When Dragons Die- The Complete Trilogy Box Set

by K. Scott Lewis

  Anuit jumped as the door opened and Marta entered the room. The old woman’s wrinkled face was twisted in anger when she met Anuit’s eyes. The dark-skinned girl shrank from her gaze.

  “I just finished explaining why we lost three guardsmen and a border post under the watch of one of my students.” She stared at Anuit thoughtfully for a moment. “Your powers should have been enough to protect them. We don’t need the duke or the people of this city doubting our value!”

  Anuit hung her head, letting her long black hair fall forward to hide her face and the tears that welled unbidden to her eyes.

  “Even worse, you allowed one of your demons to be unmade. That is unacceptable. I will have to accelerate Seredith to make up for your lack of competence. Your training is suspended. You are not to use any of your powers or summon your demons unless I permit it. Until then, you will clean the house and do any other chores that I, Seredith, or any other sorcerer demands of you. You must earn the right to learn again, do you understand?”

  “I understand,” Anuit said, trying not to sniffle and blinking away tears from her eyes.

  Marta’s fury was bad enough, but what hurt more was the cold look of disgust now on Seredith’s face.

  * * *

  Hylda and Arda returned by mid-afternoon. The cold had only deepened throughout the day, and the elven woman sat with Attaris inside at the table with hot herbal tea in hand. She liked the warmth of the mug in her hands and the feel of the scented steam on her face. She inhaled the moist aroma of lemon and raspberries.

  “What the bloody hell happened here?” Hylda asked, thumbing towards the newly frosted greenery that had conquered the garden outside.

  “Tell us on the way,” Arda broke in. “Pack bags. We need to get inside the city walls.” She handed a bundle to the elf. “Here, put this on. It’s not much, but it was the only thing we could find tall enough for you on short notice.”

  The elf untied the bundle and held the white fabric open, revealing a long, simple snowy white gown of thick cotton. Arda brought forth another bundle, this one a heavier hooded cloak of wool with a fur lining, also white. Utterly oblivious to any sense of modesty, she dropped her blanket right there and slipped into the new clothing.

  Attaris blushed and looked away. “You need to stop doing that, lass.”

  “Say,” Hylda remarked, “don’t you have some packing to do, Attaris?”

  The robe felt soft against her skin. “Thank you,” she said, smiling at them. “This is really nice of you.”

  “Well, we can’t have a lady going around wearing nothing more than a blanket about to fall off her bum, now can we?” Hylda beamed.

  “Moreover,” Arda added, “wear your hood down to hide your ears and face. We don’t need to draw undue attention. An elf here is unusual enough, and you are eerie even for an elf.”

  The elf sensed tension about both of them. Do they know us? she wondered. Or did that thought come from the broken voices in her head? “There’s something else,” she prompted. “What?”

  “There was an incident at one of the border passes last night,” Arda answered. “Trolls. They’ve returned. If the one Attaris encountered was indeed here for you, the others are most likely as well. We need to get to the safety of the city.”

  She relaxed a bit. They didn’t know about the voices in her head. A strange feeling overcame her at the mention of trolls, however, like a neglected and forgotten promise. She nodded. “I understand.”

  Soon the four of them mounted. The elf sat behind Arda on her white war stallion. As they made their way towards the city, the two paladins listened attentively as Attaris described the spontaneous greenery that had sprung up about the elf earlier in his garden.

  “Touched by a goddess,” Arda finally commented after a long period of silence. “Or a god. With Karanos’ runes dead now, maybe the Old Gods have decided to finally return and break the Archurionite Church.”

  “Best not to speculate about such things,” Attaris said. “If the gods have designs, they will make them known when and if they choose and not a moment before. It’s not wise to get to thinking you know what gods intend. That’s what got the Archurionite Church into the state it’s in today.”

  Arda sniffed. “The Shadowlord got the Church to where it is today. But your point is taken.”

