"Bitterwood" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maxey James)

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 of goat heads, albeit goats covered in smooth, opalescent scales. With a grunt, he cut out the beast’s tongue.

Moments later, a fire had been built and now the tongue sizzled on the flat rock at the center, giving the smoke an oily, fishy tinge. To pass the time as the tongue cooked, the hunter searched the contents of the dragon’s satchel. Food, of course. A bottle of wine wrapped in burlap, a loaf of rock hard bread powdered with flour, two apples, some eel jerky. He also discovered a fist-sized crock capped with oily parchment bound with string. He punched through the parchment and recoiled at the stench. The crock was filled with strong-smelling horch; a paste that dragons loved that consisted of fish guts and chilies ground together then buried in a ceramic jar and fermented. The hunter tossed the jar as far into the woods as his arm could heave it.

Turning his attention once more to the satchel, the hunter found a map, a rolled-up blanket of padded green silk, and a small jar of ink. He sniffed the cap and judged the ink to be made from vinegar and walnut husks. Several quills crafted from the dragon’s own feather-scales were in the bag. No wonder the beasts fancied themselves scholars – they were covered with the tools of writing.

The hunter paused to examine a leather-bound book, the linen paper a pristine white, the opening pages covered with sketches and notes about flowers. The drawings were meticulous. Rendered in dark walnut ink, the flowers had a life and beauty. The blossoms swelled on the page seductively enough to tempt bees.

The hunter ripped out the drawings and fed them to the crackling fire. The paper writhed as if alive, curling, crumbling into large black leaves that wafted upward with the smoke, the inky designs still faintly visible until they vanished in the dark sky.

The hunter used his knife to retrieve the roasted tongue and sat back against the tree, oblivious to the blood soaking the trunk. As he chewed his meal, he stared at the ink bottle. It stirred memories. Memories for the hunter were never a good thing.

After he finished the tongue, he wiped his fingers on his grungy cloak. He picked up the book, contemplating the remaining blank pages. Opening the bottle of ink, he dipped the quill and drew a jagged, uneven line upon the page. He tried again, drawing a circle, the line flowing more evenly this time. Across the top of the page he began to write “A B C D E…” and it all came back to him.

Dipping the quill once more, he turned the page and wrote in cautious, even letters, “In the beginning.” He stopped and drew a line through the words. He turned the page and stared at the fresh parchment, so white. White like an apple blossom. White like a young bride’s skin. He lowered the quill to the page.

Dear Recanna,

I have thought of you often. What I would say if I could see you again. What I should have said those many years ago.

Twenty years. Twenty years since last I heard your voice. Twenty years I’ve been at war, alone.

If only

Here the hunter stopped. If only. These were weak words, regretful. They had no room in his heart. This was not a night to lose himself in memory and melancholy. Tomorrow was an important day. The most honored ritual of the dragons was scheduled, and he had a special, unscripted role to play.

If only.

The hunter closed the cover on those cursed words and placed the book upon the coals.

Flames licked the edges, dancing before his eyes like ghosts.

THE DRUMMERS BEAT their rhythm as the choir of sky-dragons burst into song, filling the great hall with celestial music. Jandra shivered with excitement as the ceremony began. She was sixteen now, and this was the first time she’d persuaded Vendevorex to allow her to attend the contest. For centuries the sun-dragons had used this ritual as the first step toward the enthronement of a new ruler. She would be the first human to ever witness the ceremony.

More precisely, she reminded herself, she would be the first human to ever witness the ceremony and survive. She looked at the two human slaves in their cages across the room. She knew her sympathy should lie with them. Alas, it was difficult to feel any connection to the brutish, wild-eyed men in the cages. Wearing her blue satin gown with an elaborate peacock headdress, Jandra felt more kinship with the dragons that surrounded her.

She sat beside Vendevorex, her mentor. A sky-dragon and the king’s personal wizard, Vendevorex was widely hailed as the most clever dragon in the kingdom. As such, the exotic quirks of his personality were given broad tolerance. Jandra was one such quirk. She’d been raised since infancy by Vendevorex, and now trained as his apprentice.

