BITTERWOOD.

by James Maxey

Author's note: The Kindle edition of Bitterwood Bitterwood has been slightly modified from the original print edition. has been slightly modified from the original print edition. Bitterwood Bitterwood was purchased by Solaris as a stand-alone book, and only after strong sales and critical response did Solaris invite me to expand the tale into a trilogy. I'm happy they did; in the process of writing was purchased by Solaris as a stand-alone book, and only after strong sales and critical response did Solaris invite me to expand the tale into a trilogy. I'm happy they did; in the process of writing Dragonforge Dragonforge and and Dragonseed, Dragonseed, I had the opportunity to further explore and expand upon an already complex world and cast of characters. Alas, some of the choices I made created continuity errors with I had the opportunity to further explore and expand upon an already complex world and cast of characters. Alas, some of the choices I made created continuity errors with Bitterwood Bitterwood, already in print. The backstory of Gadreel was especially contradicted by changes I made to the breeding habits of sky-dragons. In this edition, I made the necessary tweaks to bring his history in line with later continuity. I've also corrected the handful of typos that readers have brought to my attention over the years (though it's possible I've introduced fresh ones). As always, I welcome feedback from my readers, and if you have any comments on content or formatting, feel free to drop me a line at

PART ONE: PYRE.

Can a man take fire in his bosom, and his clothes not be burned?

Proverbs 6:27

PROLOG PART ONE: SEED.

1070 D.A. (Dragon Age), the 39th Year of the Reign of Albekizan Year of the Reign of Albekizan

FRESHLY PLOWED EARTH and the perfume of women scented the night air. Naked, Bant scurried along the furrows, crouching low as he made his way toward the orchard. All around him women sang out and men grunted with pleasure. Bant strained his eyes in the darkness, fearing that any second some white arm might snake out of the moonless night and pull him close, demanding from him that which was Recanna's. and the perfume of women scented the night air. Naked, Bant scurried along the furrows, crouching low as he made his way toward the orchard. All around him women sang out and men grunted with pleasure. Bant strained his eyes in the darkness, fearing that any second some white arm might snake out of the moonless night and pull him close, demanding from him that which was Recanna's.

As he reached the far end of the field, the sounds of pa.s.sion grew more distant. The black shadows of the peach orchard loomed before him. He paused at the edge of the trees, warmed by the rising heat of the earth, awash in the sweet scent of newly opened blossoms.

"Recanna?" he whispered.

He leaned forward, listening for any faint sound. Behind him, he heard the distant laughter of a woman. He ducked his head and stepped into the orchard, inching forward, his arms held before him. Under the low, thick canopy of the boughs, even the dim starlight vanished. He saw no sign of his beloved. Had she decided not to come? Worse, had someone else caught her as she traveled through the fields? In theory, on the Night of the Sowing, women were free to choose any partner they wished. In practice, no woman could ever refuse any man of the village on this night; to do so would be an insult to the G.o.ddess.

Bant was only fifteen, Recanna fourteen, and this was the first time each had partic.i.p.ated in the sowing, the rite of spring practiced in honor of the G.o.ddess Ashera. They had waited a lifetime for this night. If all their whispered plans and shared dreams were to come to nothing now... It was too terrible to contemplate.

"Recanna?" he said again, louder, almost a shout. He held his breath to listen for her reply. His heart sounded like a drum in his ears.

At last, her faint voice answered, "Here."

He crept toward the sound. Bant was all but blind beneath the branches. For a second he thought he saw her slender form in the darkness, a black shape against a gray background. When he drew nearer he saw it was only the trunk of a tree. Then her soft, cool hand closed around his and pulled him to her.

She was naked, of course. From sunset to sunrise on this night, it would be a sin to allow cloth to touch her body. Her soft skin pressed against his. He felt as if he'd slipped into dream. He wrapped her in his arms, holding her tightly, trembling with joy. He leaned and pressed his lips to her neck, nibbling her, breathing in the rich aroma of her hair. Then he moved his mouth to seek her lips. But she turned her face and his lips fell on her cheek, which was wet, and salty. She shuddered. He realized she was crying.

"What's wrong?" he whispered, rubbing her back.

"This," she said, sounding frightened. "Us. Bant, I love you, but... but we shouldn't be here. I'm afraid."

"There's nothing to be afraid of," Bant said, stroking her hair. "As you say, you love me. I love you. Nothing done in love should cause fear."

She swallowed hard. She was still crying.

"Everything's all right," he said, wiping her tears.

"No," she said. "I know I agreed to this. But, at the ritual, the women who prepared me for the sowing kept talking about the G.o.ddess. They kept telling me of my duty."

"d.a.m.n duty," Bant said, grabbing her shoulders and looking her in the eyes. "We've waited so long. I won't share you with the others. I can't."

