smell.”
Tulk looked toward the iron wall in the direction of the voice. Then the whole room shook as something slammed against the metal. The noise was deafening. A shower of rust flakes fell, coating Tulk’s skin. Suddenly the room trembled again, as a red, scaly fist larger than Tulk’s head punched through the metal. The fist withdrew to be replaced by dagger-like claws that gripped the edges of the aged iron. The room shuddered as the claws peeled the metal back, popping the rivets free. The wall flew away, tossed over the shoulder of an enormous sun-dragon sporting a bandage covering his right eye.
“Gentlemen,” said the dragon, “I’ve had a truly bad day. I intend to take it out on you.”
ZANZEROTH LOOKED AT the frightened humans cowering before him. He could barely see them. Even if he’d had both eyes, the smoke stung so badly it was all he could do not to clench them shut. He tossed the bundled swords into the exposed room.
“Weapons, gentlemen,” said Zanzeroth. “The finest swords this world has ever seen. One of those blades had a taste of me about twenty years ago. I’m giving you the chance to finish its meal.”
The humans didn’t move. They merely stood, slack-jawed and trembling. Zanzeroth sighed, reached out to unroll the bundle and revealed the swords. Then he took the bear skin that the swords were wrapped in and stepped back from the room to get away from the smoke and to give the men room to maneuver. There were nine people; six of them looked too inebriated to stand. But fate must have had a hand in this, given that he only brought three swords.
Zanzeroth ripped a strip from the bear’s hide and brought it to his face, blindfolding himself.
“I assure you, I cannot see,” said Zanzeroth. “And thanks to that horrible smoke, I can’t smell you. You’ll never have a better chance to slay me.”
“We don’t want to fight,” one of the men said.
“Then I’ll kill you without you putting up a struggle. Or you can kill me first. I’ll be fighting unarmed. Tooth and claw versus steel. I honestly think you have a chance.”
“Why are you doing this?” another asked.
“To find out if I’m wrong,” Zanzeroth said with a slight nod. “To find out if I’m still the dragon I think I am. I’ll silently count to three. Then I will kill you if you choose not to fight.”
Zanzeroth fell silent and spread his wings. Sightless and without the benefit of smell, he could rely only on his hearing and the sensitivity of his wings to small changes in air pressure. In theory, he should know if one of the men rushed him.
And in practice, the sound of their footfalls on the iron floor fixed their positions in his mind. He heard the scrape of metal against metal as the men grabbed the weapons. Then, one said, “Kamon teaches obedience to dragons. If one asks us to kill him, who are we to deny that wish?”
Suddenly, two feet rapidly advanced. A grunt. A rush of wind ruffled the feather-scales of his wings. One of the men-the youngest, Cron, judging by the stride-had leapt from the ledge on which they stood and became level with Zanzeroth’s chest. With his sword extended the arc of his dive would drive the shining steel blade deep into Zanzeroth’s gut.
It was a bold and powerful attack, if the blade had stood any chance of reaching its target. With a flap of his wings Zanzeroth launched himself a yard into the air and kicked out with his hind claws. His talons sank into his opponent’s torso, snapping bone, puncturing lung. He kicked again to send the corpse flying and readied himself for the next attack.
Only, as he listened, he heard another blow, of steel striking bone, followed by a gurgle. With a clang a body fell to the iron floor. Then, a movement in the air… Another of his foes had leapt… but not at him. The unseen man leapt to the side. He heard the man hit ground and collapse. And the third man… The third man was responsible for the wet gurgling noise from directly in front of him.
With a sigh, Zanzeroth removed his blindfold.
The oldest of the three men lay before him with a sword in his back. Off to the side the slave Tulk was struggling to his feet. Zanzeroth took a moment to look at Cron’s body, slumped on top of the rusting metal. Zanzeroth felt pleased at the amount of damage he’d done to his opponent. He’d given death every chance to take him and survived, even blind and unarmed. It hadn’t been age that had cost him an eye… it had been carelessness. He could never regain his youth but he could sharpen his wits. Zanzeroth felt certain that when he met the man who’d taken his eye, even if he was the legendary Bitterwood, their next fight would end differently. And were he to stumble over a certain invisible wizard… Well, an invisible foe and a visible one are all the same if your eyes are closed.