Jandra looked around the great hall, at the eyes of the assembled dragons. They all had a look of disdain as they gazed toward her, from the brutish, thick-muscled earth-dragons, to the elite, scholarly sky-dragons who sat around the vast chamber on their elegant silk mats.

Only the immense sun-dragons didn’t look upon her with scorn, because they didn’t look upon her at all.

The sun-dragons were the nobility of the dragon clans. Twice the size of sky-dragons, they ruled the world with their heads held high in the regal air that came so naturally to them. The sun-dragons sported fiery red scales that faded to orange at the tips. Wispy white feathers lined their snouts, giving the illusion that they breathed smoke.

The drummers and the choir reached a crescendo as King Albekizan and his queen, Tanthia, appeared in the sky, their bright scales in dramatic contrast against the dark storm clouds behind them, tinted a rich red by the sunset. The ceremonial hall was a vast circle hundreds of yards in diameter, half covered with a dome and half open to the sky. Albekizan swooped into the hall, the wind from his wings causing the ceremonial torches that lined the perimeter to flicker. The air took on the scents of patchouli and lavender -the queen’s favorite perfumes- as she swooped to rest behind him.The king’s dagger-like claws clicked on the marble floor as he crossed the room in a stiff and formal march. Dragons were bipedal, and when no one was watching them, they walked in a fashion that reminded Jandra of birds, big, toothy, scaly chickens to be exact. But, in court, they held their backs and necks unnaturally straight and kept their heads high, emphasizing their great height. Though Vendevorex was seated directly next to the king, Albekizan didn’t bother to glance at them as he took his position on the huge mound of gold cushions that covered the raised dais of his throne. The queen took her place beside him atop a smaller mound of pillows. Two earth-dragons quickly rushed to either side of Tanthia, fanning her with wands of woven palm fronds. When the king and queen had settled into their seats, the drums and choir abruptly stopped.

At the rear of the chamber stood a set of enormous golden doors that lead to the bowels of the earth. In the silence the doors slowly swung open, revealing a stooped sky-dragon, Metron, his once blue feathers turned silver by age. Green scarves hung around Metron’s neck, denoting his office: the High Biologian, keeper of the ancient secrets. He hobbled forward, supporting himself with a gnarled staff as his crooked body trembled with the effort of remaining upright. Despite his infirmity, Metron commanded respect. The assembled dragons lowered their eyes in reverence.

Metron swayed as he stood before Albekizan, and Jandra wondered for a moment if the old dragon was about to collapse. The strength in Metron’s eyes allayed her fears. The High Biologian turned his back to the king to gaze out upon the sunset. It seemed as if the entire room held its breath. All that could be heard was faint thunder and the torches fretting in the rising wind.

Then, above the wind came the flapping of gigantic wings. Long shadows raced across the hall as Albekizan’s sons spiraled from the sky, spreading their wings to descend with downy grace in the center of the hall. Bodiel, the younger of the two, was the first to land, his outstretched wings nearly blocking from sight his brother, Shandrazel, who touched down behind him.

Bodiel was radiant. The crimson of his open wings blended with the sunset behind him as if all the sky were part of his being. The wind ruffled his feathery scales, making the mane of his long, serpentine neck flicker like flame. Light played on the rings of gold that pierced his wings. He stretched and relaxed the long, powerful talons at the mid-joint of each wing, displaying sharp claws painted with powdered emerald. The crowd nodded with silent approval at the display. Jandra’s heart fluttered at Bodiel’s beauty.

Shandrazel made no such display, keeping his wings folded. His brooding eyes stayed fixed on the floor. The long, reptilian faces of dragons didn’t display the same range of emotions as humans, but Jandra recognized a scowl when she saw one.

The focus once more shifted to Metron as he began the ritual greeting.

“Glorious salutations, oh mighty Albekizan!” Metron spread his wings as he spoke, and spoke with all the power his old lungs could muster. “You who own the earth, and all who fly above it, and all who walk upon it. We live in the shadow of your magnificent incandescence! Great is your mercy.”

Metron bowed deeply as the assembled dragons lowered their heads to touch the floor. Jandra bowed low, wishing she had a longer neck.

