Bitterwood (16 page)

Bant squinted, shielding his eyes. Three huge lizards—gray in color save for the rust-red scales along their throats and bellies—lumbered along the dirt road. At first glance they appeared low to the ground, but when Bant compared them to the trees they passed he realized the lizards stood taller than horses, and only their great length made them appear squat.

As the great-lizards grew nearer, Bant could make out the riders who looked like men astride the high-backed leather saddles. But they weren’t men; they were earth-dragons. Their scaly skin was the color of moss. Their heads sat broad and low upon their shoulders, their dark eyes set wide apart. A teal fringe of spiky scales jutted from their necks.

Bant climbed down the ladder, moving to meet the dragons as they rode into the town square. He could only vaguely recall the last time the dragons had visited, well over a decade ago. The dragons had then demanded a tenth of that year’s harvest and the older townsmen agreed to provide it, citing an ancient agreement. The town lay in the land of dragons and the Dragon King had the right to take as much as a quarter of the harvest. The elders said dragons were abundant in the north but ventured south to collect taxes only rarely, seldom appearing more than once in a score of years.

Bant wished some of the elders had survived to advise him now. If the dragons wanted a quarter of the harvest this year, it would be difficult. Christdale suffered from a shortage of men. Only male children his age and younger had survived Hezekiah’s initial teachings unmaimed. Now only a dozen able-bodied men could tend the crops, and they had to provide for a community of nearly a hundred. The Lord in his mercy always provided enough but there was seldom any surplus.

The three dragons rode into the center of the village. They dismounted and spoke to one another in a strange, hissing speech. Two carried long spears tipped with metal. The third dragon, the apparent leader, had a scabbard hanging from his belt from which the bejeweled hilt of a sword jutted. From the windows of their houses the villagers watched but none approached, leaving Bant alone with the visitors.

The sword dragon finished conferring with his associates. He faced Bant and said, “I am Mekalov. You are this town’s leader?”

Bant found Mekalov’s speech difficult to follow. The creature’s hard, beak-like mouth didn’t move as it spoke; the noise seemed to emanate from deep within his throat. It didn’t help that the dragon’s breath distracted him. Perhaps the heat played tricks with his eyes, but foul, fishy garlic fumes spilled from Mekalov’s mouth in visible waves.

“Well?” Mekalov demanded. “Answer me!”

“We are led by no one but the Lord,” Bant said.

“Bring this lord to me,” Mekalov said.

“He is already here,” Bant said.

“If you are the lord, then gather your subjects. There is work to be done.”

Bant smiled politely. He knew that Mekalov didn’t understand him. He wondered what Hezekiah would have to say about attempting to tell a dragon about God. Would it be a waste of time? Then, setting aside the theological musings, Bant asked what slowly dawned on him as the important question: “What work?”

“A week from now Albekizan’s tax collectors will arrive. By then you will gather in this square half of this year’s harvest along with half of all livestock in the village.”

“Half?” Bant said. “But… but the agreement is for no more than a quarter.”

“Perhaps, in this backwater, you have not heard the good news,” said Mekalov. “Albekizan commemorates the miraculous birth of a new son, Bodiel. This is a celebration tax in his honor.”

“But—”

“Need I remind you that the very ground you stand upon belongs to Albekizan? Anything that grows here belongs to him, and him alone. You live merely as a parasite, feasting upon food that is not your own. We are not taking half
your
harvest. Instead, Albekizan is allowing you to keep half of
his
harvest. Be grateful for his generosity.”

“The Good Book tells me give unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s,” Bant said, “but I won’t starve my friends and family. When the collectors arrive we will give them what we can spare.”

“We’re not here to bargain, human. We merely inform you of what will be. You will comply or you will die.”

Bant searched his mind for the proper scripture for guidance. He wanted to follow the will of the Lord, but what was it in this matter? That he yield to authority, obey the dragons, and have faith that all would be well? Or that he oppose the dragons and stand against injustice?

Bant knew that the Lord was on his side no matter what. He drew his shoulders back and said, “We do not fear death. We will not submit to evil.”

“What a curious attitude,” Mekalov said. The earth-dragon drew his sword from his scabbard, the blade singing like the fading peals of a bell. Before Bant could react the blade tip was thrust beneath his chin, stopping just short of his throat.

Mekalov narrowed his eyes. “How about now? Now do you fear death?”

Bant swallowed hard. He whispered, “Yea’, though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil.”

“Humans have never been known for brains,” Mekalov said. “But you’re something else, boy. Too stupid to be scared, eh? Think there’s something to be gained by this little display? Continue with this foolishness and this village will burn. Its people will be enslaved, if they’re lucky. You can save them if the next words from your lips are, ‘We will obey. We live to serve Albekizan.’ Go on. Say it.”

