end and his opponent would have no place to go.
“Do you hear it?” Bitterwood said, so near, so near. “The Angel of Death hovers above. He grows weary of waiting. The children are all dead, and the sins return to the fathers.”
Albekizan found a gray cloth stretched over the open trap door leading to the flat, circular roof of the tower. He pulled it aside and squinted as bright sunlight chased away the shadows.
He pressed the cloak to his nostrils. It bore the same scent as the cloak Gadreel had fished from the watery tunnel.
Albekizan rose through the door, and on the tower wall facing him stood a man, his hair gray, his eyes dark. His cheeks were moist with tears. So great was the grief etched in his features that Albekizan actually found his vision fixed upon the face, rather than on the bow held before it, and the red-feathered arrow aimed at him.
“You’ll only live long enough to kill me,” Bitterwood said, slackening the hand that held the bowstring.
The arrow flew home, catching in Albekizan’s throat.
He tried to scream but managed only a gurgling hiss. In silent rage he leapt at his foe who made no move to avoid him. Albekizan closed his outstretched jaws around the human’s belly. Momentum carried them over the wall, and Albekizan stretched his mighty wings to the onrushing wind.
He couldn’t breathe. The man in his jaws grew limp and Albekizan flew on, driven by the emotions piercing him more deeply than arrows. He was dying, and in that was fear. Bitterwood was dying but without a struggle, and in that was frustration. But the frustration gave way to joy as he looked at the earth below. The fall forest had turned bright red, the treetops swaying in the wind like flames dancing, and he was falling, falling, falling toward his eternal pyre, with all the world ablaze.
BITTERWOOD FELT THE king’s jaws slacken as they spun toward the distant ground. What Albekizan’s teeth hadn’t ripped from his body, the ground would. Bitterwood could see the broad, deep river beneath them now, and found a song Hezekiah had taught him passing through his mind.
Shall we gather at the river?
With a splash the water took them, and Bitterwood fell through darkness.
Still alive.
Could nothing kill him? Could nothing end this?
“You can end this,” she said.
Bitterwood looked toward the voice and saw a distant light, and in the light she stood, her body aglow, her hair floating around her in a breeze Bitterwood couldn’t feel.
“Recanna,” he whispered.
“You can end this,” she said once more and turned toward the light.
Bitterwood tried to chase her but his feet had nothing to push against.
“Recanna!” he cried.
She glanced over her shoulder. Her face bore a cryptic smile. “You cannot follow me, not yet. But we may still be together,” she said, as the light around her faded. “You can end this.”
“Recanna!”
She was gone. All was dark. Bitterwood opened his eyes. Sunlight flickered on the water’s surface far above him, bubbles rising from where he had shouted her name. His shirt was snagged in Albekizan’s jaws as the dragon sank to the bottom.
With a single movement of his hand, he could rip the shirt free and fight back to the air above where each breath promised further pain. Or he could sink lower and stop his struggles, and be free of pain forever.
The light grew ever dimmer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: JUSTICE
“FATHER!” SHANDRAZEL’S VOICE echoed throughout the throne room. Shandrazel felt his heart sink when he saw the dead torches throughout the hall. He didn’t truly believe these torches carried the spirits of his ancestors, but it still filled him with sorrow to see them extinguished. Who would have done such a thing?
“Father!” Shandrazel shouted once more. He approached the throne. His nostrils twitched at the scent of blood. He knelt before the throne, spotting a dark, sticky splatter. The blood was now hours old. Perhaps it came from one of the guards? By this time they had discovered a score of corpses.
“No one’s here,” Androkom said, looking around the chamber, sounding a little spooked.
Then, to contradict the biologian’s observation, a familiar voice said, “I’m here. Your father won’t be answering, Shandrazel.”
“Show yourself,” Shandrazel said, looking around the hall.
“I didn’t mean to hide from you,” the source of the voice said, stepping from behind a pillar. It was Metron, looking especially frail and weary as he hobbled toward them. “I wanted to be cautious. I escaped from Blasphet and returned here to report our plight to your father. I arrived to find everyone dead. I heard your father’s voice and followed it to the roof where I saw him flying off with a human held in his jaws. The king crashed into the river and never came back to the surface.”
“You lie,” Shandrazel said.
“No,” Metron said. “My words are truth. You’re king now. You must respect the words of the High Biologian… Sire.”
“So I shall,” Shandrazel said, with a nod of agreement. “However, I’ll not be listening to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“On this day, I accept that I am king. Though I do not intend to remain so for long, I will take advantage of one of the privileges by appointing a new High Biologian. Androkom is my choice.”
“But,” Metron protested, “you may not appoint a new High Biologian until my death.”
“Or until you are convicted of treason. And who is the final judge in such matters?”
“The king…” Metron said.
Shandrazel held forward a slip of paper. “The note you sent Blasphet informing him of our visit and asking him to dispose of us. The penalty, as decreed by all previous kings, is death.”
“But-”
“But,” Shandrazel said, “I’m not like previous kings. Your sentence shall be exile.”
“You must reconsider,” Metron said. “I’ve faithfully served this kingdom for generations. I have nothing but the best interests of all dragons in mind. You cannot do this.”
“I can. Now, speak the truth. Where is my father?”
“I did speak truth in this matter, Sire.”
Shandrazel stood silently for a moment, realizing that Metron was being honest, in this at least.
“So…” he said, sighing deeply. He moved toward the open door of the chamber to gaze upon the clouds beyond. “On this day, I have lost both father and mother, for Blasphet boasts of slaying her as well.”
“I’m sorry,” Androkom said.
“Thank you for your sympathy.” Shandrazel sighed. “I fear I have no time for my own sorrow. Later, I will mourn. But now, I must prepare myself.”
“For what?” Metron asked.
Shandrazel looked out toward the Free City, and the ragged mob that marched from it, headed toward his door.
“For the future,” he said. “If there is to be one.”
THE SUN HUNG low behind the castle yet seemed reluctant to set, on this, the longest day any man had ever seen. Pet felt the weight of the eyes upon him, the eyes of a thousand men, every man of fighting age who had survived the Free City. He looked to Jandra who smiled at him. She’d shown remarkable strength since Vendevorex had passed, moving among the injured, healing those she could. With her help Pet had assembled the men into something not quite an army, yet something more than a mob.
Pet climbed onto the wagon resting at the base of the palace walls. He raised an open hand and the men before him fell silent.
“Today,” Pet said, “we’ve lost almost everything.”
