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“Bitterwood’s to blame. The Ghost Who Kills haunts these woods tonight.”
    “Perhaps,” Zanzeroth said. “But I’ve yet to see a ghost leave tracks. The murderer of your son was merely a man.”
    “He’s more than a man,” Albekizan said. “You’d do well to remember that.”
    “Yes, Sire,” said Zanzeroth. He walked to the bush beside Gadreel and touched a torn leaf above his head. “Man or ghost, the assailant struck from behind. Here is where the first arrow passed. That branch, there, is where he wrapped the reins of his horse. He stood on the large branch in yonder tree to take his first shot.”
    Zanzeroth stalked back to the center of the clearing, placing his hind-talons in a pair of long, smeared trenches. “Your son stood in this spot. The arrow strikes Bodiel low in the back. In pain, Bodiel spins,” Zanzeroth twisted around suddenly, fixing his gaze above Gadreel, “to see another arrow fly forth, burying deep in his shoulder. Bodiel hears Cron running and turns, reflexively fearing the loss of his prize, then catches himself. This is the first instant where he understands his own life is in danger.”
    Zanzeroth held his wings wide for balance as his talons skittered in the mud, duplicating Bodiel’s actions.
    “Bodiel leaps but never reaches the bush. His foe is already running through the woods, flanking him, and the third arrow comes from there.” The hunter pulled a long spear from the quiver slung on his back and used the shaft to point to a narrow gap in the trees. Sundragons used such spears to kill prey from above; Zanzeroth was so skilled he could drop a spear from five hundred yards above a field to pierce a bounding rabbit. Now, he used the tip of the spear to gently push a leaf torn by an arrow’s flight. “The fourth arrow follows swiftly, puncturing Bodiel’s lung.”
    Zanzeroth crouched, spreading his wings over the mud, “Finally, the prince falls. He’s alive but in terrible agony. He screams only for an instant as the fifth arrow lodges in his throat. The prince struggles to rise, unwilling to accept his fate. He crawls toward the water, seeking relief. Still the arrows come. The archer knows Bodiel has mere moments to live but wants him to suffer. The shots that follow aren’t meant to hasten death, but to increase agony. The arrows fall upon the tender flesh of the wings and tail. Bodiel at last collapses, his left wing in the river. Slowly, the speeding current drags him from the bank.”
    Zanzeroth started to rise but slipped in the mud. Gadreel hurried to his side, extending a claw for the hunter to steady himself. Zanzeroth spurned him by digging his hind-talons deeper in the muck and pulling his wings free from the ground with a wet slurp . He shook his wings to clean them, spattering Gadreel with mud that smelled faintly of dung.
    “And Bitterwood?” Albekizan said, studying the trees surrounding them. “What became of him?”
    “He fled, of course,” said Zanzeroth, placing his spear back in its quiver. “On horseback. He’s miles away but we’ll find him. Even after a hard rain the ox-dogs can follow a horse’s scent.”
    As Zanzeroth spoke, the brush behind him shuddered and then parted as two massive ox-dogs lumbered into the clearing, dragging their earth-dragon handlers behind them. Earth-dragons were solid and squat, no taller than humans but twice as broad, with thick muscular arms instead of wings, and powerful shoulders to support their thick-boned tortoise-like heads. They were strong as mules but their strength did little to slow the powerful dogs. The dogs dragged their handlers to Zanzeroth’s side. Their rank breath steamed in the rain-cooled night. Moments later a squad of a dozen earth-dragons, the finest the palace guard had to offer, emerged from the brush.
    Zanzeroth took the leashes of the dogs and led them to the spot where the horse had stood. The dogs sniffed and snuffed, rooting through the damp debris of the forest.