Her eyes fogged over. She breathed, a panicked breath, blood gurgling up her throat. Her foggy eyes were trained on Borden Bronachell, wondering if he would help Squateye. “Help me tend to her, Borden,” the dwarf said. “It’s more than a ten-day journey to Wynix. Maybe longer if the winds are light. And I doubt Tyus Barra will have many medicines with him.”
“ ’Tis Culpa’s young cousin will be meeting us?” Borden asked. “The one you say is mute?”
“Aye, the mute.”
“That damned dog is swimming out toward us,” Borden’s voice rolled over the boat as if from a great distance.
“Café Colza Bouledogue?” The dwarf’s concerned voice questioned from somewhere deep in Krista’s head. “Bloody Mother Mia, we don’t need that slobbering horror anywhere near this boat.”
“Even the dog can be of use. . . .”
. . . And that was all she heard as the blessed blackness of sleep swept her away.
* * *
And to bring about the end of all things, a false bishop of Laijon will sacrifice himself for one who drinks the Blood of the Dragon. ’Twill be a simple act of hanging, gone unnoticed. And only then shall the demons arise from the underworld, following what meager light glows from crooked streams of silver, liquid silver that carves glinting paths through furious hard stone, silver that legend tells shall lead all demonkind to the great above, the sun, the dawn, the rain, and the stars. Up from the underworld they shall arise, walking on the bones of the human dead.
—THE ANGEL STONE CODEX
* * *
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
BISHOP HUGH GODWYN
17TH DAY OF THE ANGEL MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
STANCLYFFE, GUL KANA
Beer Mug padded along the gritty streets of Stanclyffe just ahead of Godwyn and Liz Hen and the mules. The shepherd dog seemed to suffer no ill effects from the poison darts, looking as healthy as the day Godwyn had first met him.
Dokie Liddle was a different story. The Gallows Haven boy, secured atop one of the mules, intermittently in and out of consciousness, was barely clinging to life. It had been seven days since they’d left the glacier, six since they had fought off the oghuls in the cabin. Liz Hen had tended to the boy nightly, making sure he was well hydrated, mashing portions of food into the water, forcing him to drink in his few moments of coherency. He had survived for this long only because of her.
As Godwyn guided the two mounts past the Cloven Hoof Tavern, the ten-thousand-foot cliff rose into the gray clouds above the town like an irrepressible weight over him. He wore his cloak tight around his neck. And he could still feel the dull ache where the oghul’s fangs had sunk into his flesh. Though she tried to hide it, every time Liz Hen caught sight of the purple bruising on his neck, her face would twist in disgust.
He’d heard of bloodletters’ addiction to the bite of an oghul, but had never realized how real the pull of the toxin could be. Some pleasing chemical in their fangs. Since the incident in the cabin, the intimate desire for the euphoric feeling of the oghul’s bite had smothered him—an entity more powerful than the wraiths. Both dread and anticipation filled his heart. Especially when he saw the oghul street vendor step from the door of the corner building at the end of the lane. The beast stooped over the large brick oven under a tan awning. The same woman from their previous visit was with him, a kind-looking lady, but for the gruesome bruise blossoming along the left side of her face and neck.
She spied Godwyn’s group approaching and tapped her burly companion on the shoulder. The oghul’s scowling brown eyes instantly found Liz Hen, focusing on the Sør Sevier longsword strapped to her hip. He stood straight. Imposing. Arms and legs like tree trunks, the brute wore a stained leather apron and a belt lined with a brace of cooking knives. As Godwyn and Liz Hen stepped under the awning, the bishop again spotted the red dot tattooed on the oghul’s face just below his left eye—like a tear of blood—a sign to those who knew what foul drugs the oghul dealt in. Certain bishops of Gul Kana had a similar such secret sign, a way to tell which bishops had been anointed by the grand vicar himself in Amadon. Any holy man who did the three-fingered sign of the Laijon Cross over his heart, ending with his thumb pointed toward his navel, was one such chosen bishop to be especially revered. Godwyn himself had been anointed by the grand vicar, though he had not yet found occasion to use the signal. But such sacred signs were different from what he was dealing with now. Bloodletting. Before him, the oghul’s grotesque purple lips were lined with deep cracks. Wiry hair burst from his scarred head in one odd clump, brows thick and unruly. Two scum-crusted fangs shot from swollen gums upward out of his mouth and up past his nose. Godwyn could almost imagine what they would feel like sinking into his flesh.