Bant’s mouth was suddenly too dry to allow speech. Was this mere vanity that caused him to resist? Pride that goeth before the fall? As his mind whirred another voice shouted, “TOUCH NOT MINE ANOINTED, AND DO MY PROPHETS NO HARM!”

Bant stopped staring down the length of the sword, shifting his gaze toward the church. Hezekiah emerged from the dark, windowless interior. He stood on the steps like a tall pillar. His black robes wrapped about him like shadows.

“Hmmph,” said Mekalov to his fellow dragons. “Another idiot. Let him serve as an example to the lord, here. Kill him!”

A spear-wielding dragon charged toward the church. Hezekiah stood, unflinching. With a grunt the dragon guided his weapon to its target, planting the spearhead in the center of the prophet’s belly, driving it deeply into him until the point lifted Hezekiah’s robes from his back. Hezekiah remained standing, looking stern.

“HE WHO LIVES BY THE SWORD,” Hezekiah said, without a trace of weakness in his voice, “SHALL DIE BY THE SWORD!”

Hezekiah placed his hands upon the shaft that pierced him and began to push it deeper until it reached the midpoint. Then he reached behind him and grabbed the spear and pulled it free. He held the spear before him, examining its gleaming point. Not a drop of blood stained its surface. The dragon before him staggered backward, his beak dropping open in shock.

“AN EYE FOR AN EYE!” Hezekiah shouted as he hurled the spear at his attacker. The spear struck the dragon with a
crack
like thunder. The dragon’s body toppled backward, as his head, eyes wide with surprise, fell to the ground between his twitching legs.

Bant shifted his gaze back to the sword at his throat. It hovered unsupported in the air a brief second before falling to his feet. Mekalov tripped twice in his haste to reach his scaly steed but at last reached the saddle and dug his claws into the beast’s sides. He pulled the lizard’s reigns to turn it back in the direction they had come and set off in pursuit of the other spear-dragon whose steed already thundered down the road in a trail of dust. The third lizard steed—its reptilian brain oblivious to its master’s death—stood contentedly by the village well munching on clover.

“Hezekiah!” Bant shouted, running to the preacher’s side. “Are you all right?”

“Of course,” the prophet said, smoothing his robes.

“But-but-but how?”

“The Lord provides.”

Bant nodded as the land around him began to blur.

“Why do you weep, Bant Bitterwood?”

“I… I didn’t know what to do,” he sobbed. “They could have killed Recanna, Adam, everyone. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to say.”

“Did you do as the Lord guided?”

Bant wondered. Had the Lord guided him? Or had his pride? Hezekiah might be able to endure such a serious wound through faith alone, but Bant knew his faith did not equal the preacher’s. For when he had stood in the valley of the shadow of death, when the sword had been at his throat, he
had
feared evil. He dared not reveal this to Hezekiah.

“Yes,” he said, wiping away his tears. “I did as the Lord guided.”

“Good. For the Lord provides guidance for me as well. Before the winter comes I must leave this place. The seed of the Lord has brought forth a plentiful harvest in this town. Now we are needed elsewhere to sow other fields.”

“We?” Bant sniffled.

“Yes,” Hezekiah said. “You are ready for the next phase of your training. You will travel for a time as a missionary, Bant Bitterwood.”

“But,” said Bant, “Recanna… the harvest…”

“Recanna will stay to care for your children. The harvest will be complete before we are ready to leave. For all else, we will trust to the Lord. Return to your labors, Bant Bitterwood.”

“Yes,” Bant said, as Hezekiah walked back up the church steps and disappeared into the shadows beyond the open door.

But Bant didn’t return to his labors, not for a long time. Instead he looked at the dead dragon before him. The head gazed up at his, the eyes still wide with surprise. Flies already gathered around the red pool that grew around the dragon’s corpse.

He couldn’t help but think of the last time he’d seen this ground drenched in blood, that long ago night when he’d first kissed Recanna. The sight of blood had satisfied him. Blood had been a promise, then. Blood could carry justice, and blood could give hope. Blood had washed the land of its old ways and brought about a new world. Now the blood carried a different promise.

As the red liquid crept toward his worn leather boots, Bant took a step back. The sun shone strongly yet a chill ran up his spine. Something awful was coming. He couldn’t define it, he didn’t know when it would come, or how, but it was there, in the future, revealed by the dark rivulets before him. He shuddered as the cracked, dusty earth drank the cursed blood.

CHAPTER EIGHT: ZEEKY

1100 D.A. The 69
^th
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.”