Even though the serpent was losing, it continued tearing out bloody chunks of fur as it curled around the dog in a whirlwind of claws. Bitterwood scrambled back to his feet, taking the poker in both hands, and lunged for the long-wyrm, ignoring the slashing pain from his damaged legs. He planted the forked edge of the iron poker in the center of the beast's left eye and threw his full weight onto the handle. The thin layer of bone behind the eye snapped as he drove the rod into the creature's brain. The dragon fell limp, its claws stilled at last.
"Jeremiah!" Zeeky shouted.
Bitterwood looked down the path, the see the boy running toward Zeeky.
"Ezekia!" the boy shouted. Zeeky jumped into his arms as they reached each other. The boy's legs collapsed at the weight, and they both wound up on the ground.
Bitterwood yanked the poker from the dead reptile's eye. The white-skinned rider was now on his feet, his back toward Bitterwood. The rider, hearing Bitterwood's approach, turned. He'd recovered his crossbow. He raised the weapon and pulled the trigger.
Bitterwood's eyes were still swift enough to trace the razor honed tip as sliced through the air toward him. His arms felt like lead weights as he tried to lift the poker to knock the bolt from its path.
To the amazement of both the rider and himself, the poker reached the same point in space as the bolt less than a yard from Bitterwood's chest. The bolt deflected upward, leaving a trail of sparks, as it whizzed past Bitterwood's left ear.
The rider looked stunned. Bitterwood had witnessed the same look countless time in the eyes of dragons. It was a look that gave him a certain amount of pleasure, but experience had taught him it was not a pleasure that should be prolonged. He willed his torn legs to leap the few yards that separated him from the man, swinging the iron rod in a vicious arc. He slammed it against the side of the man's neck with such force the poker bent. The man fell to his back, twitching, his eyes rolling up in their sockets.
Bitterwood sucked down air in great gasps, his legs trembling. The world slowed back to normal speed. He studied the fallen rider. Though blood was seeping from his ears, the man still breathed. Perhaps he would live. Perhaps he would have answers as to what had happened here.
On the other hand, the man had been riding a dragon, or something very much like a dragon. Bitterwood thought of women and children being dragged from their homes by reptilian claws, imagined the destruction of Big Lick with great clarity. He could hear the screams of the villagers, just as for twenty years he'd heard the screams of his own family.
There was only one way to silence those voices.
Glancing over his shoulder he saw Killer limping back to Zeeky and the boy, who were sitting on the ground, talking. No one was looking toward him.
Bitterwood fell to his knees. His arms were losing strength; his legs were bleeding in copious streams. He wanted to fall over, to collapse forever into sleep.
But there could be no rest while the voices howled.
Bitterwood raised the poker above his head and swung it, planting the full weight into the man's face. A bubble of blood rose from the man's lips.
Bitterwood felt too weak to move as he stared at the damaged face. A lightness took hold of him, like the fevers that had given his world such a dreamlike quality. The unconscious man's features suddenly struck him as familiar-eyes, ears, nose, mouth-a universal visage, belonging to almost any man. Bitterwood could even see himself in the shared structures, and as the world slowly began to tilt he could no longer tell if it was the rider who lay upon the ground, or himself.
Bitterwood raised the poker and swung at the face that might be his own, then swung again, and again, until what he was hitting looked like a face no longer.
The screams now silent, Bitterwood toppled into the ash.
He closed his eyes, then opened them to discover Poocher by his head. The pig was wearing the rider's visor, standing on two legs.
"Evil man," Poocher said, in a smooth and high-cultured tone. He pointed a cleft hoof at Bitterwood in a gesture of condemnation. "All your works amount to dust. All that remains of you will scatter with the winds."
Bitterwood found himself concurring with the judgment of the pig. He welcomed this fate. It seemed a very light thing, to be carried off by air, unremembered, unmourned.
"Take care of Zeeky," he whispered before the world spun in a whirl of white embers, then turned black.
Chapter Seven:
Magical Gifts
A misty rain veiled the mountains, hiding Zeeky's ruined village. Zeeky gazed out from the shelter of one of the caves overlooking Big Lick. It had taken hours for her and Jeremiah to drag Bitterwood to the shelter. Killer was too wounded to carry anyone, though he could limp along. Poocher sat beside her, watching her intently as she used Bitterwood's kit to start a fire. The logs they'd dragged up to the cave were damp. The flames from the kindling licked the bark, causing the logs to sizzle and put out fumes that were more steam than smoke.
She checked Bitterwood's bandages one last time. Jeremiah had found scraps of unburned blankets in the rubble and they'd used these to bind his wounds, but she was frightened by how much blood he'd lost. He was burning hot, and his breathing was shallow and raspy. She wished she knew something more to do.
Finally, with the fire putting out at least a little heat and everyone in safe from the drizzle, she asked, "What happened, Jeremiah?"
"For a couple of years, the menfolk have been whispering about the new kind of demon they were seeing in the mines," said Jeremiah. "Big copper-colored serpents with a hundred legs. But the demons were afraid of light; the men kept mining, they just needed more lanterns than before."
"I know that. I heard Papa talking to Uncle Silas about the demons," said Zeeky. "But why'd they attack?"
"I don't know," said Jeremiah. "They just showed up in the middle of the night and dragged everyone out of bed. I tried to fight but the demons were too strong. The demon just got hold of me. There were men with them who tied me up. They carried everyone up to Dead Skunk Hole. I was slung over the back of one of the demons, but there was some slack in the ropes holding me. I wiggled loose and ran like a jackrabbit. Didn't look back to see if I was followed. I hunkered down in some bushes for better than a day. Then I took off running for Big Lick to see if anyone was left. I guess one of the demons also came back to look. I thought sure I was a goner when I heard it coming up behind me."
"You think Mama and Papa are still alive?"
"I reckon," said Jeremiah. "I didn't see nobody get killed. Wonder what them demons want us for?"
"I'll just have to go up to Dead Skunk Hole and find out," Zeeky said.
"Zeeky, you saw that demon. It ripped up your friend and hurt this big dog something fierce. You'll get eaten alive."
"No I won't," said Zeeky. "The serpents aren't demons. They're animals. I could make out some of what it was saying while it was fighting. I bet I could talk to one. Animals won't eat me if I tell 'em not to."
"Yeah," said Jeremiah. "You did talk that ol' bear out of eatin' Granny."
"Told him he'd only get indigestion," said Zeeky.
"But these long-wyrms ain't natural," said Jeremiah.
"It ain't natural that I can talk to animals," said Zeeky. "I'm not scared of things just 'cause they ain't natural. I'll just go into the mine and look around some. I'll take Poocher. You stay here with Mr. Bitterwood and Killer. Keep the fire going. Fetch them some water from the creek when they wake up."