Bitterwood knelt next to the pool. Even in his weakened state, the swiftly darting crayfish didn't stand a chance. Long ago, his hands had been bitten off by a dragon, and an angel-or perhaps a devil-had given him new ones. She'd also altered his eyes and arms, leaving him fast enough to empty a quiver in under a minute, with every arrow finding its target. The crawfish may as well have been frozen in place as his agile fingers dashed about the pool, quickly gathering a score of the fat mud-bugs.
"We should stop here for the night," Bitterwood said, looking up at the darkening sky. "I'll start a fire."
"I want to keep moving," Zeeky said. "I think we're close. The air has a familiar smell to it. We're almost home."
Killer looked up from drinking and let out a quick snort.
"Oh, all right, I know you're tired, stop complaining," said Zeeky. "That's two votes to one. What about you, Poocher?"
Poocher lowered his head in a human-like nod and gave a squeal that made Zeeky frown.
"I know you're hungry," she said. "You're always hungry. Oh, all right. We'll make camp here. Go ahead and start the fire, Mister Bitterwood."
She said Bitterwood in a mocking tone. Zeeky knew Bitterwood only by legend, a near mythic dragon-slayer, a hero of humanity. Bant looked nothing like anyone's hero. His hair was thinning; he was missing quite a few teeth, and, though he was strong and wiry, he wasn't as tall as a hero should be. His clothes were little more than rags, and twenty years of survival beneath an open sky had left him with a face of wrinkled leather.
It wasn't important to him who she thought he was. Though they journeyed together, in truth each traveled alone. They were refugees, survivors of Albekizan's death camp. Except for the mundane details of travel, they had little to discuss. Zeeky was usually too busy talking to animals to allow bad memories to sweep over her. Bitterwood was nothing but his bad memories. Strip away the ghosts that haunted him, and his skin would collapse like an emptied sack.
Poocher bounded off into the woods to search for mushrooms and edible roots for dinner. Bitterwood pulled a wad of charred cotton wrapped in waxed parchment from his pocket. He set to work striking his fire flints together to make sparks. A moment later a tendril of acrid smoke rose from the cotton. He knew the smell well. It was the exact smell of the blackened remains of one of Adam's diapers. It was an odor that had haunted him for twenty years. He lifted the black cotton to his lips and gently blew, giving birth to a delicate flame. He lowered it to the bed of twigs he'd prepared.
Zeeky had the pig and the dog for companionship and protection. The small useful role Bitterwood served in her world was maker-of-fire. It was enough. It was the one thing he could do that made him feel as if his continued existence served some purpose.
As the flames grew, he arranged the crayfish on a stone facing the fire. Some were still alive, struggling to crawl away. He pressed down on their backs, breaking them, until they could do nothing but lie there and cook.
"How close are we?" Zeeky asked.
"You said it smelled like home," he said. "Your nose is pretty smart. After we follow this stream across the valley, we'll be at what's left of Chakthalla's castle. The town of Winding Rock was near it. You say your village was close?"
"Big Lick," said Zeeky. She sighed. "I miss everyone. Even Papa."
"Still think he'll try to eat the pig?" Bitterwood asked.
"He's learned his lesson," Zeeky said, in a firm, matter of fact way that spooked Bitterwood. For a little girl far from home and family, she sometimes sounded as if she were in control of the world.
The crayfish were turning red. Bitterwood snatched one up, snapped it in two, and chewed on the steaming meat in the tail. He sucked down the yellowish gunk inside the head. It tasted good, fatty and bitter. It felt like medicine sliding down his throat. A bucketful of these and a week in bed might cure his fever.
Zeeky wrinkled her nose. "It looks like a bug."
Killer gave a huff and Bitterwood looked up to see the giant dog staring at him. The dog seemed to like him, even if the pig didn't.
"Oh, you think everything smells good," Zeeky said.
Bitterwood tossed Killer the remains of the head and watched him greedily gobble it down, the shell crunching between his teeth. The grateful look in his eyes led Bitterwood to throw him a second crayfish, a whole one this time.
The darkening forest murmured as a breeze rustled through it. He thought for a moment he heard a woman whispering. From the corner of his eye he saw Recanna standing by the water's edge, waving. He turned and saw it was only a low branch of a tree, draped with pale leaves, shuddering in the chill air.
Bitterwood shuddered as well, and drew the tatters of the blanket he wore as a cloak tightly around him.
Winding Rock had been looted. Only a month ago, the little mountain town had been clean and full of life. Now, the place looked haunted. The doors stood open to the elements. The panes of glass that had filled the windows were gone. Not smashed, Bitterwood noted, but carefully removed. Gazing into a nearby house, Bitterwood couldn't see a scrap of furniture. The type of stuff that had been looted told a story. Dragons wouldn't bother stealing window glass or chairs. This was done by humans-quite possibly Zeeky's people, from Big Lick.
This was the sort of thing that had driven Bitterwood to hold humanity in nearly the same contempt as dragons. The people of Winding Rock had been rounded up in the middle of the night and forcibly marched to the Free City. The dragons had acted swiftly, gathering only those they found in a single night. Certainly these mountains were full of people the dragons had missed. Bitterwood had spotted other villages in the valley that were unmolested by the king's attempted genocide. The neighbors of the town of Winding Rock could have banded together and attempted to rescue their captive brethren. Instead, they'd stayed hidden until the dragons were gone, then stolen everything that wasn't nailed down. Passing a house from which the slate roof tiles were missing, Bitterwood realized that actually being nailed down hadn't provided any protection from theft either.
"This place is spooky," Zeeky said.
"It's just empty," said Bitterwood. A spark of anger ignited as he realized that this village was the vision Albekizan-the dragon king-had possessed for all of humanity. The spark of anger was instantly quenched by a wave of guilt. Albekizan's genocide order had come in response to Bitterwood's actions. He had triggered this violence by killing Bodiel, the king's most-loved son. His hands weren't clean in the death of this place.
They passed through the town, finding a well-worn trail that followed a creek higher into the mountains. The path was nothing but rocks and roots. Killer was a powerful mount, but even he slowed on the steep incline. The creek splashed beside the path in a series of waterfalls.
"We're close!" Zeeky said, fidgeting in her seat.
"Hallelujah," Bitterwood said. He felt somewhat better today, after the meal of crawdads and a solid night of sleep. Last night he'd slept free of dreams. He'd simply succumbed to exhaustion and illness and slumbered from dusk to dawn. His fever had broken. He was still tender, but he felt some of his old strength returning.
Poocher sniffed the air, then grunted.
"Smoke?" said Zeeky.
Bitterwood took a sniff. The pig was right. There was a slight hint of smoke in the air, burning wood, with an undertone of sulfur.
"They burn coal in these parts?" asked Bitterwood.