  The city of Windbowl still carried the architectural style of Hammerfold, the kingdom to which it had belonged before the Empire absorbed all of the Nine Realms. Its military structures—castle, walls, and towers—were built of strong gray stone from the surrounding mountains, held together by dark mortar that proved a delightful bed on which green moss loved to grow. The buildings within—houses, taverns, and shops—were also made of smaller stone bound together, but were then covered with painted wood frameworks that formed rectangles and triangles, with white plaster filling in between the beams. Most city folk lived in apartments above shops and other centers of trade, in buildings between two and four stories tall. Wooden shingles capped triangular rooftops, and glass windows looked out onto cobblestone streets.

  Snow fell gently as the four of them made their way to the city. It was late afternoon by the time they reached the main gates. Guards manned the stone walls, and the city watch hastened preparations to harden their defenses. They rolled cannons into place, gunpowder and cannonballs already positioned in case their worst fears were realized. The companions weren’t the only ones who had thought to rally to the city. At the gates, they fell into a line of people who had flocked to the walls for protection once news had spread that trolls had crossed into Windbowl’s borders. Parked lines of food and grain carts from the outer farms had made their way into the walls, and throngs of women and men filled the stores.

  They arrived at Hylda’s apartment, a modest two-room accommodation a couple blocks away from the city center and upstairs from a pub. With all the people from the surrounding countryside, the inns and pubs were full. There was an air of foreboding, which they masked in nervous excitement. The beer taps flowed, and pub owners grinned inwardly over the influx of coin, despite the knowledge that it could be short lived. The four companions were lucky to have Hylda’s apartment, for finding a room would have been challenging.

  The elf sat patiently in the corner on a cushioned chair. Hylda’s apartment, while modest, was not without comfort. Almost barren of decoration, everything of function bespoke quality, from her leather-wrapped, cushioned chairs to the polished oak dining table. The elf watched the three of them converse with detached curiosity.

  She knew she was the outsider. They believed she was important, at least by virtue of her uniqueness. Despite what they thought, she felt there were more like her in the world, all of them strangers to this land. She hoped her arrival was not the reason the city was threatened. She recalled no dealings with trolls from her memory fragments—at least nothing specific other than that vague feeling of unfulfilled promises.

  Those memories… they were hers, and they were not hers. They were her people, and they were not her people. She was of them, but they were not of her. It was through their memories that she knew of the high elves of this world, and of humans, dwarves, darklings, and the other races.

  Her new companions—were they friends?—called her “elf.” This held the ring of truth. The fabric of disparate memories sounded a note of resonant familiarity at the thought of the sidhe.

  Outcasts. Refugees.

  She knew of them, but she herself was no sidhe. They were, however, somehow related to the voices in her head She wanted to find them. They would have more answers than those who had found her, no matter how nice the dwarf and his friends seemed.

  “You should come with us to see the duke,” Attaris told her, breaking into her inner reverie.

  “If you think it’s best,” she answered. “I don’t want to burden anyone.”

  “I do,” Attaris assured her. “He should meet you. He’ll need all the facts so he can make the right decisions.”

&
nbsp; “You trust your leader,” the elf observed.

  “We do,” Hylda said. “He may not always agree with Kaldorite interests, but we trust him to make decisions that are best for the city and the people under his charge. He’s a good duke.”

  “Then I will meet him with you.”

  “We should go at once,” Arda said. “This is too important to wait until morning. We don’t know what might develop overnight, and the duke will want information sooner rather than later.”

  Attaris paused for a moment, looking at her with furrowed brow. “We’ll call you Lunarin,” he finally said, “since you don’t seem to have a name. We can’t just go around calling you ‘the elf woman.’ Lunarin means ‘moon-child’ in the ancient tongue. You remind me of the old stories of Soorleyn, the Moon Goddess. It seems a good fit for you.”

  “I shall be Lunarin then,” the elf agreed, “until such a time as I remember my own name.” If she even had one.

