Bitterwood Read online

  Bant didn’t move to join them. He couldn’t, standing there, his arms around Recanna. His heart held an unspeakable desire. He wanted the stranger to live. He wanted the stranger to kill Jomath. Let the temple burn, let the Goddess send her wrath as storms, as floods, as plagues of locusts and flies: Bant feared none of these things. All he wanted was for Jomath to die, to satisfy the hate he’d felt only moments before.

  The ox-dog at the edge of the square barked and charged forward, the wagon bouncing behind it like a toy. The beast’s teeth sank into the shoulder of one of the men on the ground who screamed as his bones snapped. His scream died as the ox-dog shook its enormous head, sending the man’s body hurtling through the air. It landed before Bant and Recanna, splashing them with blood. Bant recognized the man; it was Delan, his uncle, the man who’d been training Bant in the art of archery. Bant understood that it wouldn’t be only his brother who died tonight.

  So be it, he thought.

  Recanna screamed, tugging away from him, trying to run. Bant tightened his grip on her, deaf to her cries. He couldn’t bear to part with her, and he didn’t dare to turn away from the carnage before him.

  The ox-dog tossed men into the sky like rag dolls as the bright-eyed stranger fought to his feet once more, his robes now wet with blood. His axe rose and fell, chopping and hacking. Limbs were severed, skulls split, men died with each blow. The dog tore and savaged the men. Quickly, the few men with limbs still intact slipped and skittered on the bloody cobblestones before fleeing into the night.

  The stranger didn’t pursue them. He stood in the middle of a mound of bodies, straightening his coat. He pulled the brim of his hat back down over his eyes and wiped his cheek with a gore-encrusted palm. He wasn’t even winded.

  He kicked the bodies at his feet —two-dozen men at least— making a path for him to walk.

  With a chill of satisfaction, Bant spotted Jomath, dead among the bloody mound. It was almost as if his hate had killed Jomath, as if it had been a palpable thing, a force, making his darkest desires real. He knew he should feel remorse or some sense of loss. Instead, he felt something that bordered on joy at seeing his brother’s torn and twisted corpse. It frightened him that he was capable of such hate. Nothing could ever wash the blood from him.

  So be it.

  The blood-soaked stranger walked toward Bant.

  “You,” the stranger said. “Boy. What’s your name?”

  Bant looked up into the giant’s eyes. They were piercing, unflinching. Bant knew the stranger was studying his terrible soul.

  “B-Bant,” he said. “Bant Bitterwood.”

  “You did not fight me,” the man said.

  “No,” whispered Bant.

  “Do you fear me, Bant Bitterwood?”

  “No,” Bant said. In his hatred for Jomath, all other emotion had been lost.

  “This marks you as a wise man in this village of fools.”

  Of all the words that could have left the stranger’s mouth, these were the last ones Bant had expected.

  “Tell me, Bant Bitterwood, is this woman you cling to your wife?”

  “No,” said Bant.

  “What is your name, girl?”

  She turned her head away as she whispered, “Recanna Halsfeth.”

  “Are you any man’s wife?”

  “No,” she answered.

  “Then the Lord’s work in this place shall begin with you. As you stand together tonight, so shall you stand for all eternity. Bant Bitterwood, look upon your wife. Recanna Bitterwood, look upon your husband.”

  “But—” Recanna began.

  The stranger raised his open palm, silencing her. “Do not question the commandments of the Lord.”

  “T-the Lord?” asked Bant.

  “Can you read, Bant Bitterwood?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then you shall learn. It is important training for all servants of the Lord. One cannot know the Lord without knowing the Word.”

  The stranger held forth a black book. Bant took it, surprised by the weight as the stranger released it. He knew it weighed only a few pounds, but somehow, it felt like the heaviest burden he’d ever carried.

  Bant asked, “Are you… are you the Lord?”

  “No. I am his prophet. My name is Hezekiah. Now go, Bant Bitterwood. Find clothes to cover your nakedness. Your days of living as a pagan savage are no more. Recanna Bitterwood, find clothes of your own then prepare food for your husband. He will need his strength. There is much work for him in the coming days.

  Bant looked to Recanna. She was afraid. She tried to pull away but he held tight.

