DRAGONSGATE: Preludes & Omens (Bitterwood Series Book 6)

by James Maxey

  “Perhaps you aren’t afraid,” he said. “But I am.”

  “Afraid of me?” she asked.

  “Of myself,” he said. “This morning, as I rode into market, I’d convinced myself I would never kill a dragon again, let alone a fellow man. But murder and death are all I’ve known for twenty years. A few months as a farmer cannot change who I truly am. I will kill you, Anza, if you try to stop me from leaving.”

  “No you won’t,” she said, charging him as he’d anticipated.

  She moved like water, swift and fluid, faster than anyone he’d fought in a long time. Burke had trained Anza since she could walk in the art of combat, and her mastery with a sword was unrivaled. But she’d lost her cool, goaded by his threat, her mind no doubt in turmoil because of the revelation that the dragons were getting guns, and no matter how well trained she was in combat, she had to feel at least a flicker of fear due to knowledge that Bitterwood had killed nine armed men with such ease.

  The hesitation of even a hundredth of a second as she swung her sword was more than enough for Bitterwood to parry her blade with his own, knock aside the hidden dagger she’d produced using the tomahawk he still held, then deliver a fierce head-butt that left bright sparks dancing before his eyes but left her sprawled on the ground, bleeding from her nose.

  As she rolled over, groaning, he retrieved his bow.

  “I could have killed you,” he said, as she struggled to find her feet. “But I need you to tell Burke about the guns, and also that his rangers are stealing from the farmers they’ve sworn to protect. Tell him to fix these things, or I’ll fix them for him.”

  Then he calmly walked through the door and into the alley. A crowd had gathered, including dozens of armed men. He glared at them and said nothing as he walked. One by one, they stepped from his path.

  “Bitterwood,” he heard someone whisper. “That’s Bitterwood!”

  “Bitterwood,” another answered.

  “Bitterwood!” a dozen voices said at once.

  All in the same tone of fear that had always given him such pleasure when voice by dragons. Among mankind, his name had been whispered in hope, or shouted in defiance into the faces of dragons. No more.

  All the blood and death and terrible secrets uncovered that night would never haunt him as much as those voices of fear.

  BITTERWOOD’S WHOLE BODY ached by the time he reached the cabin. Priter had been right about one thing. He was old. In the heat of the moment, fueled by hate, pain was a distant, trivial thing. Now, every tiny ball of lead in his muscles burned with each jostle as Skitter scurried across uneven ground. His arms felt weighted down by heavy shackles. His body, finely tuned and full of life when killing, became an unspeakable burden in the remorse that followed.

  But an even greater burden than his body was his heart. What had he done this evening? In blindly pursuing revenge, he’d thrown everything away. Burke wasn’t going to ignore the slaughter of nine rangers. If Burke sent a hundred men after him, what then? Even if he could kill them all, should he? As much as he hated his fellow men this night, he still hated dragons more, and fighting Burke was the same as fighting on the side of the dragons.

  He rode Skitter into the barn. Lights flickered in the windows of the cabin. The children were still awake, or at least they’d left the lanterns burning.

  He should go without saying a word.

  No. He should say good-bye first.

  Which was the kinder option? To vanish without explanation, leaving his fate unknown, or to say good-bye, and try to justify why he had to abandon them?

  Were he not so tired, he might have had the strength to ride on without looking back, to live off the land once more, alone. But, in his weariness, he could think of a dozen small things within the cabin that would make is life alone once more moderately more bearable. And, at least the children would know what he had done, and that they weren’t at fault for his leaving. Plus, if he was to abandon them, he should at least try to see to their futures. Burke had no reason to hate the children. He would write a letter, telling Burke to sell his farm and use the money to see that the children were taken care of. Burke was an honorable man and would do the right thing for innocent children, if asked.

  Bitterwood walked across the barnyard to the cabin. He stood for a long time at the door. He was almost ready to turn around when Zeeky said, softly, “You might as well come in.”

  He opened the door. He half expected that Jeremiah would be asleep, since the boy could sleep through almost anything, but he was awake, sitting at the table with Zeeky, the cabin’s lone lantern lit above them, painting their faces in pale shades. They both looked tired and scared. It was plain both had been crying.

