grow smaller and smaller. Due to the simplicity of the human mind, the humans who were here first will blame their hunger upon the new humans who arrive, rather than the dragons who once fed them so generously.”
“They’ll be at each other’s throats, then,” Wyvernoth said. “They’ll be impossible to control, fighting and squabbling among themselves.”
“Precisely,” Blasphet said, then realized from Wyvernoth’s expression that the earth-dragon had raised this point as an argument against, rather than in support for, the plan.
“Whatever, sir,” Wyvernoth said. “When a sun-dragon wants something done, I do it. If you want the livestock inside, it goes inside.”
Blasphet again took to the air, disgusted by the encounter. Wyvernoth had obeyed him simply because of his race and not because of his reason. There were days when Blasphet felt like the only intelligent being in the world. No wonder he found the lives of others to have so little value. They were simply too stupid to live.
BREATHLESSLY, METRON CLIMBED the stairs leading to the king’s hall. He remembered wistfully the days when coming to this hall had been effortless, when it was just a simple matter of stretching his then young wings and letting the wind carry him to his destination. He felt a slight envy for the earth-dragons who would never have age steal the freedom of the sky away from them.
As he entered the flame-flickered hall, all eyes turned toward him.
Only the king’s most trusted advisors were present. Kanst stood before the throne platform, bedecked in full uniform, the steel plates and chain mail draped across his body in such a way as to reveal the well-defined musculature of a warrior still in his prime. Beside him stood Zanzeroth. A horrible black scab dominated the center of his swollen snout. Metron noticed the bandages on the hunter’s shoulders and legs, and the slight crook in his posture, as if standing caused him pain.
Like a chill in the air, Metron sensed the presence of one other. He turned to the far corner of the room where the torches cast deep shadows. Blasphet waited there, his dark scales blending with the gloom with only the red glow of his eyes in torchlight to reveal him. The Murder God’s gaze briefly acknowledged Metron’s glance, then looked beyond him to the arrival of the royal family.
Albekizan walked forward slowly, his untrimmed claws clicking on the marble floor. Tanthia followed Albekizan, her wings trailing long, lacy ribbons, the feather-scales around her eyes newly dyed in a rainbow of colors. Metron noted a faint blurring of the colors, however, as if recent tears had been shed and wiped away.
Albekizan took his place on the pedestal throne. Weeks had passed since Metron had been in the king’s presence. He was startled by the change. When he’d last seen the king, his hatred of humans still flashed in his eyes as lightning illuminates a storm. He’d spoken with passion about the great deeds that lay before him. Now Albekizan’s eyes looked dark and tired. Indeed, everything about the king seemed weary, from the rarely seen downward turn of his neck to the heavy way he slouched onto the throne pedestal and hissed, “Speak.”
“Sire,” Kanst said, his voice deep, strong, and vibrating with anticipation. “I apologize for calling this assembly at such short notice. I’ve returned from my mission earlier than planned to bring you a gift.”
“A gift?” Tanthia said, with barely concealed anger. “You come to report the death of my sister-in-law, do you not? What possible motivation could you have had to perpetrate such an outrage?”
“My queen, I regret the loss of Chakthalla, but she was harboring the fugitive, Vendevorex. There was no time to send for further orders. We had to launch a daring assault, relying on surprise to best a superior-”
“Kanst,” Albekizan interrupted, raising his bejeweled claws dismissively. “I know this. The news traveled more swiftly than your army. Save your battle tales for the amusement of others. I am only interested in the heart of the rumors. Did you capture Bitterwood?”
“Sire,” Kanst said, “honor requires me to speak of the role the cunning hunter Zanz-”
“Pay attention,” Albekizan said, again cutting the general short. “Your answer requires only one word. Is Bitterwood your prisoner?”
“Yes,” Kanst answered. He turned toward one of the side halls leading from the throne room and shouted, “Bring forth the prisoner!”