“Greater still is your bounty,” Metron continued, spreading his wings once more. “The seed you planted long ago has produced a bountiful crop. Your sons stand before you, mighty and tall. Their wings span the arcs of the heavens. The fire of their will cannot be quenched by rain, or river, or sea. Each is your pride, each is your promise, and one of them, we pray, will be your death!”

The assembly erupted in cheering as Metron lowered his wings. Twice before during Albekizan’s reign the dragons of the kingdom had gathered to witness this ritual in which the king’s older sons competed to earn the honor of banishment from the kingdom. The hope of the ritual was that a banished son would one day return to overthrow the father, and rule with even greater strength. This was the ritual of succession that had kept Albekizan’s family in power since time immemorial, with strong rulers replaced only by stronger ones. In previous contests the banished sons had returned only to be slain by Albekizan.

This year marked the first time Bodiel was eligible to compete. The king’s youngest son, Bodiel was universally recognized as the dragon most likely to best his father. He was strong, fast, and charming, a master of politics as well as combat. Shandrazel was larger and, most agreed, smarter, but few believed he could prevail. Bodiel possessed the will to win at all costs. The lust for victory boiling in his blood rivaled Albekizan’s and perhaps even surpassed it.

As the sun set, few in the great hall doubted that before dawn Bodiel would defeat his brother, who would be castrated and sent to the libraries to live out the rest of his days in service to Metron. Bodiel would then be granted one day of grace in which to flee the kingdom before all would have the duty to raise their claws against him.

Jandra saw no reason to doubt the consensus of the crowd. She believed that one day Bodiel would return and vanquish his father to seize the kingdom. She hoped he would be a fair and wise ruler.

“Ready the prey!” Metron shouted, tilting his staff toward the open end of the room where a dozen earth-dragons stood guard over the iron cages that held the slave men. The men were lean and tan, their oiled muscles gleaming like brass. Both were rebel slaves famous for their ability to escape; though, as evidenced by their presence, neither had yet perfected the skill of avoiding recapture.

Bodiel would be pursuing Cron, the younger of the two slaves. Shandrazel had the advantage of pursuing Tulk, the older slave. Tulk, though strong and wily, was rumored to be nearsighted. Jandra had reason to wonder if this was true because, from across the room, Tulk was staring at her. Jandra again felt a stirring of guilt. She was in awe of the ritual she was witnessing, swept up in the grandeur. Shouldn’t she feel some remorse over the fates of the slaves? She averted her eyes, unable to watch Tulk’s face. She stared at the sleeves of her gown, stitched with metallic blue thread to resemble the scales of a sky-dragon.

The thick-muscled earth-dragons grunted as they wheeled the iron cages to small doors in the rugged stone wall. Beyond the doors were mazes, and beyond the mazes lay the vast forest.

“Release the prey,” Metron said, lowering his staff to the ground with a crisp snap. On cue, the drummers pounded a bass rhythm that filled the night air. The cages rattled open. Tulk tripped as he left his cage. The crowd gasped. Jandra looked up to see Tulk jumping back to his feet. Tulk cast her one last glance then turned from her, vanishing into the dark tunnel. The crowd murmured in hushed tones. A human stumbling from the cage was a bad omen.

“Humans these days are worthless,” Albekizan said, addressing the High Biologian. “In my youth the humans had more spirit. They were always finding sharp rocks to wield as weapons, or hiding in tiny caves. I remember how one doubled back and hid within the palace for two days before being captured. Now, the slaves run blindly, leaving a trail of excrement any fool could follow. Why can’t we find good prey anymore, Metron?”

“Sire, the laws of nature are strict,” the sage dragon answered. “For centuries we have culled the finest men from the villages, only to kill them for their excellence. The breed must inevitably decline.”

Vendevorex startled Jandra by interrupting the conversation between the king and the High Biologian.

“Perhaps, Sire, a moratorium on the sport of hunting humans might improve things,” Vendevorex said. “If you banned the sport for a century, the human stock could recover. They breed at a much faster pace than our kind.”

“Bah!” Albekizan snorted, raising his bejeweled right talon dismissively. “You and your softness for humans. They make fine pets and adequate game, but you would let them breed like rabbits. The stench of their villages already sullies my kingdom.”