  “I know you’re frightened,” Bant said. “I don’t understand what has happened tonight, but I have a feeling. I think everything is going to be all right. Don’t be afraid.”

  “What you feel, Bant Bitterwood,” said Hezekiah, “is faith.”

  Recanna nodded. Something changed in her eyes. Bant realized that she also had faith, faith in him. He stood straighter, feeling somehow more powerful.

  He pulled her closer then looked to Hezekiah, who nodded.

  “You may kiss your bride,” the prophet said.

  Recanna surrendered as Bant placed his lips upon hers. The world spun beneath his feet. Gone the musty smell of the fields and the sweet scent of peach blossoms. Here, in this perfect kiss, in the first moment in his life where he felt no fear, no shame, all the world smelled of smoke, and sweat, and blood.

  This is how Bant Bitterwood learned that hate could improve the world.

  This is how Bant Bitterwood found God.

  CHAPTER ONE: LIGHTNING

  1099 D.A. The 68th Year of the Reign of Albekizan

  THE SAD LITTLE FIRE gave out more smoke than warmth. The hunter crouched before it, turning a chunk of ash-flecked meat on the flat stone he’d placed amidst the coals. The movement of the stone stirred more smoke. The hunter coughed and wiped soot from his eyes. He stretched his bony, knotted fingers above the embers, fighting off the chill. He was a thin man, hair shoulder-length and gray, the deep lines of his leathery face forming a permanent frown. He pulled his heavy cloak more tightly around him.

  In the tree above him hung the body of a dragon, blood dripping from its mouth.

  The creature was a sky-dragon, the smallest of the winged dragon species. Strip away the ten-foot wings and the long tail and a sky-dragon was no bigger than a man and half his weight. They were known as sky-dragons both for their prowess in flight and their coloring, the pale, perfect blue of a cloudless day. The hunter had killed many sky-dragons over the years. They weren’t particularly dangerous. Despite talons ending in two-inch claws and crocodilian jaws full of saw-like teeth, sky-dragons prided themselves on being civilized. The beasts fancied themselves as artists, poets, and scholars; they considered it beneath their dignity to engage in such menial work as hunting.

  The hunter had brought the sky-dragon down with a single arrow, expertly placed on the underside of the jaw, the iron tip coming to rest dead center in the dragon’s brain. The beast had fallen from the air like a suddenly dead thing, catching in the crook of a tree. The hunter had climbed the tree and retrieved the leather satchel the dragon had slung over its back. He’d tugged at the beast’s body but found the corpse jammed too tight to budge. Lowering himself even with the beast’s head, he’d stared into its glassy, catlike eyes. Sky-dragon heads always reminded him of goat heads, albeit goats covered in smooth, opalescent scales. With a grunt, he cut out the beast’s tongue.

  Moments later, a fire had been built and now the tongue sizzled on the flat rock at the center, giving the smoke an oily, fishy tinge. To pass the time as the tongue cooked, the hunter searched the contents of the dragon’s satchel. Food, of course. A bottle of wine wrapped in burlap, a loaf of rock hard bread powdered with flour, two apples, some eel jerky. He also discovered a fist-sized crock capped with oily parchment bound with string. He punched through the parchment and recoiled at the stench. The crock was filled with strong-sme
lling horch; a paste that dragons loved that consisted of fish guts and chilies ground together then buried in a ceramic jar and fermented. The hunter tossed the jar as far into the woods as his arm could heave it.

  Turning his attention once more to the satchel, the hunter found a map, a rolled-up blanket of padded green silk, and a small jar of ink. He sniffed the cap and judged the ink to be made from vinegar and walnut husks. Several quills crafted from the dragon’s own feather-scales were in the bag. No wonder the beasts fancied themselves scholars — they were covered with the tools of writing.

  The hunter paused to examine a leather-bound book, the linen paper a pristine white, the opening pages covered with sketches and notes about flowers. The drawings were meticulous. Rendered in dark walnut ink, the flowers had a life and beauty. The blossoms swelled on the page seductively enough to tempt bees.

