The woman raised her head when he mentioned the disease.
"We've lost hundreds to yellow-mouth since winter came. Most of us who're left have survived it and are immune. The boy said he'd never been exposed."
Nor, for that matter, had Bitterwood. The foul atmosphere suddenly felt especially heavy in his lungs.
"Who are you?" the woman asked.
"I'm nobody." He turned away, taking the rope in hand. If Jeremiah was gone, there was no reason to linger.
"Your cloak… your bow… are you the hope of the slave? Are you Bitterwood?"
Bitterwood flinched at these words. He didn't mind that his legend was widespread among dragons. The more dragons who feared him, the better. But he regretted that so many humans knew his name. To dragons he was death incarnate, a soulless, faceless force of nature stalking them in every shadow. There was a dark thing inside him that shivered with delight knowing he caused so much fear. This same darkness had no desire to be anyone's hope.
He looked back at the sad, hungry, skeletal crowd. Any one of them, even the pregnant woman, could have climbed through the dragon-free tunnels he'd navigated. True, they didn't have the advantage of a magical rope, but he'd explored these tunnels five years ago without one.
"Why do you stay here?" he asked, his voice low. "There's an open path between this cavern and freedom. It's a risky climb, but certainly better than remaining here."
"Anyone who runs winds up as part of the bone-field," the woman said.
The darkness inside Bitterwood rose up in a great angry wave. "You fear death more than you value your freedom," he said. "Humans outnumber dragons. All that keeps the dragons in power is the cowardice of mankind."
The crowd flinched at his words. Grown men fell to their knees, as if he'd kicked their feet out from under them. Tears welled in the pregnant woman's eyes.
"You have no right to scold us," she said, swallowing a sob. "Who are you to judge us?"
Bitterwood turned back to the rope. The dark thing that had once been his soul now clawed at his skull from the inside, shouting curses. In truth, as much as Bitterwood hated dragons, he held a special contempt for other humans. He'd once been this soft. He'd once been a slave to fear and doubt. Hatred had burned away these weaknesses. Why did other humans not share this hate?
"You're just going to leave us?" the woman asked as he took the rope into his hand and began to climb the wall.
"What if your own wife or child was a slave?" she asked.
Bitterwood stopped climbing. Recanna and Ruth and Eve, his now dead wife and daughters, had been sold into slavery after the fall of Christdale. He'd thought them dead, when in truth they'd lived as the king's property for almost twenty years. Did he hate them for not escaping? If they had been among this rabble, would he have held them in the same scorn?
The dark thing inside suddenly grew quiet. Bitterwood dropped back to the floor. In the chamber beyond, the dragons stopped singing.
"Anyone who has the courage can climb this rope," he said, facing the crowd. "Follow it and you'll be outside. From there, you can go wherever you wish."
"What if Rorg's sons catch us?" the woman asked in a trembling voice.
Bitterwood drew an arrow and placed it against his bowstring.
"No dragon will follow you."
Without waiting to see what they would choose to do, he sprinted toward the tunnel that led to the main chamber. A faint glow lit the tunnel, the light from the fire pit that Rorg's clan gathered around. He sprinted along, hugging the walls. With his soot-darkened cloak and skin, he would be almost invisible among the deep shadows thrown off by the bonfire.
As he reached the central chamber, he dropped to a crouch.
Rorg, pot bellied and elephant-limbed, stood before the crowd of sun-dragons. There were too many for Bitterwood to count. This was a welcome development in the confined space. Only one or two at a time would be able to squeeze into the tunnel he was currently in. His main worry was that he would block the tunnel with corpses too quickly. His eyes searched about the room, the forest of stalactites and stalagmites, the countless nooks and alcoves and tunnels, looking for the best spot to make his stand. He had the luxury of picking the proper moment to strike. The dragons remained focused on Rorg.
"Treachery!" Rorg shouted. "The foul villain Vulpine nearly crippled Thak with his unholy weapons, taking advantage of our honor and fairness. He challenged my son to single combat, then resorting to the trickery of a blade! Can this injustice be allowed to stand?"
"No!" the beastialists roared. Bitterwood's teeth rattled in the wave of sound.
"Sons! Brothers! Honored friends! Join me in my cause of vengeance! We will march upon the Dragon Palace! We shall throw the interloper Chapelion from the throne! We will end the moral plague that has sickened our fellow dragons! The time has come to rule as nature intended. From shore to mountain, we must make this land one endless bone-field! We are predators! All others are prey! That is the only law!"
The dragons erupted into a frenzy of roaring and shouting, hungry for blood. Bitterwood pursed his lips in grim satisfaction. He no longer cared what Zeeky thought. He was having a dragon steak for breakfast.
He drew his arrow. Unfortunately, Rorg, who'd been standing on his hind legs, dropped back to all fours. Bitterwood no longer had a good shot at the big beast. Killing Rorg with a single arrow through his ear-disk would have sent panic through the room. He scanned the remaining targets, trying to decide whose death would have the most dramatic impact.
As the seconds unfolded, the bloodthirsty roar of the crowd fell off, replaced with a confused murmur. Long, serpentine necks began to sway as heads turned toward the back of the chamber. Bitterwood lowered his bow. What was going on?
"Rorg," said a deep voice from behind the assembly, obviously that of another sun-dragon. "I hear you plan to make yourself king."
With all eyes focused on the new arrival at the back of the room, Bitterwood scrambled for a ledge he saw on the western wall. It was about twenty feet up, with a good view of the whole room. Beyond was a hole deep enough that he could safely retreat from the jaws of anyone who tried to reach him. It was also high enough that the piling corpses wouldn't keep him from seeing new targets.
As he scrambled up the slimy rock, the crowd of dragons grew deathly quiet. There was a clanking, clanging sound that reminded Bitterwood of the movements of the now-dead sun-dragon Kanst-the former commander of the king's army had always covered himself in thick plates of iron armor. Bitterwood reached the ledge and turned around. The new arrival was indeed a sun-dragon wearing armor-it looked like it might actually be Kanst's armor, given the high level of craftsmanship. A heavy helmet concealed the dragon's face; chain mail covered his throat. His breast and back were protected by overlapping plates of steel. Even his tail was covered with bands of armor, ending at the tip with a heavy-looking ball studded with blades-a new accessory if this was, in fact, Kanst's armor. A large square shield was slung over his back. Only the great sheets of the dragon's wings were unprotected, but that was of little help. In the air, shooting a dragon in the wing could be fatal with a little assistance from gravity. On the ground, punching holes in a dragon's wings would do little more than annoy him.
The armored dragon lugged what looked like a bulging cow's stomach. Bitterwood thought this was an odd thing to be carrying; from the way the pale blue-white sack roiled with the dragon's motion, it was obviously filled with something liquid. In the dragon's other fore-talon he carried a formidable looking steel-handled axe. Bitterwood's heart skipped a beat when he recognized the weapon-it was the axe of the prophet Hezekiah, an axe that had almost taken his life not long ago. Who was this?