“Their villages fill your larders with food and your coffers with gold,” Vendevorex said. “Allow the humans to keep more of the fruits of their labors, and they will improve the conditions in which they live. They dwell in squalor only because of your policies.”

“Be silent, wizard,” Albekizan growled. “You shouldn’t speak to me thus.”

“You asked for my opinion, Sire.”

“Did I?”

“Indeed, Sire. Over a decade ago, you commanded me to speak freely in your presence. Your infallible decree still stands to this day, does it not?”

Albekizan ground his teeth and turned away from the wizard. Jandra always feared for her master’s safety during these exchanges. She admired Vendevorex’s boldness, but worried one day Albekizan might be pushed too far.

Metron broke the tense silence by saying, “Sire, it is time. You may give the word.”

Albekizan rose, spreading his wings wide. His voice boomed through the hall: “Let the hunt begin!”

Bodiel leapt into the air. The dragons cheered as he beat his wings against the rising wind and lifted into the darkening night. But the crowd’s cheers changed to whispered confusion seconds later. Shandrazel remained standing in the hall.

The king growled. “It may be you failed to hear me above the thunder. The hunt has begun! Go!”

“Father,” Shandrazel said, then paused to take a breath. After a moment he looked up, facing the king squarely. He said in a firm but respectful tone, “You know my feelings. I do not desire your throne. I will not hunt Tulk. This ceremony is archaic and cruel. There is no need for blood to be shed. Simply appoint Bodiel as your successor. Your word is law.”

“And you are breaking that law!” Albekizan shouted, spittle spraying the floor before him. “I command you to hunt!”

Jandra drew closer to Vendevorex who wrapped a wing around her.

Shandrazel stood unflinching before his father’s anger. With a shrug he said, “I am indeed breaking your law. Command the guards to arrest me. I won’t resist.”

Albekizan leapt from his pillows and raced toward Shandrazel. He pulled up short of his rebellious son, their eyes locked. The king’s muscles tensed visibly beneath his hide. He stood frozen in rage but Shandrazel did not back down.

All the dragons in the room averted their eyes. No one wanted to witness this shameful confrontation between the king and his son. No dragon would risk the king’s wrath by staring. So most heads were turned to watch events outside the hall. The edge of the storm had reached them and rain began to splatter on the marble floor. Illuminated by the still distant lightning, Bodiel could barely be seen gliding low over the treetops nearly a mile distant, searching the foliage for signs of his prey.

Then, Bodiel folded his wings back and dove into the forest, swift as an arrow racing toward its target. Lightning flashed again, now much closer, momentarily blinding Jandra. The thunder made her jump. Vendevorex hugged her more tightly. When her vision cleared, Bodiel had vanished.

“Oh!” Queen Tanthia cried. “Oh no!”

“What is it, my love?” Albekizan asked. “Is our rebellious son breaking your heart?”

“It’s the shadows,” Tanthia said, quivering. “The shadows in the room have grown so dark. I feel their chill in my soul.”

Albekizan turned his back to Shandrazel to face Tanthia. Calmly he said, “There’s nothing to fear.”

Almost as if his saying it had made it so, the night fell quiet. The thunder faded and the wind shifted, silencing the rain for an instant. At this moment, a mournful, anguished howl rose from the distant forest. Lightning flashed and thunder washed away the voice. The wind twisted, whipping back into the hall with a harsh blast of cold rain, sending the torch flames dancing wildly. Tanthia gasped as one of the torches extinguished, a soul forever lost.

“He’s dead!” Tanthia cried. “My son is dead!”

“No,” Albekizan said, looking out into the storm. “No human could… could…”

The king fell silent then turned and rushed past his rebellious son. He leapt into the rain, catching the wind, climbing into the air. Shandrazel paused, gazing after his father, then glanced back at his mother.

“Please find him,” Tanthia said. “Find him.”

Shandrazel nodded. He walked to the open side of the dome then beat his wings to rise into the night.

Vendevorex took Jandra by the shoulders and whispered, “We should take our leave. The king may need my assistance. It’s best that you wait back in our quarters. I will accompany you.”