  They met Duke Montevin in a private audience chamber in his keep. It was a small, intimate room with red walls and matching carpets. Attaris whispered to Lunarin as they entered the room, explaining whom she saw before her. The duke sat on a carved wooden seat. Standing to his right was Captain Kaern, a severe-looking man. Next to Kaern stood Aiella, the highest-ranking wizard in Windbowl. To Montevin’s left stood Marta, steely eyes fixed sternly upon them. Hylda took her chair as his secretary, leaving the other three standing side by side before the ducal seat. Lunarin kept her face hidden, enshrouded in the shadows beneath her hood.

  “My duke,” Hylda announced, “Attaris, runewarden of Modhrin, the Lady Arda, and Lunarin the light elf.”

  “I am interested to hear your account,” the duke invited.

  Attaris explained how he had found her and his encounter with the troll and that the troll had seemed to be looking for her. He then spoke about how he had nursed her to health, but left out, Lunarin noticed, the part about her making his garden grow.

  “What sidhe trickery is this?” the duke challenged. “Why would the remnants of the High Elven Imperium risk the Shadowlord’s wrath by meddling in the affairs of humans?”

  “I have had dealings with the sidhe,” Arda intervened. “She is unlike any that I have met. I don’t believe she is from their cities or that the high elves are her people.”

  “And this darkling is…?” Marta queried.

  “A paladin of the Kaldorite Order,” Arda inclined her head.

  Marta frowned, her black eyes glittering from her wrinkled face.

  “Don’t protest too much, Marta,” Aiella chided. The woman’s stern eyes and graying hair put her in her forties, younger than Marta by a decade or two. “The duke tolerates you; you should accept his tolerance of the Kaldorites as well.”

  “There’s more,” the darkling continued. “I’ve come from Astia. The Shadowlord’s runes have grown dark in the border towns. None of his runewardens—neither citizens nor Templars—wield the magic upon which they rely so much.”

  The people in the audience chamber gasped.

  “I cannot say how widespread this is,” Arda clarified. “I only witnessed this just before crossing over into Windbowl.”

  “Thank you for your report, Lady Arda. More troubling news.” Aiella turned her gaze to Lunarin. “Well, step forward. Let’s get a better look at you.”

  Lunarin did not like Marta—her eyes burned with the focused glint of a predator—but at Aiella’s request, she stepped forward and pulled off her hood. The city leaders gasped when they saw her pale silver skin, the glowing green accents in her brown eyes, and red-striped face.

  “I agree with the paladin,” Aiella stated. “She is not sidhe. The Fae blood seems more pure in her. You called her light elf. That seems more appropriate. I believe she is seelie.”

  “This troll,” Kaern growled. “What did he want with you?”

  “I can guess his intentions even less than my own origins,” Lunarin answered. “As Attaris told you, I have no memory of my past. The feel of the word ‘seelie’ seems right enough to my mind, though I know not what it means. I was born from light, this much is true.”

  “It’s an old word for the Fae folk who came to our land in ages past but remained of the Otherworld. They were the light elves. Those that stayed to adopt this world as their home and left their faerie realms behind eventually became changed by this world. They became the sidhe, whom common folk call high elves.” Aiella arched an eyebrow. “Have you come from the Otherworld? The magic pathways to the faerie realms have become barred to me, and I greatly desire to know why.”

  Lunarin reflected. “No. Not in the way that you mean.”

  “We’ll need to hide you,” Captain Kaern butted in. “If they’re after you, it’s best they don’t know you’re here. The fewer who know, the better.”

  “Why should we protect her?” Marta countered. “We don’t know who she is or from where she comes. Why should we put Windbowl in danger for her sake? Give her to the trolls and spare the city, before more life is lost.”

  Kaern growled, “We’ve already lost three lives on account of this woman and through no help of your coven. Those trolls killed my men. I’ll be damned if I just hand her over to them!”

  “That’s neither of your decision to make,” Aiella remarked.

  Duke Montevin kept silent. He let the different views argue and bicker while he took it all in. He studied Lunarin intently, staring at her. She noticed he had a strange golden undertone to his eyes, similar to Kaern’s. Not like the other humans in the room.

