The dragon’s golden eyes held a look of utter terror. “Before she comes back,” the beast begged, “unlock the cage.”
“I’m not in a mood to help dragons,” Bitterwood said, walking away from the crates. He now saw Cynthia standing at the outer edge of the kudzu grove. She held his restored bow and arrows and offered them to him as he drew near.
“I can’t believe this isn’t a dream,” he said as he took the weapons into his newly minted fingers.
“Maybe it is,” Cynthia said, walking back toward the kudzu. “Maybe you should live as if it is, at least. You’ve got a new lease on life. What do you want to do with it?”
“Kill dragons,” he said.
She giggled. “It’s important to have goals. Maybe you can make all the studying and debating we’re engaged in back in Atlantis moot. Get out there and wipe out all the dragons single-handed.”
“I’ll try,” Bitterwood said, pushing aside a veil of kudzu and stepping beyond the grove. “I just have one more question.”
Cynthia didn’t answer.
Bitterwood stepped back through the emerald veil. The crates were gone. He called out her name. All he heard in reply was the breeze rustling through leaves.
Bitterwood took shelter from the sun in the shade of a vine-draped wall. He sat until nightfall, staring at his hands, watching his nails grow back, until all was restored. He thought about what Cynthia had told him, trying to fit the words into something that made sense.
It all boiled down to this. Humans had created dragons. Dragons had no rightful claim to the world. As the sun sank, Bitterwood closed his strong, young hands into fists, digging the nails into his palms, until the pain would most surely wake him.
He didn’t wake up. Bitterwood opened his hands, then picked up his bow and arrow. He fixed his eyes on a single purple kudzu bloom across the grove thirty yards away. He fired an arrow, neatly severing the stem. The flower dropped, vanishing into the blanket of dark leaves.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: HOMONCULUS
Vendevorex stepped back from the now paralyzed body of the prophet. The three smartwires continued to snake toward the silvery command homunculus he held. He reached out his free claw, fusing the tips of the three wires together so that they fell dead. The human whose life he’d just saved stood looking at him, slack-jawed.
“This is a very dangerous toy,” Vendevorex said. “Did you bring this with you from Atlantis? Are you still working with Cynthia?”
“No,” the man said. “I never saw her again. You’re Vendevorex? You survived Zanzeroth’s assault?”
“Yes and yes,” Vendevorex answered. “So, if you aren’t working with Cynthia, who are you?”
“I’m Bitterwood,” the man answered.
“I see,” Vendevorex said, furrowing his brow. “I expect you’ll be trying to kill me, then.”
Bitterwood shook his head. “I agreed to spare you. I gave my word. To Jandra.”
“Jandra,” Vendevorex said, remembering his reason for being here. With a thought, he encased the homunculus in a thin coat of lead, then turned away from Bitterwood and moved toward his fallen student. He knelt next to her, reaching out his hand to feel the pulse in her throat, then gently touched the gash above her ear. Jandra moaned slightly and turned her head away.
At that moment three guards ran around the corner of the nearest building.
“Halt!” one cried.
“No,” Vendevorex said, reaching into his pouch of powders. He flicked his dust-coated claws in the direction of the three green dragons. “My friends and I will be left alone.” Vendevorex closed his claw in a deliberate, dramatic gesture. Suddenly, the spears carried by the dragons began to glow. Then Vendevorex flapped a wing, sending a breeze across the dusty ground. The spear shafts crumbled to ash and were carried off by the gust.
The leader of the three dragons looked confused. His eyes glanced down to his empty hands, then looked toward the decapitated body of the slain soldier, before turning to the frozen form of the black-garbed man, then fixing, finally, on Vendevorex. The leader’s face flickered with sudden recognition.
“You’re the wizard!” he yelped.
“You’re right,” Vendevorex answered.
“Yaa!” they shouted in unison. Their scales suddenly stood on end as they spun about to flee.
“Stop!” Vendevorex commanded. “If you try to run, I will disintegrate your legs as easily as your spears. I want us to come to an understanding.”
The three guards didn’t take another step. Vendevorex could see their muscles trembling as if resisting an invisible spring that threatened to snap them away.
“You should know that now that I have seen your faces, I can kill you at any time with just a thought,” Vendevorex said. “I can make it as quick and simple as I did with your weapons, or I can prolong your agony, depending on my mood. I spare you on one condition. You must speak to no one of what you’ve witnessed. Understood?”
“Y-y-yessir.”
“Then go,” Vendevorex said.
The three dragons tripped over one another as they raised their tails high and raced back down the side street.
“It was foolish to let them go,” Bitterwood said. “To silence them, you should have killed them.”
“I didn’t see the need for bloodshed,” Vendevorex said. “I fear there may be blood enough spilled in the coming days. Now be a good fellow and carry Jandra for me, will you?”
“I’m not a slave to be ordered around by your kind,” Bitterwood said.
“No, of course not,” said Vendevorex. “However, given your status as a legendary hero, I assume you’re too gallant to simply let Jandra recover from her wounds in the middle of the street, yes?”
Bitterwood glowered. “I’ll help her, but don’t try to manipulate me.”
“Understood,” Vendevorex said. “I hate to even ask the favor of you. I’d carry Jandra myself but I doubt you have the strength to carry our friend here.” Vendevorex moved to the frozen body of the axe-wielding man and tilted him backward, catching him with a grunt.
“What did you do to Hezekiah?” Bitterwood asked as he slid his arms beneath Jandra’s shoulders and knees.
“It’s a little hard to explain,” Vendevorex said, his voice strained as he tried to get a grip on Hezekiah’s heavy form. “I suppose you might say I’ve taken his soul from his body.” Vendevorex looked up and down the row of buildings. “I'm surprised your fellow humans haven't been drawn to the commotion. Are most of these dwellings still empty?”
“My 'fellow humans' tend to cluster together. I stick to this area because I like my privacy,” Bitterwood said, carefully lifting Jandra. He tilted his head toward an empty building. “Follow me.”
Blasphet pulled the weed from the soil and tossed it aside. Laboring on the balcony beside the trellis full of poison ivy, he had occasion to contemplate the sunlight on his skin, still a novel sensation after his years in the dungeon. The sensual pleasures the world offered thrilled him anew each day. How could others be so insensate to a world full of life? Blasphet doubted that Albekizan felt even one-tenth of the satisfaction when he looked out over his kingdom that stretched as far as the eye could see, as Blasphet felt tending this small potted garden. He reached for the watering can, tilting it, releasing a shower of fresh human blood to nourish the soil in a pot that contained a belladonna shrub. Ah, the simple pleasures of gardening.
Sometimes, while contemplating the life that burst from the soil, the answers seemed so close. The dark, wholesome earth was made rich by decay and excrement-surely a key to life’s mystery. But what lock did this key fit?
A shadow passed over him. He looked up to see his brother descending from the sky. Blasphet drew back to allow his brother room to land.
“Blasphet,” Albekizan said as he came to rest on the balcony, knocking over potted plants. “Thanks to your sage words, I’ve made a decision.”
“I see,” Blasphet said, wincing as his brother crushed flowers beneath his heavy talons. “Odd. I don’t recall advising you to come here and wreck my garden.”