Jandra nodded. Vendevorex sprinkled a pinch of silvery dust in the air. The whispers of the assembled crowd let Jandra know he’d just made them invisible. As they moved quietly from the great hall, Jandra watched over her shoulder as Shandrazel faded into the rain.

SHANDRAZEL HATED FLYING in the rain. He disliked the water in his eyes and loathed the way the wind treacherously shifted and vanished beneath his wings. Yet duty drove him, duty and love. Despite their differences, he loved his father and cherished his spirited younger brother. He hoped that no harm had come to either of them. The only real danger he could imagine was if Bodiel had crashed in a sudden downdraft. But even then, he’d been so low over the trees that the crash wouldn’t have been fatal. If Bodiel had been diving in pursuit of Cron, what possible harm could the slave have done? Despite his father’s keenness for the sport of hunting humans, Shandrazel saw no more challenge in it than he did in his mother’s appetite for devouring baskets of white kittens. An unarmed human was a small-toothed, clawless thing. Certainly, Bodiel was safe.

During the confrontation with his father, Shandrazel hadn’t watched where his brother flew. He had no idea where to start his search. He blinked through the rain, trying to make sense of the tangled treetops that rushed beneath him. The jagged ends of broken branches caught his eyes. There was a gap in the forest canopy. Shandrazel descended into a small clearing to find his father already there.

A slain dragon hung in the crook of a tree. It was a sky-dragon, not Bodiel. In the dim light, Shandrazel drew closer. The beetles swarming over the dragon’s body gave testimony that it had hung here for hours. The body stank; the sky-dragon’s bowels had loosened after death. Oddly, just beneath the stench, the air carried the unmistakable mouthwatering scent of horch.

A single arrow jutted from the dragon’s jaw. Shandrazel studied the arrow, which was fletched with a red feather scale from a sun-dragon’s wing; black thread wrapped around its split core fastened it to the slender shaft of ash. He then looked closer at the dragon’s face. He gasped. He knew this dragon.

“His name was Dacorn,” said Shandrazel. “A biologian. He taught me botany during my summer on the Isle of Horses. Who would do such a thing? He was a gentle soul. He had no enemies.”

Albekizan paid no attention to Shandrazel’s words. He, too, had noticed the arrow. He plucked it from the corpse to examine it. It was a tiny thing in Albekizan’s talons, a fragile sliver of wood that Albekizan snapped effortlessly.

Shandrazel raised his long neck and bellowed, “Bodiel!”

“He won’t be answering,” said Albekizan. His father leapt up, knocking aside branches as he caught the air, rising once more to continue his search in the violent rain. Shandrazel tried to follow but the rain made it difficult to see his father, let alone keep up with him. They flew in ever widening circles, searching the trees, and soon Shandrazel had lost all trace of his father. He continued his search, hoping that finding the corpse of his former teacher was only a macabre coincidence.

At length, Shandrazel found Albekizan sitting by the riverbank with Bodiel’s head clutched against his chest. Bodiel’s arrow-riddled, lifeless body lay half in the water – it was possible he’d died further upriver and drifted to rest here. Shandrazel landed, feeling as if his own heart were pierced with an arrow. Never had there been a soul as bold and joyous as Bodiel’s. It seemed impossible that he should be dead.

Shandrazel stepped forward, using his wings to shelter his father from the rain. He froze as Albekizan looked at him. Their gazes locked. Albekizan’s eyes burned with fury, fury and something more, an emotion he’d not seen in his father’s eyes for many years: passion. Albekizan, cradling Bodiel’s dead body, was filled with frightening, fiery life.

Shandrazel stumbled backward, his talons slipping in the muddy earth. The air seemed charged, ready to spark.

The king dropped Bodiel into the mud and rose to his full length. In his fore-talon he held a single arrow and he studied the bright red fletching of the arrow as if he were studying his soul. Lightning struck nearby, again and again, shaking the ground. Fire spouted from the tops of the tallest, most ancient trees. Albekizan didn’t flinch. Shandrazel couldn’t move. As the thunder faded from their ringing ears, Albekizan held the arrow to the sky and shouted a single, bone-chilling word.

“Bitterwood!”