  She turned her gaze to each of them and listened to the notes formed by the fragmented voices in her head. She could feel the quality of their beings, and that sense created harmonic melodies against the woven tapestry of her memories. The resonance in her soul reflected the music of what she sensed, and the broken voices named the keynotes.

  She was already familiar with her friends. Both paladins set off the same golden tones in her soul, strong and pure. Purpose. Attaris held a primal chord within him, raw and untapped. Not like her own growing connection with the life force of this world, but rather the tumultuous elements that gave life the chance to rise. The electric spark of the Storm Lord—Modhrin—crackled with staccato accents.

  Captain Kaern’s soul felt direct and down to earth. She sensed an animalism about him, human mixed with a predator… a wolf underneath. Wolven. For all his ferocity, she sensed it was well controlled, and that he had a noble spirit similar in character to the two paladins. Aiella also felt powerful, a human soul connected to the underlying forces of the universe. Wizard. She recognized that feeling as powerful and familiar to her own elven nature. A memory confirmed that her people had maintained dealings with the sidhe, many of whom were wizards.

  The old crone, Marta, felt… black. A rotten darkness seeped out of a tightly controlled exterior, and Lunarin turned her mind away, too dangerously close to evoking memories of the Black Dragon. She shuddered… The duke most likely did not know the extent of the corruption, otherwise he would not have allowed her into his council. Would he?

  She fixed her gaze once more on the duke. His resonance sounded echoes of both Aiella and Kaern. She took in how everyone sat—poised, confident in their own place, and defining themselves in how they looked at each other. She came to realize that she was the only one in the room who understood the duke’s hidden nature. Even more impressive that they looked to him for firm leadership, trusting his judgment rather than his power. Perhaps that’s why he kept that aspect hidden from them. Except Aiella. She knows. Lunarin corrected her earlier assessment, seeing again how the wizard looked at the duke. They are intimate.

  “I think you see much in us,” Duke Montevin finally broke the conversation. “Perhaps more than we see in you. What would you have us do then? Do you feel safe here?”

  “Feeling safe does not make one safe,” Lunarin answered him. “I feel safe enough but we will see. The real question is, do you feel safe with me?”

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sp; Hylda stared at her with a what are you doing? look on her face.

  “Get rid of her,” Marta said again. “She is too dangerous.”

  “To Windbowl or to you?” Kaern growled. “I, for one, like her honest talk.”

  “Enough!” the duke silenced them. He turned his gaze back to Lunarin. “To answer your question, yes. I do feel safe from you. I don’t know why, but I’ve learned to trust my instincts. But I don’t feel safe with you. However, Windbowl will not just hand you over. You have our protection. Our sovereignty was violated when our guards were killed; these trolls are invaders, and we will not just cave to their demands. We will remove them from our land, by force if necessary.”

  5 - A Turn of Events

  The troll contingent arrived the next morning. A blanket of gray clouds masked the sun overhead, and a light snow continued to fall. From the white, about two-dozen trolls emerged, calmly and quietly making their way to the city’s gates. They made no effort to hide and stopped several dozen paces from the guards. The troll with the red mohawk moved forward by himself. He held empty hands open as he approached, indicating no desire to threaten. The gate guards sent word, and Captain Kaern soon joined them. The portcullises remained shut. He opened the heavy side door and walked out to meet the troll, shifting into wolven form.

  Attaris watched from an upper level room in one of the gate guard towers. Hylda, Arda, and Lunarin were with him, all of them crowded around the open window. Earlier that morning, Arda had insisted on joining the guards to help the preparations, and Captain Kaern had no objections. Lunarin had wanted to see the trolls who appeared to be connected to her in some way, so the two dwarves brought her there after a quick breakfast.

  Kaern made for an impressive sight of muscle and fur. He stood eye level with the troll, glowering. “I am Kaern, Captain of the Guard,” he growled. “You have killed three of ours, and we do not welcome you.”