"But it's the Night of the Sowing. The G.o.ddess is good to us. She makes the orchards blossom and the crops sprout. All that she asks in return is this one night of-"

"Hush," Bant said, placing his fingers on her lips. "The old women have really scared you, haven't they? Where's the Recanna I knew just yesterday, the girl so intent on following her own heart?"

"But..." she said.

"There will be other sowings," he said. "There will be time enough for duty."

"But-"

Bant pulled her to him, silencing her with his lips. Despite the warmth of the night, her naked body was cold and she shivered as he embraced her. He ran his hands along her skin, warming her. He continued kissing her until her lips grew softer, and she opened her mouth to his. She cautiously placed her gentle fingers against his hips. Her skin, chilled only moments before, flushed with heat. She moaned softly, and pulled him closer. They fell to the earth together, the soil warm and yielding beneath Bant's back.

For the first time Bant understood the deeper meaning of the sowing, the powerful connection between the seasons of the world and the pa.s.sions of the body. He felt as if he were a part of the earth, a thing of rich loam and hard rock. Recanna's breath against his lips was as sweet and life-giving as the spring breeze. Their defiance of the traditions of the village no longer mattered. There was only lingering, sensual tension of the now.

Then, with a gasp, Recanna turned her head and pushed Bant away. She rose to her knees.

"What?" Bant asked, sitting up and raising his hand toward her. "What's wrong?"

"Look," she said, pushing his hand away. "The road."

Far beyond the trees, a single lantern flickered on the distant road, breaking the sacred darkness of the sowing. Who would approach the town on this of all nights? A murmur rose from the nearby fields. They were not the only village folk to have spotted this sacrilege of light.

"It's an omen," Recanna said, her voice once more fearful. "We've angered the G.o.ddess. What have we done?"

"W-we... " Bant's argument trailed into silence. No one would dare light even a candle on the Night of the Sowing. The G.o.ddess graced this night with a perfect blanket of darkness. Had he risked too much?

A snap of a twig nearby raised the hair on his neck. Someone else was in the orchard. By now, his eyes were better adjusted to the gloom. Recanna's pale skin almost glowed. But looking around, all he could see were the silhouettes of the tree trunks. Anyone could be hiding. Then one of the dark shapes broke free from the others and moved closer. Bant jumped as a deep, beefy voice shouted, "Runt!"

Bant knew the voice well. Even in the gloom, the hulking shape of his older brother Jomath was unmistakable. Jomath was two years older than Bant, but a giant by comparison, a foot taller and with thick muscular arms. Bant had always been a target of his brother's bullying. But, if the light on the road presaged something dangerous, it was good that he was here.

"Jomath," Bant said. "I'm relieved it's you. What do you think the light on the road is?"

"Who cares?" Jomath said, striding boldly forward and placing a callused hand around Recanna's frail arm. "Some lost fool, no doubt. Not my concern. What concerns me is to see you and this lovely morsel breaking the commandments. Do you think I've been blind to your plotting?"

"Ow," said Recanna. "You're hurting me."

"You deserve to be hurt. The commandment is that any woman shall lay with any man on the Night of Sowing. Defiance of this is a great sin. I'm here to save you from your folly."

"Let her go," Bant said, leaping to his feet. "She's in love with me, not you."

"To speak of love is blasphemy," Jomath said, pushing Bant back with one hand while continuing to hold onto Recanna's arm. "There's no place for such refinement on the Night of Sowing. The G.o.ddess commands all of nature, and tonight we are reminded that we are part of that nature. We leave behind our daily roles to become the animals we truly are. It's a woman's duty to submit to any man who wants her. I've waited a long time for Recanna to come of age. It's time for me to teach her the sacred lesson of the G.o.ddess."

"Let her go," Bant repeated, clenching his fists. "You don't care anything about the G.o.ddess. You're only doing this to spite me."

"Please, Jomath," said Recanna, twisting in his grasp. "You don't have to be so rough. You're right. We've sinned. But at least allow Bant to be the first. We've waited so long."

"Don't speak to me of waiting," Jomath said, his teeth flashing white. "I've wasted far too much time searching these shadows for you. Resist if you like. I find it more pleasurable if you struggle."

"No!" Bant shouted, rushing toward his brother. He punched Jomath in the back with all his strength. His older brother spun around, using his free hand to punch Bant on the jaw.

Bant hit the ground hard, his mouth full of blood. The teeth on the left side of his jaw wiggled with sickening ease as his tongue brushed against them. When he tried to rise, Jomath kicked him in the belly, forcing his breath out in a painful gush. Jomath kicked him in the guts again and this time Bant vomited, choking on the bile. Unable to breathe and with stars dancing before him, Bant clutched dirt in his fists. He struggled to make his legs obey him. His hate was like a thousand whips lashing him, driving him. Bant had been beaten by Jomath before, but this would be the last time. Bant had no doubt that if he could reach Jomath's windpipe with his fingernails, he would gladly rip it out. Yet his body betrayed him. He remained glued to the ground.

