square.
As one, the men of the village gave a blood-curdling shout and rushed forward, drowning the stranger beneath a human wave.
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