  The hunter ripped out the drawings and fed them to the crackling fire. The paper writhed as if alive, curling, crumbling into large black leaves that wafted upward with the smoke, the inky designs still faintly visible until they vanished in the dark sky.

  The hunter used his knife to retrieve the roasted tongue and sat back against the tree, oblivious to the blood soaking the trunk. As he chewed his meal, he stared at the ink bottle. It stirred memories. Memories for the hunter were never a good thing.

  After he finished the tongue, he wiped his fingers on his grungy cloak. He picked up the book, contemplating the remaining blank pages. Opening the bottle of ink, he dipped the quill and drew a jagged, uneven line upon the page. He tried again, drawing a circle, the line flowing more evenly this time. Across the top of the page he began to write “A B C D E…” and it all came back to him.

  Dipping the quill once more, he turned the page and wrote in cautious, even letters, “In the beginning.” He stopped and drew a line through the words. He turned the page and stared at the fresh parchment, so white. White like an apple blossom. White like a young bride’s skin. He lowered the quill to the page.

  Dear Recanna,

  I have thought of you often. What I would say if I could see you again. What I should have said those many years ago.

  Twenty years. Twenty years since last I heard your voice. Twenty years I’ve been at war, alone.

  If only

  Here the hunter stopped. If only. These were weak words, regretful. They had no room in his heart. This was not a night to lose himself in memory and melancholy. Tomorrow was an important day. The most honored ritual of the dragons was scheduled, and he had a special, unscripted role to play.

  If only.

  The hunter closed the cover on those cursed words and placed the book upon the coals.

  Flames licked the edges, dancing before his eyes like ghosts.

  THE DRUMMERS BEAT their rhythm as the choir of sky-dragons burst into song, filling the great hall with celestial music. Jandra shivered with excitement as the ceremony began. She was sixteen now, and this was the first time she’d persuaded Vendevorex to allow her to attend the contest. For centuries the sun-dragons had used this ritual as the first step toward the enthronement of a new ruler. She would be the first human to ever witness the ceremony.

  More precisely, she reminded herself, she would be the first human to ever witness the ceremony and survive. She looked at the two human slaves in their cages across the room. She knew her sympathy should lie with them. Alas, it was difficult to feel any connection to the brutish, wild-eyed men in the cages. Wearing her blue satin gown with an elaborate peacock headdress, Jandra felt more kinship with the dragons that surrounded her.

  She sat beside Vendevorex, her mentor. A sky-dragon and the king’s personal wizard, Vendevorex was widely hailed as the most clever dragon in the kingdom. As such, the exotic quirks of his personality were given broad tolerance. Jandra was one such quirk. She’d been raised since infancy by Vendevorex, and now trained as his apprentice.

  Jandra looked around the great hall, at the eyes of the assembled dragons. They all had a look of disdain as they gazed toward her, from the brutish, thick-muscled earth-dragons, to the elite, scholarly sky-dragons who sat around the vast chamber on their elegant silk mats.

  Only the immense sun-dragons didn’t look upon her with scorn, because they didn’t look upon her at all.

  The sun-dragons were the nobility of the dragon clans. Twice the size of sky-dragons, they ruled the world with their heads held high in the regal air that came so naturally to them. The sun-dragons sported fiery red scales that faded to orange at the tips. Wispy white feathers lined their snouts, giving the illusion that they breathed smoke.

  The drummers and the choir reached a crescendo as King Albekizan and his queen, Tanthia, appeared in the sky, their bright scales in dramatic contrast against the dark storm clouds behind them, tinted a rich red by the sunset. The ceremonial hall was a vast circle hundreds of yards in diameter, half covered with a dome and half open to the sky. Albekizan swooped into the hall, the wind from his wings causing the ceremonial torches that lined the perimeter to flicker. The air took on the scents of patchouli and lavender —the queen’s favorite perfumes— as she swooped to rest behind him.The king’s dagger-like claws clicked on the marble floor as he crossed the room in a stiff and formal march. Dragons were bipedal, and when no one was watching them, they walked in a fashion that reminded Jandra of birds, big, toothy, scaly chickens to be exact. But, in court, they held their backs and necks unnaturally straight and kept their heads high, emphasizing their great height. Though Vendevorex was seated directly next to the king, Albekizan didn’t bother to glance at them as he took his position on the huge mound of gold cushions that covered the raised dais of his throne. The queen took her place beside him atop a smaller mound of pillows. Two earth-dragons quickly rushed to either side of Tanthia, fanning her with wands of woven palm fronds. When the king and queen had settled into their seats, the drums and choir abruptly stopped.

