“Why did you kill your friend?” he asked.
“He was no friend!” Tulk shouted. “He was a filthy Kamonite!” Tulk spat, the spittle landing on Zanzeroth’s leg. “His kind shall not be suffered to live!”
“I see,” said Zanzeroth. “Since you’re in a talkative mood, I want you to tell me what you know about Bitterwood.”
“Bitterwood?” Tulk asked, plainly bewildered. “Why do you want to hear ghost stories?”
From the tone, Zanzeroth could tell this wasn’t a bluff. Tulk knew nothing of Bitterwood’s involvement. “If it wasn’t Bitterwood, who killed Bodiel?”
“I don’t know!” said Tulk. “Neither Cron nor I knew Bodiel was dead until we were told so.”
“By whom?” Zanzeroth asked, giving the dangling human’s leg a jerk.
“I didn’t see him!” said Tulk, his voice cracking with pain. “Cron and Stench said it was the king’s wizard. But I never saw him. I only heard a voice in the night.”
“You are proving to be something of a disappointment,” said Zanzeroth. “Shouting out the answers is robbing me of a good excuse to torture you.”
“There’s no need for that,” said Tulk, sounding resigned. “You’ve caught me. I’m a slave. Just take me back.”
“So you can escape again? I don’t think so. And as a slave, may I point out that you disobeyed a direct order to fight me? And killed a man who might have? I don’t think I need to wait for Albekizan’s orders to know your fate.”
Zanzeroth lifted the human higher. He carried him to the smoking barrel.
“Please,” said Tulk. “I’ve told you everything I know!”
“I believe you,” said Zanzeroth. Then he lowered the struggling man headfirst through the flames into the smoky liquid. Tulk splashed and struggled, sending the foul smelling goop everywhere for a moment or two. Zanzeroth grimaced, knowing this wasn’t something he would enjoy licking from his talons.
Tulk’s struggles grew increasingly feeble. He fell still, then kicked once more. Then once again, before his muscles went slack.
Finally, Zanzeroth dropped him into the barrel. He stepped back, gathering his prized swords. Some of the horrible fluid had splashed onto one of the blades. If this didn’t corrode the finish, nothing would. Zanzeroth glanced back at the half dozen drunken men who still held their positions, staring at him in terror.
“Gentlemen,” said Zanzeroth. He tilted his head toward the bar. “Drinks are on me.”
Then with a leap and a flap, he took to the sky.
As night fell, the dragons assembled at the edge of the Burning Ground. This ceremonial field was a circle many hundred yards across, the ground now permanently blackened with the soot of many generations of funeral pyres. Earth-dragon guards stood around the edges, their bodies painted in solemn ceremonial hues of gray. They stood as still as statues as the royalty of the kingdom strode past.
At the center of the dark circle was a tower of pine logs and, atop a platform at the peak, Bodiel rested, surrounded by flowers. The air was rich with the scent of pine.
This was the first time Albekizan had seen either of his sons since the previous night. He glanced toward the piled logs that bore Bodiel’s corpse. For a brief instant, he thought he saw his beloved son breathe once more. It was only a trick of the light as the warm evening breeze sent a ripple across Bodiel’s feather-scales.
Shandrazel stood defiantly before Albekizan. The king studied his surviving son. He should have felt pride. Shandrazel had grown into a marvelous specimen. The prince was equal to Albekizan in size; his scales had the richness and luster of rubies, his face bore the sharp, clean lines of his noble heritage. It was only when the king looked into his eyes that he felt his heart sag. Bodiel’s eyes had always been proud. Bodiel’s eyes were windows through which his strength and fire could be seen. Bodiel’s eyes were eyes that watched the world, constantly searching for threat and opportunity. Bodiel had possessed the eyes of a warrior born.
Shandrazel had none of these qualities. He had the eyes of a dragon who looked primarily within himself. There had always been an introspective, contemplative side to Shandrazel that Albekizan recognized as weakness. Shandrazel was a dragon who valued thought over action.
“You disappoint me, Shandrazel,” Albekizan said. “It breaks my heart to reward your cowardly performance in the contest. Only countless generations of tradition lead me to say what I will say next. By default, I decree that you have won the contest with Bodiel. As your reward, you are to be banished. Should we ever lay eyes upon one another again, it must be in mortal combat.”
“If I refuse?” said Shandrazel.
“You will not refuse,” Albekizan growled.
Metron, who stood beside the king, said, “It is the way, Shandrazel. It is written in the Book of Theranzathax that the victor of the contest must flee from his father. Return only when you feel strong enough to defeat him. In this way the kingdom will be assured a mightier king.”
“I didn’t win the contest. I didn’t even chase the human.”
“When one of the contestants is slain, the other wins. It is written,” said Metron.
“I know what’s written. I don’t choose to obey the words of someone who died ten centuries ago. There’s no logic behind them. Father, you boast of having conquered the entirety of the world. Where, precisely, am I to flee?”
“Shandrazel,” Albekizan said, “if you do not flee now, I will slay you where you stand.”
Shandrazel looked into Albekizan’s eyes. Albekizan steeled himself, letting no hint of regret show in his features. In Shandrazel’s eyes, he could see confusion. Shame welled up in Albekizan’s soul. How could his royal bloodline have produced such a weak, unpromising candidate for the throne?
“But-” said Shandrazel.
“Go!” Albekizan cried, lunging forward. If Shandrazel didn’t leave, Albekizan felt sure that he would sink his teeth into his son’s throat, even though it would break all law and tradition.
Shandrazel stepped back, cast one last glance toward his sobbing mother, then turned and opened his wings to the night sky. In minutes he was only a small dark shadow against the stars. Shooting stars began to slip from the heavens like tears.
Albekizan walked back to Tanthia’s side.
“Light the pyre,” Metron said.
The choir of sky-dragons rose in pitch as the heat of the torch touched the kindling. The fire ate hungrily, rising quickly up the stacked wood to lick at the flowers wreathing Bodiel. The smoke soon took on the acrid aroma of burning scales.
Metron opened the ancient leather-bound tome he held. He spoke the words written in the Book of Theranzathax without ever glancing down at the text.
“Asrafel crawled onto a bed of dry branches, and poured oil on his fevered brow, and called for his children.
“And he spoke, ‘In the winter, we breathe steam, for within we are flame. The fever that burns me is the flame of my own life, and no longer shall my skin stand between the world and myself. As long as this flame burns, I am alive, and as smoke I shall mingle among you. You shall breathe me and I will become part of you, and as I touch your eyes you shall cry, not in sorrow, but in joy, for I am with you still.’
“As he spoke the oil upon his brow smoldered, and the flame within him burst free, to blaze in the night. His children took up branches from the flame, and forever nourished these torches, using the light of Asrafel to carve the world from darkness.”
Metron closed the book and approached the bonfire that now howled with life. He placed an unlit torch into the fire and when he pulled it forth it burned with the presence of Bodiel. Metron turned to stand before Tanthia.
“Take this flame and never let it die. May the love of your son blaze hot and bright.”