Recanna screamed. Jomath silenced her with a punch then threw her down beside Bant.

"I'll kill you," Bant whispered through b.l.o.o.d.y lips.

"Empty threats." Jomath lowered himself to his knees before Recanna. Recanna was groaning, barely moving, as Jomath parted her legs. He glanced over at Bant and said, "Watch. You might learn something."

Bant spat at his brother, but the blood-darkened spittle landed on Recanna. Bant closed his eyes tightly until all he saw was a wall of red, a sea of blood. He imagined Jomath drowning in such a sea.

Then, far away, a man shouted and a woman screamed, not in pleasure but in panic. Quickly, the other villagers echoed the scream. Bant opened his eyes to find Jomath standing, ignoring Recanna, and staring off toward the village.

Across the fields, a bonfire rose from the heart of the village.

"This will have to wait," Jomath said, and raced away.

Bant crawled to Recanna's side. Together, they helped each other sit up. Recanna was weeping, her body heaving with great sobs.

"Oh, what have we done?" Recanna moaned. "This has all gone so wrong. Oh, G.o.ddess, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

Bant looked her in the eyes, trying to show courage. "This isn't our fault," Bant said. He prayed it was true. "Come on. Let's see what's happening."

He helped her to her feet. Grabbing her by the wrist, he guided her from the orchard, picking up speed and breaking into a run as they cleared the low branches and reached the freshly plowed field. Alone, Bant could have outpaced Jomath, even with his head start. Jomath had gotten all the brute strength in the family, but Bant's slight, wiry build made him the fastest runner in the village. He slowed his pace, not wanting to leave Recanna behind. In truth, he wasn't eager to discover the source of the evil that gripped the village this night. Could Recanna be right? Was this their fault?

At the edge of the village square, Bant stopped, drawing back in fear. Harnessed to a nearby wagon stood a gigantic black dog, as big as an ox. It was the biggest beast Bant had ever seen, save for a brief glimpse of a sun-dragon that had once flown high over the village.

The dog regarded Bant with a casual eye. Its huge pink tongue hung from its mouth as it panted, giving it a friendly, bemused expression. The dog's breath was foul, filling the air with a rotten meat stench. Bant kept his distance from the creature as he led Recanna around the edge of the square to join with the crowd of villagers.

The crowd consisted of the village men, all three score of them. All were still naked from the sowing. The women stood on the nearby hill, clutching their children to them. Everyone's eyes were fixed on the temple of the G.o.ddess. The structure sat in the heart of the village. Its wooden columns were the ivy-covered trunks of ancient trees, and its walls were dense hedges. It held the most sacred artifact of the village; a carving of the G.o.ddess, taller than a man, resting on a pedestal that was once the stump of an enormous oak.

Flames engulfed the temple. The fire roared with a noise like heavy rain. The stone steps leading up to the temple interior were covered with offerings: baskets containing bundles of fresh spring ramps, loaves of brown bread, and a catfish as long as a man's arm. The woven reed baskets curled and warped in the heat of the blaze.

Then, from the smoke and flame rolling from the temple's entrance, a giant stranger emerged, rudely dragging behind him the voluptuously carved mahogany statue of the G.o.ddess. If the smoke stung his eyes or irritated his lungs, the stranger gave no sign. Nor did he cringe from the terrible heat. He kicked away the offerings as he moved forward. He placed the G.o.ddess below him on the stone steps of the temple, moving her heavy wooden body as if it were weightless.

Confused voices ran through the crowd. Had this stranger set fire to the temple? Or was he saving the G.o.ddess from the blaze?

The crowd fell silent as the stranger straightened to his full height, easily ten feet tall, his shoulders broad, unbent by fear or labor. Despite the commandment that no cloth could touch flesh on this night, he wore a black wool coat that hung down to his heavy leather boots. His skin, stained by soot, was as dark as his clothes. The only bright things about him were his eyes, glistening beneath a broad-brimmed hat. His giant right hand held a thick, black book.

In the stunned silence, the stranger opened the book, and read, with a thunderous voice, "THOU SHALT HAVE NO OTHER G.o.dS BEFORE ME. THOU SHALT NOT MAKE UNTO THEE ANY GRAVEN IMAGE, OR ANY LIKENESS OF ANY THING THAT IS IN HEAVEN ABOVE, OR THAT IS IN THE EARTH BENEATH, OR THAT IS IN THE WATER UNDER THE EARTH."

