Vendevorex allowed his circle of invisibility to break apart. He stood ten feet away with the body of the aerial guard at his feet. The guard clawed helplessly at his jaws, emitting small, muffled grunts through his flared nostrils. The skin around his mouth was melted together. Large talon-shaped holes had been burned into his wings; he would never fly again.
“When your brothers find you and cut your mouth open, I want you to give them a message for me,” Vendevorex growled. His eyes glowed as if lit by an internal sun. “My decision to run should not be interpreted as a sign that I am weak or defenseless. Anyone who attempts pursuit will face a fate much worse than yours. If I didn’t want you to tell your brothers this, I would have killed you already. You live only because you retain this slight usefulness to me.”
The guard rolled to his back on the rocky bank, still clawing at his immobile mouth. Jandra turned away, feeling sick.
“Let’s go,” Vendevorex said, moving to her side. “Upriver, toward Richmond. You’ll find it easier to maintain the invisibility while we walk.”
She nodded, noting the coolness in his voice, the utter lack of remorse for the way he’d just maimed the guard for life. She didn’t look back as she raised a field of invisibility around them. They headed west along the riverbank, watching the skies for further signs of pursuit.
CHAPTER FIVE: WOUNDS
Zanzeroth took advantage of the chaos in the war room to slip away. Albekizan was shouting orders to Kanst, who was shouting orders to Bander, who shouted orders to the soldiers. Zanzeroth had known the king since he was a mere fledgling. Zanzeroth could remember the sharp, eager young dragon who’d accompanied him on hunts, long ago. Albekizan had been a most cunning stalker of prey in his prime. It pained Zanzeroth to see how age had changed the king into a creature that now confused shouting for action.
As he found the next drop of the wizard’s blood around the corner, Zanzeroth felt the despair that had gripped him earlier lighten a bit. Even with half his sight, he could still follow wounded prey. Of course the wizard was no challenge, not at the moment. Zanzeroth need not follow a trail to find him. The wizard’s next move may as well have been marked on a map. He would head straight for Jandra.
But Zanzeroth had bigger prey in mind, and a bigger challenge. What had happened to Bitterwood? Earlier he’d been held back by Albekizan, slowed by the all but useless Gadreel, and even the ox-dogs had led him on a wild goose chase. Zanzeroth had allowed himself, over the years, to become part of the king’s court, to be a member of a crowd. It had been too long since he hunted alone.
Of course, by now, Bitterwood’s trail would be cold. But was it only coincidence that Cron had led Bodiel straight into Bitterwood’s trap? Could Metron be right about the deeds of Bitterwood being the responsibility of more than one man? It would provide an interesting challenge to hunt down the men who could actually answer these questions.
Metron watched from the balcony as the aerial guard flew in ever-widening circles in search of Vendevorex. It would be for naught. Ever since Vendevorex appeared in the court all those years ago, dazzling Albekizan with his mystic powers, Metron had known this day would come. Vendevorex had never shown anything but grudging deference to Albekizan. Metron had known all along that Vendevorex, despite his apparent power, was nothing but a fraud. After all, who better to spot a fellow fraud than he?
Still he wished that Vendevorex had cooperated. As High Biologian, he understood deeply the irony of the king’s plans for genocide. Fraud or no, the wizard didn’t lack compassion or wisdom, and could perhaps have changed what was to come. A kindhearted fraud had to be preferable to an honestly wicked dragon such as Blasphet.
“Have they found him yet?” Albekizan asked from inside the war room.
“Sire,” Metron said. “I fear the wizard has escaped.”
The king’s claws scraped on the marble floor. Metron looked back to see the king’s massive head jutting through the doorway to peer out over the forest. With his neck extended, Albekizan’s face was level with Metron’s. Metron was used to looking up to Albekizan’s presence. To have their eyes on the same level was mildly unnerving. Albekizan possessed the head of the world’s most effective predator; his powerful jaws were large enough to snap through a man’s torso with his sharp, knifelike teeth. Though he wasn’t in danger, a chill still ran down Metron’s spine as he contemplated the imposing natural weaponry of the sun-dragon. No wonder these beasts ruled the world.
Albekizan studied the horizon with another biological advantage of the sun-dragons: forward-facing eyes with vision sharp enough to put an owl to shame. After a moment of scanning the surrounding skies, the king said, “The wizard will keep running. Invisibility, when you consider it, is the ultimate refuge of a coward. He’ll run back to the Ghostlands, or wherever he came from. He’s no threat.”
“Yes, Sire,” said Metron.
“It’s lucky I kept Blasphet alive all these years,” Albekizan said. “He’ll take to the task more willingly, I wager.”
“Sire, have you considered the dangers of releasing Blasphet? He was jailed not for poisoning humans but for poisoning dragons. Tanthia won’t be pleased to learn that her brother’s murderer walks free once more.”
The king tilted his head to look upon Metron, as if giving consideration to his words. He looked as if he were about to speak, then stopped.
Metron, sensing doubt, started to press his argument. “Tanthia has always been-”
“I will explain the matter to her,” Albekizan said, cutting him off. “She will want Bitterwood dead. She’s blinded by grief at the moment… but I know, in the morrow, my queen will thirst for justice. It’s in her royal blood. Blasphet’s dangerous, yes. But so is fire. Properly handled, both can be powerful tools.”
“He’s here,” Kanst said from inside the war room.
Metron left the sunwashed balcony and followed Albekizan into the shadowy room. His sight was blocked by Albekizan’s broad, crimson back. Metron moved to the side for a better view. In the center of the world map stood a withered sun-dragon, the scales of his wings so long hidden from light they had lost all color, becoming transparent, revealing the black hide beneath. Blasphet’s eyes, red as sunset, burned as he looked upon the king. He shook his manacled limbs, causing the heavy iron chains to clatter. The earth-dragons who guarded him flinched at the noise.
Their skittishness was justified. Blasphet had killed thousands of dragons; the true numbers were uncertain as his preferred weapon was poison. Many of his victims died in their sleep or with the symptoms of a wasting fever. The number was further complicated by the fact that, in his prime, Blasphet had founded a cult in which a loyal band of humans worshipped him as a god and carried out assassinations in his name. It had taken years to track down and kill the cult members after Blasphet had been imprisoned.
“Albekizan,” said Blasphet, the Murder God. His voice was raspy, as if he hadn’t spoken in years. He bowed slightly then gave a spooky, moldy chuckle. “I know why I’m here. The news has reached even the dark hole you keep me in. If you plan to accuse me of Bodiel’s death, I can only express my deepest regrets that you’ve blamed the wrong dragon.”
Albekizan reared up, his shoulders held back. He puffed out his chest, making himself as physically imposing as possible. He said, in his firmest tone, “Blasphet, if I thought you had harmed my son, only your head would be brought before me now. Your body would be digesting in the bowels of my ox-dogs.”
Blasphet seemed unimpressed by the king’s bravado. “Tanthia would no doubt be pleased with that turn of events. Is she still unhappy you kept me alive after I killed Terranax?”