The pain . . . and then the pleasure . . .
The oghul spat a small gray rock from his mouth onto the roadway. “Fat juicy girl come back to finally let me fhuck her?” His eyes never once left Liz Hen, his voice deep and husky. Liz Hen glared.
“Or she ghonna shtick me with that shword?” He grinned. Beer Mug growled.
The lady with the bruised neck eyed the big shepherd dog warily. “S’ist Runk don’t coddle to dogs. Or cats, for that matter.”
“We’ve brought no cats.” Liz Hen’s brow furrowed.
“Good.” The woman turned and awkwardly curtsied to Godwyn. “Name’s Mardgot.” The bishop acknowledged her with a slight bow of his own.
Liz Hen’s hungry eyes were fixed on the large brick oven against the outside wall of the building. It was smoking with several large hocks of ham. Godwyn was also hungry, but could scarcely break his gaze from the oghul’s jutting teeth and swollen gums. He’s ready to feast. Godwyn shuddered.
“Dokie is sick.” It was a struggle just to talk; the wound on his neck was swollen and sore. Godwyn motioned to the boy tied to the swayed back of the mule.
“Sick?” the oghul asked, a curious tilt to his thick brow. “How?”
Godwyn reached into the front of his cloak and brought forth a thin silver dart—one of the poisoned needles he’d pulled from Dokie. “Have you seen its like before?”
The oghul leaned over, inspecting the silver dart. “The boy hash gone playshes he shouldn’t have.”
“He was struck by many such darts,” Godwyn said. “He requires special medicines. You know of which medicine I speak, S’ist Runk.” He touched the top of his own cheekbone, just below the corner of his eye. “Your tattoo. I know what it means. I know who you are. I know you have the medicines the boy needs.”
S’ist Runk grunted, and Mardgot’s face was suddenly not so kind as her gaze fell on the open neckline of Godwyn’s cloak. She could clearly see the purple traces of his own bruising. Jealousy filled her eyes. S’ist Runk’s brown orbs were also focused intently on the bruising on Godwyn’s neck. “What potions you sheek is most precious, most exphenshive. Will take much gold coin.”
“We haven’t coin of any kind,” Godwyn said, then swallowed hard. “But I can pay in other ways.”
S’ist Runk looked at Liz Hen, grinning madly. “So you gonna let me fhuck the girl’s juicy ripe twat?” A string of drool dripped from his bulbous lips.
“You know what I’m offering,” Godwyn answered. “More precious than sex.”
“Mardgot wont like whaht you offerhing,” the oghul said.
The dark pall of jealousy that had fallen over the once kind-faced woman had turned to glaring anger.
“I offer two days’ worth of my blood.” Godwyn regarded the oghul with a long, meaningful stare. His sore neck was in need of relief, and the oghul’s gums looked swollen, inviting. He felt one part fear, one part elation, one part anticipation. Offering myself up like some common whore . . . more precious than sex . . .
“The boy does loohk sick,” S’ist Runk observed. “I do not think I have enough potion that you seek, though.”
“We will take whatever you have.”
“I only have what I have. For the rhest you must sail to Lhord’s
Point. I have enough to keehp him alive till then . . . maybhe.”
Godwyn nodded. S’ist Runk nodded in return, looking at the woman next to him. “Prehpare the bashement.” Mardgot scurried off into the building. The oghul moved toward Dokie. Beer Mug gave a low warning growl. S’ist Runk ignored the dog and pulled a long, curved knife from his belt. He cut the ropes securing Dokie to the mule, sheathed the blade, and scooped the boy up in his thick, gnarled arms. “Follow me.” He brushed past Beer Mug, carrying Dokie into the building.
“Beer Mug will guard the mules,” Godwyn said to Liz Hen. His heart fluttered with nerves as he hitched their two dun-colored mounts to the post just under the awning. He then grabbed the girl by the shoulders. “What you are about to see will be hard to watch, Liz Hen, but I’ll need you to come with me. I will need you to stay by my side.”
“I’ve already seen it,” Liz Hen said. “Lest you forget, I was in the cabin with you that first time.”