With this proclamation, the stranger opened his long black coat to reveal a woodsman's axe, nearly four feet in length, its finely honed edge catching the firelight. It hung from his belt without touching the ground.

"It may be," the stranger growled, "that you dwell in ignorance, unaware of your sin." He lifted the heavy tool with a single hand high over his head. "I have been sent by the Lord to show you the way." The axe flashed down like lightning, splitting the G.o.ddess in twain. The two halves flew apart, clattering on the stone steps..

From the hillside the women began to wail. Even some of the men were weeping. Recanna clung tightly to Bant who felt numb. The G.o.ddess was eternal; she had always dwelled at the center of the village. How could this be happening, unless they were in the presence of something -some G.o.d- even more powerful than Ashera?

"Now that this nonsense is behind us," the stranger said, "the truth shall set you free."

"Truth?" one man cried, stepping forward. It was Jomath. "You dare speak of truth in the face of such blasphemy?"

"I dare," said the stranger. "Have care. Do not act in anger or haste. I am a servant of the Lord. He will not allow a hair on my head to come to harm."

Jomath's face twisted with rage. His hands were tight fists. But Bant knew his brother well, and could see something in his eyes that others might have missed. Fear. It was on the faces of all the men. Fear of the blasphemy they had witnessed, yes: fear of the coming wrath of the G.o.ddess, no doubt; but more immediately, fear of this giant, this devil standing before the raging flames, his sharp axe gleaming.

Jomath looked back to the men. "Who's with me? Who will join me in avenging this villainy?"

The men looked down in utter silence.

"Cowards," Jomath cursed. He turned to face the stranger. "Let the G.o.ddess give me the strength of the storms, the fury of lightning!"

He bellowed with rage as he rushed the steps. He drove his shoulders into the stranger's stomach with a force that made Bant flinch.

The stranger did not bend. Jomath recoiled from the impact of the blow, stumbling on the steps. The stranger raised his axe. Then, a shout flew from the crowd. A blacksmith's iron hammer flashed through the air. The heavy tool struck the stranger squarely in the face, knocking him backward. Namom, the stout-armed blacksmith, had hurled the weapon and now charged up the steps. Before Namon reached the man, Faltan, the huntsman, rushed from the edge of the burning temple and threw himself against the back of the stranger's knees. The stranger staggered forward, allowing Jomath to grab his belt and pull until all three men and the stranger tumbled. Bant had difficulty discerning whose limbs were whose in the cursing ball of flesh and black cloth that landed in the square.

As one, the men of the village gave a blood-curdling shout and rushed forward, drowning the stranger beneath a human wave.

Bant didn't move to join them. He couldn't, standing there, his arms around Recanna. His heart held an unspeakable desire. He wanted the stranger to live. He wanted the stranger to kill Jomath. Let the temple burn, let the G.o.ddess send her wrath as storms, as floods, as plagues of locusts and flies: Bant feared none of these things. All he wanted was for Jomath to die, to satisfy the hate he'd felt only moments before.

The ox-dog at the edge of the square barked and charged forward, the wagon bouncing behind it like a toy. The beast's teeth sank into the shoulder of one of the men on the ground who screamed as his bones snapped. His scream died as the ox-dog shook its enormous head, sending the man's body hurtling through the air. It landed before Bant and Recanna, splashing them with blood. Bant recognized the man; it was Delan, his uncle, the man who'd been training Bant in the art of archery. Bant understood that it wouldn't be only his brother who died tonight.

So be it, he thought.

Recanna screamed, tugging away from him, trying to run. Bant tightened his grip on her, deaf to her cries. He couldn't bear to part with her, and he didn't dare to turn away from the carnage before him.

The ox-dog tossed men into the sky like rag dolls as the bright-eyed stranger fought to his feet once more, his robes now wet with blood. His axe rose and fell, chopping and hacking. Limbs were severed, skulls split, men died with each blow. The dog tore and savaged the men. Quickly, the few men with limbs still intact slipped and skittered on the b.l.o.o.d.y cobblestones before fleeing into the night.

The stranger didn't pursue them. He stood in the middle of a mound of bodies, straightening his coat. He pulled the brim of his hat back down over his eyes and wiped his cheek with a gore-encrusted palm. He wasn't even winded.

He kicked the bodies at his feet -two-dozen men at least- making a path for him to walk.

With a chill of satisfaction, Bant spotted Jomath, dead among the b.l.o.o.d.y mound. It was almost as if his hate had killed Jomath, as if it had been a palpable thing, a force, making his darkest desires real. He knew he should feel remorse or some sense of loss. Instead, he felt something that bordered on joy at seeing his brother's torn and twisted corpse. It frightened him that he was capable of such hate. Nothing could ever wash the blood from him.

So be it.

The blood-soaked stranger walked toward Bant.

"You," the stranger said. "Boy. What's your name?"