. “Why don’t I get out of here so you can get some sleep?”
“You do that,” Wyvernoth said, no longer sparing the younger dragon from the full force of his wit.
Borlon headed off, leaving Wyvernoth alone.
Wyvernoth muttered curses as he took his position before the pens. He braced his tail against the ground and locked his muscles, ready for a little nap. As he settled in, closing his eyes, he heard someone sneeze.
He looked around. No one was there. Had he imagined it?
He went into the large barn. The structure was long, opening out onto several pens that held pigs. Could pigs sneeze? He thought they could, but he wasn’t certain. He was a soldier, not a farmer.
One by one, he walked down the center of the barn, peeking over the stall doors. Pigs.Pigs. Pigs. Girl. Pigs. Hold on!
He stepped back a stall and pushed open the door. A human child, a little blonde girl maybe eight years-old, huddled in the corner of the stall, her arms wrapped around a small black and white pig.
“Um, hi,” she said, then wiped her nose.
Wyvernoth didn’t answer.
“I just wanted to see him. For a visit,” she said.
“Why do you think I care?” Wyvernoth said, reaching down and grabbing the girl by her arm.
“Ow!” she yelled.
Instantly, the pens and stalls erupted in a cacophony of squeals. Seconds later, the rest of the animals in the neighboring barns joined in; a chaotic chorus of moos, baas, and clucks filled the air. The ox-dogs held in the nearby kennels began to yelp and howl, a sound that brought back bad memories for Wyvernoth.
“See what you’ve done,” he said. “Set ’em all off. You’re in a heap of trouble.”
“You’re hurting my arm,” she cried as he lifted her from the ground and carried her outside. Given the noise, he guessed other guards would get here soon enough. He’d have one of them watch his post while he took her in to the captain. He could wind up looking good for this, especially if he trumped up the charges. He could blame her for the goat that’d gone missing yesterday. That way he’d get to enjoy not only his full belly, but also the fun of pinning the blame on someone else.
As he walked out of the barn, he noticed a figure approaching. He looked up, expecting to see a fellow guard. Instead he saw a tall, dark-robed man, his eyes hidden by the broad, black brim of his hat.
“You there,” the man said. “What upset the ox-dogs?”
Wyvernoth noted that the man had a pack slung across his shoulder, and strapped to the pack was an axe, which worried him, for the man seemed familiar. Had he let this man in? What would his superiors say if they learned that he’d let someone bring in an axe?
An axe.
A broad-brimmed black hat.
An ox-dog.
Suddenly, Wyvernoth recalled quite clearly where he’d seen this man before, twenty years ago.
“Y-you?” Wyvernoth said, his voice trailing off in a little squeal. He dropped the girl who fell roughly to the ground.
“You were one of the soldiers on the road to Christdale,” the man said. “It’s been many years.”
Wyvernoth turned, raised his tail, dropped his spear, and shot off like an arrow.
“YOU!” BITTERWOOD SHOUTED, unable to believe this turn of fate. Even after twenty years, the faces of the dragons who’d surrounded the wagon that night and thrust spears at him were burned into his memory.
Bitterwood braced himself as the dragon barreled toward him, wondering why his opponent was charging without a weapon drawn. He could plainly see a sword in the sheath on the dragon’s hip.
The dragon swerved as he approached, his eyes not fixed on Bitterwood but on the path beyond him. Bitterwood realized the dragon wasn’t attacking him, but planned instead to run past him.
“No you don’t,” Bitterwood said, sticking his leg out as the dragon raced by. The impact of leg against leg nearly toppled Bitterwood, so great was the dragon’s speed.
Only a balance honed by years of combat kept him on his feet while the dragon hit the hard-packed earth beak-first. The dragon’s legs flipped over his shoulders and he rolled three times before sliding to a stop on his back.
Bitterwood pounced, landing on the dragon’s chest, locking a hand around the beast’s scaly windpipe while his free hand drew the sword from the dragon’s scabbard.
“Let me go! He’s after me!” the dragon whimpered.