  “Dragons didn’t kill Poocher,” Bitterwood said, though he couldn’t explain why he had to say it.

  “I know,” Zeeky said, swallowing hard. “If I’d… I was so angry but… dragons wouldn’t have left the dogs. And, after you left, I went out to the pen, and the footprints… they were all wrong. They weren’t deep enough.”

  Bitterwood nodded.

  “Which means you killed a lot of dragons for no reason at all,” she said, sounding on the verge of tears. “And it’s all my fault!”

  Bitterwood hadn’t even considered this might upset her. But she was so tenderhearted she wouldn’t even eat the fish he and Jeremiah caught. Until she’d handed him his bow, she’d never wanted to hurt any other living thing. The thought that she had caused the death of even dragons had to be tearing her apart.

  “I had reason,” he said. “The only reason I’ve ever needed. They were dragons.”

  “And what?” said Zeeky. “Every dragon in the world deserves to die? You were friends with Hex. Jandra was raised by a dragon. Would you kill them?”

  “You don’t understand,” he said.

  “I think I do,” she said. “And so be it. If you have to kill dragons, so be it. Just promise me you’ll always come home to us.”

  Bitterwood’s mouth went dry. He couldn’t even move his jaw. Zeeky, watching his face, grew pale.

  “You were gone a long time,” said Jeremiah, before Zeeky could say anything.

  Bitterwood nodded.

  “Did you find the men who took Poocher?” he asked.

  Bitterwood nodded again.

  Jeremiah asked, “Did you—”

  “Yes,” said Bitterwood. “I killed them.”

  “Oh no,” said Zeeky, instantly grasping the ramifications.

  Jeremiah, though, didn’t seem to see past his immediate satisfaction with Bitterwood’s answer. “Good.”

  “No,” said Bitterwood. “Burke won’t let what I did pass easily. I’m sorry, but I—”

  “You can’t go,” said Zeeky, rising with clenched fists.

  “If I stay, they’ll hang me,” said Bitterwood.

  “They can’t even come onto the farm,” said Zeeky, half sobbing, half snarling. “I’ll tell Skitter to kill anyone who tries to lay a hand on you!”

  Bitterwood’s eyes went wide as he saw the violent passions that filled her once gentle frame.

  “They can’t punish you!” said Jeremiah. “They killed Poocher! You didn’t hurt anyone who didn’t have it coming!”

  Bitterwood shook his head. “I’m sorry. Burke will know the two of you aren’t guilty of anything. His men won’t hurt you. I’ll going to write him a letter telling him to sell the land and put the money aside for you. He’ll find you a new home.”

  “We’re coming with you,” said Zeeky. “Skitter can carry the three of us, easy.”

  “No,” said Bitterwood. “I’ve lived as a fugitive. It’s not an easy life.”

  “Can’t be harder than farming,” grumbled Jeremiah.

  “I’ve survived as a runaway before,” said Zeeky. “I can do it again.”

  Bitterwood pulled the third chair out from the table and sat wearily.

  “Are you hurt?” asked Jeremiah.

  “They shot you?” said Zeeky, looking at his bl
ood soaked clothes.

  “I’ve live through worse,” said Bitterwood. “But nothing worse than telling the two of you goodbye. We’ve not lived together long, but I want you to know you’re my son and daughter. If I could step back to this morning and change my actions, I would. But, Zeeky, you saw it. There’s something inside me. Something that loves killing. If it hadn’t been tonight, it would have come out another night. I was not put on this world to be happy. Leaving you is the only way forward.”

  “It’s not forward,” said Zeeky. “It’s backward. You’re going back to who you used to be!”

  “Where else am I to go?” he asked.

  “Back to Dragon Forge,” said Zeeky. “Talk to Burke. Tell him why you did what you did.”

  “It’s not that simple,” said Bitterwood.

  “It would be if you rode back on Skitter with me,” said Zeeky. “They wouldn’t shoot at me, would they?”

  “They might,” said Bitterwood.

  “If they tried to hurt you or Zeeky or even Skitter, I’d kill them,” said Jeremiah.