“Yes.” Godwyn met her eyes. “Yes, you were.”
Together they followed the oghul into the building. S’ist Runk led them across a warped wooden floor to another door at the back of the dark room. He nudged the door open with his booted foot, revealing a dimly lit hallway and a narrow set of stairs descending. The oghul took the stairs carefully, Dokie cradled in his arms. Godwyn and Liz Hen followed. The basement room they entered was damp and cold and smelled of water-rotted timber. The roof was hung low and made of long, drooping beams of dark wood. Mardgot was already there, two lit sconces in either hand, their flames aflicker.
A stone slab sat in the center of the murky room, a thick woolen blanket hastily thrown over it. S’ist Runk set the boy on the blanket. Mardgot hung the sconces on the wall. In the soft yellow light Dokie’s face was sunken and white as bone, his breathing shallow. Mardgot gathered two vials of liquid from a nearby cupboard, one dark red, the other filled with what looked like water. She handed both to S’ist Runk.
“Rauthouin bane,” Godwyn said aloud as the oghul uncorked the clear vial and set it on the stone slab next to the boy.
“And Blhood of the Draghon.” S’ist Runk picked up the wine-colored mixture next. “Together, these potions help heahl your friend.” He picked Dokie’s head up in one large hand, tilted it forward, and lifted the vial to the boy’s lips.
“What if it’s just more poison?” Liz Hen said, frantic, her eyes boring into Godwyn. “Didn’t we fight against this kind of madness in the mines? The poison he just put in Dokie is made of something named after the nameless beasts of the under—”
“Leave now!” The oghul let Dokie’s head fall back down to the stone slab. “Red-head’d bitch not trust Blhood of the Draghon? This is great insult! Must leave now!”
Liz Hen’s eyes were wide as dinner plates. “But—”
The beast snarled, “Only the bravehst oghul pirates shneak into the Blhoodwood Foresht to harvest Blhood of the Draghon! You will not insult them!”
Liz Hen backed away. Godwyn motioned for her to remain silent. Perhaps it had been oghul pirates who had harvested this batch, but he knew of another man who snuck into the Bloodwood Forest to collect Blood of the Dragon. A man named Praed and a band of four thieves named the Untamed. Praed was also known to deal in Blood of the Dragon.
“This bitch leaves now!” S’ist Runk snarled again, eyes fixed on Godwyn.
“Let me take a sip,” Liz Hen said quickly, moving toward the table. “Let me test this stuff you are pouring into Dokie.” The oghul growled.
“You do not know what Blood of the Dragon is.” Godwyn stepped between her and the table. “You must not drink it.”
“And Dokie should?”
“Blood of the Dragon can heal near anything, Liz Hen. But it is rare and it is dangerous. One sip can give almost anyone unnatural good health. But it comes with a heavy price.”
“Let her drink.” S’ist Runk thrust the vial toward Liz Hen. “Let it paint your eyes red, girl, red just like your hair.”
Liz Hen snatched the vial from his gnarled fingers and put it to her lips, eyes bouncing from the oghul to Godwyn to Mardgot and back. She tilted her head back and took a quick sip, then swallowed. Then waited. Everyone stared at her as if she might burst into flame. Then her eyes widened in pleasure; Godwyn’s heart sank.
How many must the Brethren of Mia corrupt before this madness is over . . . ?
S’ist Runk laughed. Deep and loud. “Now you won’t stop whanting it, girl.” He grinned wildly. “Drink more, and you will be someday become indeshtructable. That is Blhood of the Draghon.” Then the oghul snatched the vial of red liquid back from her.
Liz Hen’s eyes followed the vial greedily as S’ist Runk propped Dokie’s head up again. The beast slapped the boy’s face to rouse him into semi-wakefulness, then dumped the remainder of the wine-colored draught into his mouth. Dokie choked, but swallowed it down in several gulps, delirious and unaware of what was even happening.
The oghul removed the stopper from the second vial and poured all the clear rauthouin bane down the boy’s throat too. “Enough to keep him alive for a week, maybe more.” He held up both empty vials. “You musht go to Brown R’elk manor house in Lhord’s Point for more Blhood of the Draghon. Brown R’elk a very rich and inflhuhential oghul tradher and alchemhist with the same tattoo under hish eye.” He pointed to the red dot tattooed under his own eye.
