“Yes,” Jandra answered, raising her fists, using the dust to create the illusion of flames around them. “You’re the Death of All Dragons. The Ghost Who Kills. You’re Bitterwood.”
CHAPTER TWELVE: BAIT
ZANZEROTH LIMPED INTO the courtyard, seeking refuge in a niche in the high stone wall. He paused, glaring into the shadows behind him, watching for the slightest movement that would indicate pursuit. He snapped the arrow that pierced his shoulder, leaving the head still buried inside. He then grabbed the arrow that jutted from his nose and thrust it deeper until the entire arrowhead was in his mouth. He snapped the shaft then worked the arrowhead free with his tongue, spitting it out. That had certainly been unpleasant.
Reaching around, he grasped an arrow in his back. It had hit bone and wasn’t buried deep. Zanzeroth freed it with a grunt. He studied the arrow, fletched in red feather-scales. Bodiel’s, perhaps? Would his own feathers one day guide the flight that brought another dragon low?
“No,” he growled softly.
The flames flickering behind his enemy had painted the picture of a devil, but Bitterwood was only a man. He used a man’s weapons and would have a man’s weaknesses. All that was needed was to attack the man’s heart.
His path to victory now clear, Zanzeroth gathered his will to climb a long row of steps leading up the castle walls. He kicked aside the body of a fallen guard. From the finery, he could tell this was one of Chakthalla’s defenders. From atop the wall he surveyed the fighting below. The castle’s forces still fought here and there, though the battle was plainly lost. Zanzeroth spotted Kanst in a nearby field, shouting orders to his troops. Zanzeroth leapt into the night sky, the cool air rushing across his body, soothing the pain that cut through him with each downward thrust of his wings.
He landed less than gracefully, his legs buckling on impact. He slid forward across the muddy ground, grinding dirt into his open wounds. The world swirled into a bright shower of red stars. Zanzeroth willed them away. He couldn’t pass out until he told Kanst what he’d learned.
Earth-dragons rushed to his side, helping Zanzeroth to rise. Kanst ran forward, shouting for the battle medics to follow.
“By the bones,” Kanst said. “What happened to you? Was it Vendevorex who wounded you so?”
“You insult me,” Zanzeroth said, pausing to spit blood. “The wizard is dead. I gutted him easily.”
“Then who…?”
Zanzeroth lifted the crimson shaft of the arrow before Kanst’s eyes. “Look at the feathers. Tell me.”
Kanst froze as he saw the arrow. “Bitterwood?” he whispered.
“He’s within the castle,” said Zanzeroth. “He took me by surprise. You can see by the wounds in my back he fought less than honorably.”
“All the soldiers will be sent against him,” Kanst said. “He won’t escape.”
“He can, if brute force is your strategy.” Zanzeroth spat again. It was hard to talk with blood filling his mouth with every movement of his tongue. “Bitterwood moves more swiftly than any human I’ve ever seen. He’s unbound by any of our notions of honor or pride. He strikes from the shadows. Cowardly, yes, but effective. Chakthalla’s castle is a maze of flame and smoke. Send your soldiers in there and he’ll slay them at his pleasure.”
Kanst nodded, looking consternated. “I trust your judgment. Still, I see no option but to give the order. Albekizan will have my head if I don’t.”
“Albekizan can rot,” Zanzeroth said. “Bitterwood is my quarry. He’s made a tremendous error in showing himself tonight.”
Kanst eyed Zanzeroth’s wounds then shook his head. “I won’t allow you to go back inside. You’re in no condition to hunt.”
“A hunter who knows only the art of stalking prey will starve,” Zanzeroth said. “There are times when a snare is the proper tool. Do as I tell you and we’ll capture the so-called ghost by sunrise.”
JANDRA SEARCHED BITTERWOOD’S dark eyes, looking for the slightest hint of mercy. She found none.
“Witch or no, you can’t stop this,” Bitterwood said, staring at the flames around her fingers. He raised his bow and placed an arrow against the string.
Jandra started to protest that she wasn’t a witch, but decided it might be to her advantage to let him think that she was. Jandra placed herself in the path of the arrow to shield Vendevorex. She said, “You’ll have to kill me before you can kill him. With my dying breath, I’ll place a curse on you so powerful your great-grandchildren will mourn the day you crossed me.”
“Thou shall not suffer a witch to live. Exodus 22:18,” Bitterwood said.
Jandra had no idea what he was talking about. Was this the babbling of a madman?
Bitterwood stared at her, his face betraying no emotion. Jandra expected his fingers to let the arrow fly at any second. But the seconds dragged by, each longer than hours, and at last he lowered the bow.
“Witch or not, I’ve never shot a woman. A human woman, at least,” he said. “Still, I’d kill you to kill the dragon you shelter, if it wasn’t a waste of an arrow.” Bitterwood gave Vendevorex a dismissive glance. “With those wounds he’ll never see the dawn. If he does… you can’t stand in my way all the time.”
“Why would you kill him?” Jandra said, letting the illusion around her fingers fade away. “What great wrong has he done to you?”
“He’s a dragon,” Bitterwood said, shrugging. “He breathes. Crime enough, I think.”
“He’s more than a dragon! He has a name. Vendevorex. He has a long life behind him, filled with joys and sorrows. He deserves to live as much as you.”
Bitterwood said nothing.
Jandra continued, “I thought I had lost him forever only moments ago. It nearly killed me. Now I have hope he will live. It’s like getting my own life back. Vendevorex is my family and my friend. You say you won’t raise your hand against me, but if you kill him, you murder me. I love him more than anything else in the world”
“You… love him?” Bitterwood asked, sounding utterly disgusted.
“Yes. Like a father. I never knew my real family. He’s raised me for as long as I can remember. I probably wouldn’t be alive today if he hadn’t taken me in.”
Bitterwood frowned. Jandra searched for the faintest hint of understanding in his eyes.
“You must know how it feels,” she said, “to care for someone. Someone whose life you would fight for. Someone you would beg for. So please. Please, if you have the faintest trace of kindness within you, spare him. Spare me.”
Bitterwood grimaced, then turned away. He raised the back of his hand to her and said, “This conversation is pointless. You delude yourself into thinking he’ll survive. He’s got more blood on the floor than he does in his veins. But if he does pull through, what the hell. I’ll leave him alone. Maybe one day he’ll be the last dragon on earth.”
A silence followed his words. From the outer chamber Jandra heard the curses and clashes of battle. Chakthalla’s few remaining guards must have rallied there. But they couldn’t hold out for long. Even if Pet helped her move Vendevorex, where could they run? The only doors from the room led toward the battle or out to Chakthalla’s private garden, a walled area with no exit save for flying.
The sounds of metal striking metal, of dragons crying their final cries, grew ever closer. Pet sat where Gadreel had dropped him, still looking dazed. Bitterwood busied himself cutting arrows free from the bodies of the earth- dragons he had slain. Jandra could see his quiver held only a few remaining shafts.
“Been a busy night,” Bitterwood said as he yanked an arrow free and studied the tip for damage. “Looks like I’ll run out of arrows before I run out of dragons.”
Then, from the distance, a new sound could be heard over the clash of swords. The faint wail of a trumpet was echoed by another, less distant horn, and another followed this.
“What’s that?” Pet asked.
“Curious,” said Bitterwood. “That’s the signal for retreat. The king’s army is breaking off the attack.” Indeed, the noise in the outer chamber nearly ceased as the invaders fell back. The handful of guards left alive chased after them.