  “What?” said Bitterwood.

  “I’d kill anyone who tried to hurt our family,” Jeremiah repeated.

  Bitterwood almost laughed. Jeremiah was so quiet, and had, to his knowledge, run from every fight he’d ever been around. But… was he so different at Jeremiah’s age? He’d been small and slight, bullied by his older brother, no one’s picture of a fighter. But something changed within him after the dragons came and killed his whole village. If he’d been a great brawler like his brother, perhaps he would have died early on. He might have entered into fights with confidence and bravery. Bitterwood, on the other hand, had no skills in combat back then, so he’d fought the war with methods others would describe as cowardly, killing unsuspecting dragons with a bow from a distance, then running. The warrior who’d fought so many this evening hadn’t been born overnight. It had taken years of close calls and a lot of luck to learn to survive hand to hand combat with multiple enemies.

  “Jeremiah,” he said, calmly, “Burke and his rangers aren’t to blame for the men I killed. Their blood is on my hands.”

  “They’re corrupt,” said Jeremiah.

  “Some are,” said Bitterwood. “But, what if among a hundred rangers there are five honest men? What if there’s only one? Would you want to be the man who killed him?”

  “What if you killed him tonight?” asked Zeeky.

  “The men I killed tonight weren’t honorable,” said Bitterwood. “But that doesn’t mean I was right to kill them.”

  The full weight of what he said weighed heavy on him. He shook his head. “I was wrong.”

  “But Poocher—” said Zeeky.

  “Was a pig,” said Bitterwood. “You must see the difference between a man and a pig.”

  “Yeah,” said Zeeky. “Pigs don’t slaughter men and eat them.”

  Bitterwood allowed himself half a grin at her logic, then said, “No point in putting it off. Bring me the pen and book you use for your studies so I can write the letter. I have to be gone before sunrise.”

  “You don’t have until sunrise,” said Zeeky. “They’re coming now.”

  “What?” said Bitterwood.

  She nodded. “Can’t you feel the horses galloping?” She had her bare feet firmly on the packed earth of the floor. “A lot of them. Too many to count. We’ve got to run!”

  “Get to the barn!” Bitterwood shouted. “Get on Skitter!”

  Like that, it was decided. He couldn’t leave them behind. He couldn’t take them back to his old life, living on the run, hunting dragons. But with Skitter, they could be far away in days. Maybe back down south, to the land where he’d been born, where people probably hadn’t even heard of the rebellion. They could start a new life, start a new farm…

  You cannot run forever, the voice inside him said sternly.

  Zeeky paused a moment, grabbing a sack and shoving her books inside, but Bitterwood tore the sack away and tossed it to the floor. “There’s no time to take anything. Go!”

  They ran outside. The hooves of the horses could be heard now. It sounded as if every ranger left in the town had turned out to capture him. If capture was their intention. Worse, the horses weren’t just on the road. They were trampling through the corn and were crashing through the woods, converging on the farm from all directions except the river.

  “Hurry!” he cried, leading the children toward the barn.

  Then, BANG! BANG! BANG! Shots rang out from the direction of the cornfield. Jeremiah gasped in pain and fell. Zeeky slid to a stop and ran back for him. Bitterwood wheeled about and beat her to the fallen boy, who’d been shot in the knee. Jeremiah cried out in pain as Bitterwood lifted him. There was no way to carry him without bending his knee.

  More shots rang out, the lead balls whistling all around them. Men on horseback had little hope of a steady aim, but Bitterwood knew one moment of bad luck might bring an end to any of them. “Get inside the barn!” he yelled to Zeeky. The girl obeyed, throwing open the barn door and bolting inside. Then, Zeeky yelped in shock and surprise.

  Bitterwood ran into the barn and found Zeeky floating in mid-air upside down. There was a rope around her ankle. She’d stepped into a snare. Someone had reached the barn first and set a trap.

  “Go on without me!” Zeeky cried.

  Bitterwood stopped. There was only one person quiet enough and fast enough to have reached the barn before the rest of Burke’s men. If she was in the barn, the rangers wouldn’t be shooting into it. But, once he was on Skitter, and outside the barn, the air would be full of shot from all directions.