  At the rear of the chamber stood a set of enormous golden doors that lead to the bowels of the earth. In the silence the doors slowly swung open, revealing a stooped sky-dragon, Metron, his once blue feathers turned silver by age. Green scarves hung around Metron’s neck, denoting his office: the High Biologian, keeper of the ancient secrets. He hobbled forward, supporting himself with a gnarled staff as his crooked body trembled with the effort of remaining upright. Despite his infirmity, Metron commanded respect. The assembled dragons lowered their eyes in reverence.

  Metron swayed as he stood before Albekizan, and Jandra wondered for a moment if the old dragon was about to collapse. The strength in Metron’s eyes allayed her fears. The High Biologian turned his back to the king to gaze out upon the sunset. It seemed as if the entire room held its breath. All that could be heard was faint thunder and the torches fretting in the rising wind.

  Then, above the wind came the flapping of gigantic wings. Long shadows raced across the hall as Albekizan’s sons spiraled from the sky, spreading their wings to descend with downy grace in the center of the hall. Bodiel, the younger of the two, was the first to land, his outstretched wings nearly blocking from sight his brother, Shandrazel, who touched down behind him.

  Bodiel was radiant. The crimson of his open wings blended with the sunset behind him as if all the sky were part of his being. The wind ruffled his feathery scales, making the mane of his long, serpentine neck flicker like flame. Light played on the rings of gold that pierced his wings. He stretched and relaxed the long, powerful talons at the mid-joint of each wing, displaying sharp claws painted with powdered emerald. The crowd nodded with silent approval at the display. Jandra’s heart fluttered at Bodiel’s beauty.

  Shandrazel made no such display, keeping his wings folded. His brooding eyes stayed fixed on the floor. The long, reptilian faces of dragons didn’t display the same range of emotions as humans, but Jandra recognized a scowl when she saw one.

  The focus once more shifted to Metron as he began the ritual greeting.

  “Glorious salutations, oh mighty Albe
kizan!” Metron spread his wings as he spoke, and spoke with all the power his old lungs could muster. “You who own the earth, and all who fly above it, and all who walk upon it. We live in the shadow of your magnificent incandescence! Great is your mercy.”

  Metron bowed deeply as the assembled dragons lowered their heads to touch the floor. Jandra bowed low, wishing she had a longer neck.

  “Greater still is your bounty,” Metron continued, spreading his wings once more. “The seed you planted long ago has produced a bountiful crop. Your sons stand before you, mighty and tall. Their wings span the arcs of the heavens. The fire of their will cannot be quenched by rain, or river, or sea. Each is your pride, each is your promise, and one of them, we pray, will be your death!”

  The assembly erupted in cheering as Metron lowered his wings. Twice before during Albekizan’s reign the dragons of the kingdom had gathered to witness this ritual in which the king’s older sons competed to earn the honor of banishment from the kingdom. The hope of the ritual was that a banished son would one day return to overthrow the father, and rule with even greater strength. This was the ritual of succession that had kept Albekizan’s family in power since time immemorial, with strong rulers replaced only by stronger ones. In previous contests the banished sons had returned only to be slain by Albekizan.

  This year marked the first time Bodiel was eligible to compete. The king’s youngest son, Bodiel was universally recognized as the dragon most likely to best his father. He was strong, fast, and charming, a master of politics as well as combat. Shandrazel was larger and, most agreed, smarter, but few believed he could prevail. Bodiel possessed the will to win at all costs. The lust for victory boiling in his blood rivaled Albekizan’s and perhaps even surpassed it.

  As the sun set, few in the great hall doubted that before dawn Bodiel would defeat his brother, who would be castrated and sent to the libraries to live out the rest of his days in service to Metron. Bodiel would then be granted one day of grace in which to flee the kingdom before all would have the duty to raise their claws against him.