Godwyn nodded. The oghul stared at him hungrily now, gums seemingly twice as swollen as before, swollen in anticipation of the coming feast. Godwyn loosened his cloak, revealing his swollen purple neck for S’ist Runk. What person can face this horrid yearning torment daily and not succumb to the wraiths? He swallowed hard, the pain in his neck nearly unbearable now, the anticipation great. “Just me,” he said. “Two days’ worth. Leave the girl alone. That was the deal.”
S’ist Runk was on him before he could even give voice to his last request, gnarled hands seizing the back of his head, dirty fangs sinking deep into his flesh. The initial force of the beast’s crushing bite struck Godwyn with breathtaking agony, what he imagined the strangle of the hangman’s noose might feel like. Foamy blood trickled from the corners of his own mouth as he struggled in the oghul’s grip. Then the toxins from the beast’s savage teeth took effect, and Godwyn could feel the throbbing pain loosen its hold, replaced with the ecstasy and blissful darkness he had yearned for.
* * *
The flares of the sun burnt the tops of the mountains to silver cinders. ’Twas those silver flares and whips that the beast of the underworld didst fear. And whoso controlleth the Blood of the Dragon commandeth the beasts. Thus I named that silver sun Dragon Claw and deemed it the source of all life, the supplier of all death.
—THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON
* * *
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
STEFAN WAYLAND
17TH DAY OF THE ANGEL MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
DEADWOOD GATE, GUL KANA
The unbearable blackness of the accursed mine was suffocating. It bled into the air and into every fiber of Stefan’s being. He feared he would become a wicked, desperate ghost, a wraith, wandering the underworld’s caverns, crying, wailing, gnashing his teeth forever. Or just a blundering fool in the dark!
The bow strapped to his back was his only comfort. Gisela. He had been crawling in the blackness for what felt like days; the unrelenting worry that oghuls still chased him was a torture to his already stressed body. The upward gradient he had been following was so gentle as to be almost imperceptible. But he followed it, crawling in the dark, blind, feeling his way with his hands, dragging his injured leg behind him.
He tried to ignore the debilitating effect his maimed ankle was having on the rest of his body. Shock from the injury and everything else was tightening around his mind. Now and then he would stop and check his injured ankle with prodding fingers. It was swollen to nearly twice its normal size within the boot. There was naught to do but ignore the pain and keep crawling.
At ever
y fork in the road, he chose the route that seemed to go up and out. If a staircase or tunnel didn’t go up, he doubled back until he found one that did. All in complete blackness. He wondered if he shouldn’t be like Dokie or Liz Hen and give thanks to Laijon for keeping him alive. But speaking to a god he didn’t really believe in seemed a silly notion. Yet he couldn’t help but wonder if something of the divine hadn’t intervened with that oghul.
But there was no oghul . . .
No dragon . . .
No skull-faced man . . .
He did not want to think of himself as mad.
But have the wraiths completely possessed me?
Both knees and the palms of his hands had become raw from the crawling. He could feel the dirt and rocks embedded in his skin, imagining them burrowing into his bloodstream. Even if he escaped this place, he would take part of it with him.
He crawled as if in a dream, ignoring all pain, so lulled by the monotony of one hand in front of the other, left, right, left, right, shuffle, drag . . .
. . . so consumed with the journey, he almost fell into the abyss.
Exactly as before, his hands dropped out from under him, and his chin smacked against the stone floor. Like in a horrendous repetitive dream, his heart hammered as he scrambled back.
His left shoulder bumped into something, knocking it, rattling along the floor. He froze in place. Whatever he’d just made contact with was man-made and sounded tinlike in the hollow silence. He reached for the object. Found it. It was cold, metallic. Familiar.
It was a tin bucket with a stout wire handle, rusty and well used. He hugged it to his belly, his hands lovingly caressing its surface. Human made. Not oghul made. Somehow, somewhere, sometime, somebody else like me was in this place, this demon-spawned underworld. Maybe I am not alone.
He set the bucket aside and cautiously felt for the edge of the drop-off again, not wanting to fall into it. Perhaps it was just a small ledge, merely a flight of stairs. I’ve no more rope left! He found the ledge, lay flat on his stomach, and reached his hand downward as far as he could. But there was nothing.
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