Tulk was now limping off and making quite good speed considering that his ankle was broken. Without bothering to look at the slave, Zanzeroth freed the loop of braided leather from his hip and whipped it to the side, snaring Tulk by his damaged ankle. Tulk shrieked like a wounded rabbit as Zanzeroth pulled him from his feet and dangled him before his eyes.
“Why did you kill your friend?” he asked.
“He was no friend!” Tulk shouted. “He was a filthy Kamonite!” Tulk spat, the spittle landing on Zanzeroth’s leg. “His kind shall not be suffered to live!”
“I see,” said Zanzeroth. “Since you’re in a talkative mood, I want you to tell me what you know about Bitterwood.”
“Bitterwood?” Tulk asked, plainly bewildered. “Why do you want to hear ghost stories?”
From the tone, Zanzeroth could tell this wasn’t a bluff. Tulk knew nothing of Bitterwood’s involvement. “If it wasn’t Bitterwood, who killed Bodiel?”
“I don’t know!” said Tulk. “Neither Cron nor I knew Bodiel was dead until we were told so.”
“By whom?” Zanzeroth asked, giving the dangling human’s leg a jerk.
“I didn’t see him!” said Tulk, his voice cracking with pain. “Cron and Stench said it was the king’s wizard. But I never saw him. I only heard a voice in the night.”
“You are proving to be something of a disappointment,” said Zanzeroth. “Shouting out the answers is robbing me of a good excuse to torture you.”
“There’s no need for that,” said Tulk, sounding resigned. “You’ve caught me. I’m a slave. Just take me back.”
“So you can escape again? I don’t think so. And as a slave, may I point out that you disobeyed a direct order to fight me? And killed a man who might have? I don’t think I need to wait for Albekizan’s orders to know your fate.”
Zanzeroth lifted the human higher. He carried him to the smoking barrel.
“Please,” said Tulk. “I’ve told you everything I know!”
“I believe you,” said Zanzeroth. Then he lowered the struggling man headfirst through the flames into the smoky liquid. Tulk splashed and struggled, sending the foul smelling goop everywhere for a moment or two. Zanzeroth grimaced, knowing this wasn’t something he would enjoy licking from his talons.
Tulk’s struggles grew increasingly feeble. He fell still, then kicked once more. Then once again, before his muscles went slack.
Finally, Zanzeroth dropped him into the barrel. He stepped back, gathering his prized swords. Some of the horrible fluid had splashed onto one of the blades. If this didn’t corrode the finish, nothing would. Zanzeroth glanced back at the half dozen drunken men who still held their positions, staring at him in terror.
“Gentlemen,” said Zanzeroth. He tilted his head toward the bar. “Drinks are on me.”
Then with a leap and a flap, he took to the sky.
AS NIGHT FELL, the dragons assembled at the edge of the Burning Ground. This ceremonial field was a circle many hundred yards across, the ground now permanently blackened with the soot of many generations of funeral pyres. Earth-dragon guards stood around the edges, their bodies painted in solemn ceremonial hues of gray. They stood as still as statues as the royalty of the kingdom strode past.
At the center of the dark circle was a tower of pine logs and, atop a platform at the peak, Bodiel rested, surrounded by flowers. The air was rich with the scent of pine.
This was the first time Albekizan had seen either of his sons since the previous night. He glanced toward the piled logs that bore Bodiel’s corpse. For a brief instant, he thought he saw his beloved son breathe once more. It was only a trick of the light as the warm evening breeze sent a ripple across Bodiel’s feather-scales.
Shandrazel stood defiantly before Albekizan. The king studied his surviving son. He should have felt pride.