“He’s caught you,” Bitterwood said, looking down into the dark terrified eyes of the dragon. “After all these years, we meet again.”
“What?” the dragon cried. “Are you mad?”
“Yes!” Bitterwood said, tightening his grip on the dragon’s throat. “Don’t pretend you don’t remember. The village of Christdale!”
The dragon’s eyes opened wider. “You! You were with him! The young man in the wagon!”
“Bitterwood,” Jandra said, placing her hand on his shoulder.
“Go away!” Bitterwood snarled. “Don’t try to stop me. He’s one of the ones who killed my wife and children! He dies now!”
Bitterwood raised the sword.
“Please!” the dragon squeaked. “We killed no women or children that day! All but the men were taken into slavery! Please spare me!”
Bitterwood felt his heart skip one beat, two. “What?” he said, lowering the sword.
“Spare me!”
“Slavery?” Bitterwood said, studying the dragon’s eyes. “You sold my family into slavery?”
“Yes. Oh, please let me go, let me go, let me go. He’s after me!”
Bitterwood felt his heart resume beating as hope sparked within him for the first time in memory. Recanna could still be alive. And Ruth, and Mary, and Adam.
The dragon beneath him suddenly stopped squirming. His eyes opened even wider until they looked as if they might pop from his skull. He opened his beak wide to scream but no sound came out.
A long, dark shadow draped over Bitterwood. Suddenly, he understood he wasn’t the one causing this dragon to feel such terror.
“Bant Bitterwood,” a voice said, deep and familiar as thunder. “Your day of reckoning has come.”
BITTERWOOD GRIPPED THE sword in his hand so tightly it trembled. The dragon he held had information he couldn’t afford to lose. He couldn’t let the dragon go, he couldn’t kill him, and he couldn’t take time to think about the problem with Hezekiah stepping closer.
“Jandra,” Bitterwood said. “Run.”
“Why?” she asked, sounding confused. “Who is this?”
“The devil,” Bitterwood said. “Go!”
“Bant Bitterwood,” Hezekiah said, “the Lord is merciful. If you will confess the error of your blasphemy those long years ago, I will spare you.”
“By the bones,” the dragon whispered, tears welling in his eyes. “Let me go. He’ll kill me.”
“You’ll stay until I’m done with you,” Bitterwood said. With a grunt he brought the sword down. The dragon screamed, arching his back in pain, as the tip of the sword was driven through his right shoulder and deep into the hard earth, pinning him.
Bitterwood rolled off the dragon and onto his feet, facing the giant who stood only a yard away and was casually drawing an axe from his pack.
“Who are you?” asked Jandra, who hadn’t run.
“I am Hezekiah, child,” the prophet answered. “I have come to bring the word of the Lord to the people of this new city. The man beside you has turned his back on the Lord and, unless he repents, he must be removed, lest he poison the minds of others with his blasphemy. What say you, Bant Bitterwood? Will you accept the Lord’s mercy?”
“Go to hell,” Bitterwood said, the tight muscles of his legs uncoiling to drive him forward into the breast of the demon.
Hezekiah stood steady as a rock, just as Bitterwood had anticipated. His hands closed tightly around the axe the prophet carried and he leapt up, curled his feet under him, then drove them both into his foe’s stomach. He knew the blow would cause Hezekiah no pain, but at least he could pry the axe from the demon’s grasp.
Unfortunately, the axe didn’t budge. Bitterwood dropped back to the ground, continuing to push and pull against the axe handle. It was like trying to remove a stone from a wall.
Then Hezekiah moved, pushing his arms forward with a snap. Bitterwood was thrown backward. He landed on his back, hard, but years of experience allowed him to roll with the force so that the momentum carried him to his feet. Jandra was running now, not fleeing, but moving to his side as she tossed a handful of silver dust into the air.
“Stay quiet!” she whispered as the morning sunlight dimmed.
“What witchcraft is this?” Hezekiah shouted. “Where have you vanished to, Bant Bitterwood?”
Bitterwood started to speak, uncertain of what was happening, but Jandra placed her fingers on his lips and whispered, “Shh.”
