Bitterwood by James Maxey

“He’ll take to the task more willingly, I wager.”
    “Sire, have you considered the dangers of releasing Blasphet? He was jailed not for poisoning humans but for poisoning dragons. Tanthia won’t be pleased to learn that her brother’s murderer walks free once more.”
    The king tilted his head to look upon Metron, as if giving consideration to his words. He looked as if he were about to speak, then stopped.
    Metron, sensing doubt, started to press his argument. “Tanthia has always been—”
    “I will explain the matter to her,” Albekizan said, cutting him off. “She will want Bitterwood dead. She’s blinded by grief at the moment… but I know, in the morrow, my queen will thirst for justice. It’s in her royal blood. Blasphet’s dangerous, yes. But so is fire. Properly handled, both can be powerful tools.”
    “He’s here,” Kanst said from inside the war room.
    Metron left the sunwashed balcony and followed Albekizan into the shadowy room. His sight was blocked by Albekizan’s broad, crimson back. Metron moved to the side for a better view. In the center of the world map stood a withered sun-dragon, the scales of his wings so long hidden from light they had lost all color, becoming transparent, revealing the black hide beneath. Blasphet’s eyes, red as sunset, burned as he looked upon the king. He shook his manacled limbs, causing the heavy iron chains to clatter. The earth-dragons who guarded him flinched at the noise.
    Their skittishness was justified. Blasphet had killed thousands of dragons; the true numbers were uncertain as his preferred weapon was poison. Many of his victims died in their sleep or with the symptoms of a wasting fever. The number was further complicated by the fact that, in his prime, Blasphet had founded a cult in which a loyal band of humans worshipped him as a god and carried out assassinations in his name. It had taken years to track down and kill the cult members after Blasphet had been imprisoned.
    “Albekizan,” said Blasphet, the Murder God. His voice was raspy, as if he hadn’t spoken in years. He bowed slightly then gave a spooky, moldy chuckle. “I know why I’m here. The news has reached even the dark hole you keep me in. If you plan to accuse me of Bodiel’s death, I can only express my deepest regrets that you’ve blamed the wrong dragon.”
    Albekizan reared up, his shoulders held back. He puffed out his chest, making himself as physically imposing as possible. He said, in his firmest tone, “Blasphet, if I thought you had harmed my son, only your head would be brought before me now. Your body would be digesting in the bowels of my ox-dogs.”
    Blasphet seemed unimpressed by the king’s bravado. “Tanthia would no doubt be pleased with that turn of events. Is she still unhappy you kept me alive after I killed Terranax?”
    “You were not brought here to discuss Tanthia or her brother.”
    Blasphet shrugged, a movement that made his faded scales rustle like dry leaves. “What, pray tell, am I here to discuss? This seems an odd time for idle chatter. Don’t you have a funeral to attend?”
    “It’s said that since you have resided in the dungeons, no rat has been seen there. In addition, many guards have been lost to a strange wasting sickness. You are responsible, no doubt.”
    “Of course,” Blasphet said, his eyes twinkling. “There is a mold that grows on the stones of my cell that possesses the most intriguing properties. I use whatever test subjects are near in my experiments.”
    “You find no difference between the life of a rat and the life of a dragon?”
    “Mere anatomy. Life is life, no matter how it’s packaged. Every living thing burns with the same flame. It all may be extinguished with equal satisfaction.”
    The king nodded his head, as if Blasphet had just said exactly what he wanted to hear.
    “If it’s life you care to extinguish, and it matters not which form of life, we have much to discuss. I’ve brought you here to