Bitterwood by James Maxey Page B

stopped and turned to study his fallen queen, her crimson wings stretched forward across the ancient bedrock, her body heaving with sobs. Albekizan walked back and crouched beside his queen. Touching her shoulders, he helped her to rise. He brushed his talons across the delicate scales of her cheeks.
    “Tanthia, my love, it pains me to see you grieve. Nonetheless, mourning is a mother’s burden, and her luxury. My duty is to avenge my son. I must go and consult with my advisors as to the swiftest path to achieve justice. Later, when the moon has risen and the day’s work is done, I will join you at the Burning Ground and watch as Metron lights the pyre. Then I will hold you and assist with the burden of grief. Go now. Wait with our fallen son, until the night comes.”
    Tanthia stood, her legs still trembling, but her head held high. “Yes, my king,” she whispered, and returned once more to the nest chamber.
    Albekizan turned away and saw that Bander now conferred with another guard in panicked, hushed voices.
    “What is it?” Albekizan demanded.
    Bander snapped back to attention. “Sire, my guards have searched every room of the castle. Vendevorex cannot be found.”
    “No doubt the wizard plots some dramatic entrance,” Albekizan said. “He thinks it beneath his dignity to simply walk into a room. Call off the search. I’ll wait no longer. Come.”

    VENDEVOREX, IN FACT, did not consider it beneath his dignity to simply walk into a room. Dignity played no part in his comings and goings; strategy was the key to his movements. He’d served Albekizan for close to fifteen years and he’d decided long ago that life would be more comfortable for him if he maintained his own agenda. Thus, while the night had found Albekizan and Zanzeroth in frenzied pursuit of Bitterwood, Vendevorex had chosen a different course. He’d been present in the forest at Bodiel’s murder scene, watching invisibly from a tree as Zanzeroth pointed out Cron’s and Bitterwood’s trails. As the hunting party left in pursuit of Bitterwood, Vendevorex followed Cron’s path. It wasn’t that he was unconcerned with the capture of Bitterwood. He was simply confident that the deed was within Zanzeroth’s grasp. The old tracker could follow a single snowflake through a blizzard. And when they caught up to the Bitterwood—or to the person pretending to be him—it seemed likely that that the small army accompanying the king would prevail. How dangerous could one man be, after all?
    Cron’s trail led for several hundred meandering yards through the thickets of the forest. Vendevorex didn’t possess Zanzeroth’s skills as a tracker, but he didn’t need them. The king had been right. These slaves left a trail anyone could follow.
    At last he found the young slave hiding behind a fallen log with a shelter of branches pulled over him. It wasn’t a horrible hiding place, except that Cron’s teeth were chattering loud enough that he sounded like some sort of nocturnal woodpecker.
    From ten feet away, Vendevorex said, “I am your friend, Cron.”
    Cron gasped, then clenched his jaw, silencing his chattering teeth.
    “You have nothing to fear,” Vendevorex said. “Rise, I wish to help you.”
    “W-who are you?” Cron whispered.
    “Tonight, I am your last, best hope,” Vendevorex said. “You’re safe for the moment. But when the king finds his prey tonight, I have no doubt he’ll come looking for you. It’s best that you be long gone.”
    Cron rose into a crouch, looking around the dark forest with fear in his eyes. Vendevorex chose to remain invisible. But he placed a burlap sack near the log and backed away.
    “The sack before you… Do you see it?”
    Cron looked around, trying to find the source of the voice. At last he looked to the ground and spotted the sack.
    “I’ve brought you clothes and food,” said Vendevorex. “You’ll also find a knife within the pack.”
    Cron crawled over the log toward the burlap. He reached out