“There,” Hezekiah said. He hurled his axe in the direction of Jandra’s whisper. The tool raced more swiftly than an arrow. Bitterwood tried to push Jandra from its path but succeeded only partly, for the steel tip grazed her ear, spinning her around. Her body went limp and she fell into Bitterwood’s arms. Bitterwood lowered her to the ground and looked up, expecting to see death hovering overhead. Instead, Hezekiah had turned his attention toward the pinned dragon, wrapping his thick hand around the hilt of the sword.
“It’s best you not speak of what you’ve witnessed,” he said, and effortlessly drew the buried blade from the dragon’s shoulder. He lowered the blade again, swinging sideways, silencing the dragon’s sobs suddenly and permanently.
Bitterwood went numb as if the sword had pierced his own throat. The dragon was his only lead, his sole hope of learning Recanna’s fate. He turned and raced to where the hurled axe had fallen. His muscles strained to their limits to move the heavy weapon. Perhaps its weight would tilt the scales toward the justice due him.
He looked over his shoulder and gasped as Hezekiah stood mere feet from him, raising the sword above his head. Bitterwood leapt sideways as the demon drove the blade down in a savage blow that left a long crack in the packed earth of the street. Before Hezekiah could recover his balance, Bitterwood struck, bringing the axe down with all his strength into the center of his opponent’s back.
Sparks leapt into the air. The axe clanged and quivered as if it had struck metal, numbing Bitterwood’s hands with the vibration. The blow was sufficient to knock the sword from Hezekiah’s hands.
The black-robed prophet needed no weapon. Hezekiah struck sideways with his fist, catching Bitterwood in the chest, sending him spinning. The axe flew from his grasp. He landed on his stomach, skidding in the dirt. He blinked through the dust of his landing, looking sideways. He spotted the fallen axe and extended his arm toward it.
As his fingers touched the handle, a heavy black boot dropped onto Bitterwood’s hand, grinding a cry of pain from him as Hezekiah’s incredible weight crushed down. He tried to pull free but he was pinned and could only watch helplessly as the prophet bent over and lifted up the axe.
Bitterwood could hear the beating of the mighty wings of the Angel of Death. The dust around him rose in a cloud as Hezekiah raised his axe heavenward. With a surge of fear-driven strength, Bitterwood pulled his hand loose and rolled to his back, hoping to avoid the blow, but knowing the cause was lost. Hezekiah towered over him, the axe held high in both hands, his body tensed to deliver the killing blow.
The moment lingered, frozen in time, with Hezekiah waiting to strike, his body motionless, as if he considered the perfect placement of the axe-head. The dust in the air began to settle. The axe did not lower. Hezekiah stood still as a statue. Bitterwood scrabbled back from his enemy. Hezekiah’s eyes didn’t follow.
Bitterwood could see a trio of glowing threads floating in the air behind Hezekiah, writhing like snakes striking at an unseen opponent. The air beyond their reach shimmered like heat over hard ground on a summer day, then broke into countless tiny shards that vanished as they fell. In their place stood a sky-dragon, his eyes fixed upon a small silver sphere no larger than an acorn that he held in his talons. The dragon wore a silver skullcap similar to the one worn by the dragon that Jandra had asked him to spare. His wings were studded with jewels in an identical pattern. Nonetheless, this dragon’s blue belly didn’t have a scar on it. This couldn’t be the same creature.
“Intriguing,” said the dragon, snaking his neck forward to closely study Hezekiah’s frozen face. “I haven’t encountered one of these since I escaped Atlantis.”
“Atlantis?” Bitterwood said. The word triggered memories. The southern rebellion… The dragon’s tongue beneath his fingertips… The kudzu-draped grove… His eyes widened as he studied the face of the sky-dragon before him. “You were in the cage,” he said, “in the City of Skeletons.”
“What a small world,” said the dragon, glancing toward Bitterwood. “I wouldn’t have recognized you. You’ve aged poorly. In retrospect, you did me a favor not opening the cage.”