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 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
