As she thought about the atlas, it loomed in the air before her, luminous yet convincingly solid. She reached out to the floating book and opened its cover. Her head tingled as the helmet reached into a thousand folds of her brain simultaneously, reconstructing the book from memories.
Stunned by the detail of the maps before her, she realized, with a sudden thrill, that every book she'd ever studied lurked in the hidden corners of her mind. Would the reconfiguration of her brain that Vendevorex had told her about produce total recall? Would every page of every book she'd glimpsed be available with just a thought?
No wonder Vendevorex had always seemed like such a know it all.
Chapter Six:
Judgment by Swine
Bant Bitterwood thought the valley below looked like a giant's patchwork quilt, as squares of tan fields jutted up against blocks of gray trees. In the distance were mountains, the peaks barely visible through blue haze. Zeeky didn't seem interested in the scenery. Zeeky, a nine-year old girl with golden hair and dirty cheeks, only had eyes for animals. It was she who guided their mount, Killer, a barrel-chested ox-dog that carried two humans and a pig on his back as if they weighed no more than kittens. Zeeky was currently occupied teaching the pig to talk.
'Zeeky,' she said.
Poocher, the pig, squealed, 'Eee-ee.'
Bitterwood hoped the pig would provide Zeeky better conversation than he could. Though he tried to hide it from Zeeky, he was currently wracked with fevers. The wounds he'd suffered when the dragon king Albekizan had buried his dagger-length teeth into him had festered. Yellow-brown puss glued his shirt to his torso and soaked through his makeshift bandages.
Bitterwood sucked in a sharp, pained breath as Killer slipped on a slick rock along the stream bed they followed. The ox-dog was as steady a mount as could be hoped for, and Zeeky's praise brought out an exceptional gentleness in him. Still, the terrain was rugged, and the broken things inside Bitterwood cut ever deeper.
Bitterwood found the sharp focus of the pain a welcome distraction. It brought him momentary relief from the torment of his memories. He never intended to survive his final battle with Albekizan. He'd nearly died beneath that river, drawn toward a light where he found his beloved wife, Recanna, dead to him for twenty years.
She'd told him to turn back.
She'd told him he wasn't ready.
For twenty years, Bitterwood had slain dragons, never wavering in his conviction that his cause had been just. Had he been turned away from death to continue that fight? Or had heaven shunned him because the struggle had warped him beyond redemption? Had twenty years with nothing but murder in his heart changed him into a worse monster than the creatures he battled?
'You can end this,' Recanna had said.
Bitterwood picked at those words like a scab. End what? End his struggle against the dragons? Or did she mean he wasn't finished with the war, that he still had the power to end it by continuing to fight? Had she been telling him his life's work had been worthwhile? Or had it all been a mission of vanity?
Perhaps it had only been the dream of a drowning man. Could he tell the difference between dreams and reality any longer, after the life he'd led?
'Zeeky,' said Zeeky.
'Eee-ee,' said Poocher.
The ox-dog paused to drink from a pool of clear water at the stream's edge. Crayfish darted about the rocky pool, above a carpet of corn-yellow leaves. Bant grew more alert as he saw the crayfish. Despite his fever, he felt his appetite stirring.
'Any objection to me eating those?' Bant asked, pointing toward the darting figures.
Zeeky stared intently at the pool as she pondered the question.
'They aren't saying anything,' she said, her face relaxing. 'I guess it's okay.'
Zeeky wouldn't let him eat anything she could talk to. Fortunately, not all animals met this criterion. She didn't seem to have any special rapport with bugs or fish, but late at night he'd caught her gossiping with owls, and she could be downright chatty with Killer and Poocher. Poocher was a few months old, no longer at an age where he could be called a piglet, not yet a full-fledged hog. He was at an awkward stage in a pig's life, too long and hairy to be cute, yet still too skinny to make a man think longingly of bacon. Poocher had a mostly white hide marked with patches of glossy black, and his dark eyes would sometimes fix on Bitterwood with a contemptuous gaze that caused Bitterwood to look away.
Bitterwood knelt next to the pool. Even in his weakened state, the swiftly darting crayfish didn't stand a chance. Long ago, his hands had been bitten off by a dragon, and an angel-or perhaps a devil-had given him new ones. She'd also altered his eyes and arms, leaving him fast enough to empty a quiver in under a minute, with every arrow finding its target. The crawfish may as well have been frozen in place as his agile fingers dashed about the pool, quickly gathering a score of the fat mud-bugs.
'We should stop here for the night,' Bitterwood said, looking up at the darkening sky. 'I'll start a fire.'
'I want to keep moving,' Zeeky said. 'I think we're close. The air has a familiar smell to it. We're almost home.'
Killer looked up from drinking and let out a quick snort.
'Oh, all right, I know you're tired, stop complaining,' said Zeeky. 'That's two votes to one. What about you, Poocher?'
Poocher lowered his head in a human-like nod and gave a squeal that made Zeeky frown.
'I know you're hungry,' she said. 'You're always hungry. Oh, all right. We'll make camp here. Go ahead and start the fire, Mister Bitterwood.'
She said Bitterwood in a mocking tone. Zeeky knew Bitterwood only by legend, a near mythic dragon-slayer, a hero of humanity. Bant looked nothing like anyone's hero. His hair was thinning; he was missing quite a few teeth, and, though he was strong and wiry, he wasn't as tall as a hero should be. His clothes were little more than rags, and twenty years of survival beneath an open sky had left him with a face of wrinkled leather.
It wasn't important to him who she thought he was. Though they journeyed together, in truth each traveled alone. They were refugees, survivors of Albekizan's death camp. Except for the mundane details of travel, they had little to discuss. Zeeky was usually too busy talking to animals to allow bad memories to sweep over her. Bitterwood was nothing but his bad memories. Strip away the ghosts that haunted him, and his skin would collapse like an emptied sack.
Poocher bounded off into the woods to search for mushrooms and edible roots for dinner. Bitterwood pulled a wad of charred cotton wrapped in waxed parchment from his pocket. He set to work striking his fire flints together to make sparks. A moment later a tendril of acrid smoke rose from the cotton. He knew the smell well. It was the exact smell of the blackened remains of one of Adam's diapers. It was an odor that had haunted him for twenty years. He lifted the black cotton to his lips and gently blew, giving birth to a delicate flame. He lowered it to the bed of twigs he'd prepared.
Zeeky had the pig and the dog for companionship and protection. The small useful role Bitterwood served in her world was maker-of-fire. It was enough. It was the one thing he could do that made him feel as if his continued existence served some purpose.
As the flames grew, he arranged the crayfish on a stone facing the fire. Some were still alive, struggling to crawl away. He pressed down on their backs, breaking them, until they could do nothing but lie there and cook.
'How close are we?' Zeeky asked.
'You said it smelled like home,' he said. 'Your nose is pretty smart. After we follow this stream across the valley, we'll be at what's left of Chakthalla's castle. The town of Winding Rock was near it. You say your village was close?'
'Big Lick,' said Zeeky. She sighed. 'I miss everyone. Even Papa.'
'Still think he'll try to eat the pig?' Bitterwood asked.
'He's learned his lesson,' Zeeky said, in a firm, matter of fact way that spooked Bitterwood. For a little girl far from home and family, she sometimes sounded as if she were in control of the world.
The crayfish were turning red. Bitterwood snatched one up, snapped it in two, and chewed on the steaming
