He looked around. No one was there. Had he imagined it?
He went into the large barn. The structure was long, opening out onto several pens that held pigs. Could pigs sneeze? He thought they could, but he wasn’t certain. He was a soldier, not a farmer.
One by one, he walked down the center of the barn, peeking over the stall doors. Pigs.Pigs. Pigs. Girl. Pigs. Hold on!
He stepped back a stall and pushed open the door. A human child, a little blonde girl maybe eight years-old, huddled in the corner of the stall, her arms wrapped around a small black and white pig.
“Um, hi,” she said, then wiped her nose.
Wyvernoth didn’t answer.
“I just wanted to see him. For a visit,” she said.
“Why do you think I care?” Wyvernoth said, reaching down and grabbing the girl by her arm.
“Ow!” she yelled.
Instantly, the pens and stalls erupted in a cacophony of squeals. Seconds later, the rest of the animals in the neighboring barns joined in; a chaotic chorus of moos, baas, and clucks filled the air. The ox-dogs held in the nearby kennels began to yelp and howl, a sound that brought back bad memories for Wyvernoth.
“See what you’ve done,” he said. “Set ’em all off. You’re in a heap of trouble.”
“You’re hurting my arm,” she cried as he lifted her from the ground and carried her outside. Given the noise, he guessed other guards would get here soon enough. He’d have one of them watch his post while he took her in to the captain. He could wind up looking good for this, especially if he trumped up the charges. He could blame her for the goat that’d gone missing yesterday. That way he’d get to enjoy not only his full belly, but also the fun of pinning the blame on someone else.
As he walked out of the barn, he noticed a figure approaching. He looked up, expecting to see a fellow guard. Instead he saw a tall, dark-robed man, his eyes hidden by the broad, black brim of his hat.
“You there,” the man said. “What upset the ox-dogs?”
Wyvernoth noted that the man had a pack slung across his shoulder, and strapped to the pack was an axe, which worried him, for the man seemed familiar. Had he let this man in? What would his superiors say if they learned that he’d let someone bring in an axe?
An axe.
A broad-brimmed black hat.
An ox-dog.
Suddenly, Wyvernoth recalled quite clearly where he’d seen this man before, twenty years ago.
“Y-you?” Wyvernoth said, his voice trailing off in a little squeal. He dropped the girl who fell roughly to the ground.
“You were one of the soldiers on the road to Christdale,” the man said. “It’s been many years.”
Wyvernoth turned, raised his tail, dropped his spear, and shot off like an arrow.
“You!” Bitterwood shouted, unable to believe this turn of fate. Even after twenty years, the faces of the dragons who’d surrounded the wagon that night and thrust spears at him were burned into his memory.
Bitterwood braced himself as the dragon barreled toward him, wondering why his opponent was charging without a weapon drawn. He could plainly see a sword in the sheath on the dragon’s hip.
The dragon swerved as he approached, his eyes not fixed on Bitterwood but on the path beyond him. Bitterwood realized the dragon wasn’t attacking him, but planned instead to run past him.
“No you don’t,” Bitterwood said, sticking his leg out as the dragon raced by. The impact of leg against leg nearly toppled Bitterwood, so great was the dragon’s speed.
Only a balance honed by years of combat kept him on his feet while the dragon hit the hard-packed earth beak-first. The dragon’s legs flipped over his shoulders and he rolled three times before sliding to a stop on his back.
Bitterwood pounced, landing on the dragon’s chest, locking a hand around the beast’s scaly windpipe while his free hand drew the sword from the dragon’s scabbard.
“Let me go! He’s after me!” the dragon whimpered.
“He’s caught you,” Bitterwood said, looking down into the dark terrified eyes of the dragon. “After all these years, we meet again.”
“What?” the dragon cried. “Are you mad?”
“Yes!” Bitterwood said, tightening his grip on the dragon’s throat. “Don’t pretend you don’t remember. The village of Christdale!”
The dragon’s eyes opened wider. “You! You were with him! The young man in the wagon!”
“Bitterwood,” Jandra said, placing her hand on his shoulder.
“Go away!” Bitterwood snarled. “Don’t try to stop me. He’s one of the ones who killed my wife and children! He dies now!”
Bitterwood raised the sword.
“Please!” the dragon squeaked. “We killed no women or children that day! All but the men were taken into slavery! Please spare me!”
Bitterwood felt his heart skip one beat, two. “What?” he said, lowering the sword.
“Spare me!”
“Slavery?” Bitterwood said, studying the dragon’s eyes. “You sold my family into slavery?”
“Yes. Oh, please let me go, let me go, let me go. He’s after me!”
Bitterwood felt his heart resume beating as hope sparked within him for the first time in memory. Recanna could still be alive. And Ruth, and Mary, and Adam.
The dragon beneath him suddenly stopped squirming. His eyes opened even wider until they looked as if they might pop from his skull. He opened his beak wide to scream but no sound came out.
A long, dark shadow draped over Bitterwood. Suddenly, he understood he wasn’t the one causing this dragon to feel such terror.
“Bant Bitterwood,” a voice said, deep and familiar as thunder. “Your day of reckoning has come.”
Bitterwood gripped the sword in his hand so tightly it trembled. The dragon he held had information he couldn’t afford to lose. He couldn’t let the dragon go, he couldn’t kill him, and he couldn’t take time to think about the problem with Hezekiah stepping closer.
“Jandra,” Bitterwood said. “Run.”
“Why?” she asked, sounding confused. “Who is this?”
“The devil,” Bitterwood said. “Go!”
“Bant Bitterwood,” Hezekiah said, “the Lord is merciful. If you will confess the error of your blasphemy those long years ago, I will spare you.”
“By the bones,” the dragon whispered, tears welling in his eyes. “Let me go. He’ll kill me.”
“You’ll stay until I’m done with you,” Bitterwood said. With a grunt he brought the sword down. The dragon screamed, arching his back in pain, as the tip of the sword was driven through his right shoulder and deep into the hard earth, pinning him.
Bitterwood rolled off the dragon and onto his feet, facing the giant who stood only a yard away and was casually drawing an axe from his pack.
“Who are you?” asked Jandra, who hadn’t run.
“I am Hezekiah, child,” the prophet answered. “I have come to bring the word of the Lord to the people of this new city. The man beside you has turned his back on the Lord and, unless he repents, he must be removed, lest he poison the minds of others with his blasphemy. What say you, Bant Bitterwood? Will you accept the Lord’s mercy?”
“Go to hell,” Bitterwood said, the tight muscles of his legs uncoiling to drive him forward into the breast of the demon.
Hezekiah stood steady as a rock, just as Bitterwood had anticipated. His hands closed tightly around the axe the prophet carried and he leapt up, curled his feet under him, then drove them both into his foe’s stomach. He knew the blow would cause Hezekiah no pain, but at least he could pry the axe from the demon’s grasp.
Unfortunately, the axe didn’t budge. Bitterwood dropped back to the ground, continuing to push and pull against the axe handle. It was like trying to remove a stone from a wall.
Then Hezekiah moved, pushing his arms forward with a snap. Bitterwood was thrown backward. He landed on his back, hard, but years of experience allowed him to roll with the force so that the momentum carried him to his feet. Jandra was running now, not fleeing, but moving to his side as she tossed a handful of silver dust into the air.