Pertalon, a sky-dragon Metron recognized as a victor from the martial games, marched into the room, his sinister teeth flashing in the torchlight as he barked, “Faster, worm!”
The command was a cruel one, for its target was a human who had little choice in his speed. His long, powerful legs were manacled, with barely enough chain to let him hobble along. His well-muscled arms were shackled behind him with chains as thick as those used on ox-dogs. Pertalon controlled the prisoner by means of a long pole capped with a metal ring which was in turn connected to an identical ring on a steel collar locked around the captive’s neck. Aside from the metal that bound him, the prisoner was unclothed. Human faces were often deeply lined with emotions-fear, anger, shame-that Metron could read as simply as he read the written word on a piece of parchment. This man was different, his lips and eyes locked into utter blankness. What else would he expect from the legendary Bitterwood?
“Bow to your superiors, dog!” Pertalon said, swinging his tail around to smack his captive behind the knees before pushing him forward with the neck pole until he was prostrate.
Metron looked again at the king, expecting to see the lightning return to his visage. However, Albekizan still appeared lethargic, and if he received any pleasure at all at seeing his enemy humiliated, his face failed to show it.
“This is him?” Albekizan asked, sounding bored.
“Yes, Sire,” Zanzeroth said. “I’m the one who bested him.”
“So I see,” Albekizan said. “It’s obvious by the numerous wounds you bear, and the absence of wounds upon him.”
“I defeated him with wits, Sire,” Zanzeroth said.
“No wonder he’s unbruised,” Albekizan said.
Tanthia suddenly rose, tears now plainly visible in her eyes. “Lies!” she cried. “This is not the murderer of my son!”
“But, my queen,” protested Zanzeroth, “I witnessed this man as he took my eye. I struggled with him in mortal combat in the throne room of Chakthalla’s castle. No dragon alive can speak more authoritatively as to the identity of this prisoner. I tell you, this is the man.”
Tanthia looked as if she might charge across the room and strike Zanzeroth in her anger. She shouted, “You fool! This is Chakthalla’s personal slave. She calls him ‘Pet.’ I’ve seen him before, many times. You recognize him, don’t you?” she said, addressing Albekizan.
“I pay little attention to slaves. Perhaps he does look familiar.”
“As I should!” the human said.
“Silence!” Pertalon shouted, twisting the pole to choke his prisoner.
Albekizan shifted on his pedestal. “Let him speak.”
“It’s true I disguised myself as Chakthalla’s slave,” Pet said, rising to his knees. “How better to infiltrate your castles? Chakthalla was present at the ceremonial competition between Bodiel and Shandrazel. I was to wait in her quarters during the ceremony. Instead I slipped out to perform the murder!”
“For one who’s spent long years hiding in shadows, you seem eager to confess,” Albekizan said.
“I’ve nothing to be ashamed of,” Pet said, throwing back his muscular shoulders. “I’m proud to have killed Bodiel. Set me loose and give me my bow, and I’ll kill you all where you stand!”
Metron held his breath, expecting Albekizan’s rage to at last ignite. Instead the king asked only, “Why?”
Metron noted a crack in Pet’s demeanor, a look of confusion as if he hadn’t expected to be asked the question. Then the cool mask again claimed his features as he answered, “Because I hate you. I hate how humans are made slaves. I seek to kill dragons until such time as men live free.”
“How noble,” Albekizan said. “Fighting for your fellow men.”
“I do what I must,” Pet answered. “I would fight you now, at this moment, if I were free.”
“I believe you,” Albekizan said.
“Sire,” Zanzeroth said, “I crave to be this man’s executioner. With your word, I will end his life.”
“I shall consider the request,” Albekizan said. “Now, all of you, go. Take Bitterwood to the dungeons and secure him while I consider his fate.”
“Yes, Sire,” Zanzeroth said. As he turned, Metron felt sure he witnessed a look of sly satisfaction in the hunter’s good eye.
Pertalon dragged Pet away.