  “The boy’s hurt,” Bitterwood said. “Promise me he’ll be cared for.”

  “The children have done nothing wrong,” said Anza, in the darkness. His eyes followed upward to find her shadowy form in the rafters. She carried one of the skywall bows. It was drawn, with an arrow aimed at his head. She was skilled enough not to hit the boy.

  “Anza!” Zeeky yelled. “Put down your bow or I’ll sic Skitter on you. He’ll tear you to ribbons!”

  “Even that beast isn’t fast enough to stop me from releasing this arrow,” said Anza.

  Bitterwood’s heart sank. Not because of Anza’s threat, but because he believed Zeeky really would kill to protect him. What had he done? How could he have been so blind to consequences?

  “Why haven’t you killed me already?” he asked, his eyes still locked on Anza.

  “My father insists on laws,” said Anza. “You will be fairly tried.”

  “What’s the point of a trial?” he asked. “You know I’m guilty.”

  “The rangers outside need little prodding to become a mob,” said Anza. “If I throw you to them now, they’ll lynch you. My father would be better served if you faced a lawful execution following a trial. You’ll be a useful lesson for those who wish to take the law into their own hands.”

  “Don’t listen to her!” said Zeeky. “You can still get away!”

  Bitterwood knelt and placed Jeremiah on the ground. The boy was sobbing in his pain, too distraught for words.

  Bitterwood put up his hands and said, “I’m your prisoner.”

  “Why?” Zeeky cried. “Why?”

  “It’s futile to run,” he said. “They’ll kill me, and what lesson would you and Jeremiah take away?” He shook his head. “Anza’s right. I’ve broken the law. I must pay a price. Your future is with the men and women of the rebellion. I’m doing this to save you from the deadly things I’ve fought with all these years.”

  “The dragons,” said Anza, dropping down from the rafters.

  “Myself,” said Bitterwood, offering her his hands, “and my ghosts.”

  Hurt

  HER FATHER’S EYES revealed his thoughts more clearly than his words, Anza thought.

  To a casual listener, Burke sounded calm, even disinterested, as he spoke to the shackled and bruised prisoner on his knees before him.

  “You’re going to be hung, Cain,” Bu
rke said, in the same tones he might have used to say, “It’s going to rain later,” or “I think it’s time for lunch.” But in Burke’s eyes, Anza saw hatred, contempt, and something close to rage. Beneath this, in the way he stood and breathed, in the stiffness of his neck and the tension of his torso, she saw something more terrible. Her father was afraid, and not with a fear that pushes a man to fight. Instead, her father stared into a pit of bottomless despair he might never climb out from if he toppled.

  “I didn’t do anything!” Cain screamed, the iron chain around his neck rattling. “I tell you I lost the gun!”

  “No,” said Burke. “Two weeks ago you reported that your gun had misfired and that the barrel had split apart. You said you tossed it into the river so that the three earth-dragons pursuing you couldn’t get their hands on it, then proceeded to fight them off with your sword. It was quite the tale of heroism. You even had the scabs and bruises to show from the fight.”

  “Because it really happened!” said Cain.

  Burke nodded. “I believe a fight happened. But you weren’t fighting dragons. You got into a fight with the man you were riding with, Jubal. You told us the dragons killed him, and you didn’t know what had happened to his rifle.”

  “I swear that’s the truth!”

  “Burke,” said the third man in the room, standing next to the door, looking doubtful. “I’ve known Cain a long time. He’s a god-fearing man, one of Ragnar’s first converts. Why would you— ”

  Burke glowered at the speaker, his stern expression bringing the big man to silence. The new focus of her father’s disapproval was Stonewall, captain of the rangers, and the man who’d assured Burke that Cain could be trusted when the gun had first gone missing. Stonewall wasn’t an easy man to intimidate. He was unnaturally tall, seven feet if not a few inches more, with a muscular build that made him look as solid as his namesake.

  “Stonewall, you said you’d checked out his story,” said Burke.

  “I had no reason to doubt his word. I still don’t.”

  “Your blind trust in this fool might doom us all.”