When Dragons Die- The Complete Trilogy Box Set

by K. Scott Lewis

  To her it seemed a bright yellowish hue tinted the light in the room, and the blues of her gown and the buttons on his shirt shown thick like gobs of paint. The voices were gone once more, leaving her sense of self intensely focused and intact. She kicked her legs and slammed her fists into the bed over and over again, laughing. She loved feeling so alive. She sat up and embraced Skole.

  “This is wonderful,” she said. The sound of her words made her feel giddy. “You’re wonderful.”

  He kissed her, and she paused for a moment as a new sensation of warmth filled her, mixing with the intoxicating euphoria. Her body relaxed, and she couldn’t keep from giggling.

  He laid her back and unbuttoned her gown. He loosened his trousers and then pushed her legs wide open, climbing atop her.

  The euphoria of the drug flooded her body, and she didn’t care what he did. The rush faded but the bliss increased, dulling her senses. Her mind floated in and out of awareness as he grunted with each thrust of his hips.

  And somewhere, far away, she saw the image of a Dragon’s tear slide in the recesses of her mind.

  28 - Fallen

  Jorey had given up hope of finding his son. The city had disintegrated into chaos where the strong ruled by might and the weak suffered for it. He hoped Arlen was okay, but his immediate concern now was the safety of his wife and daughter. Six weeks had passed since he submitted to working for Skole in exchange for basic food and shelter. And more importantly, protection—his wife and daughter would not have to resort to life as one of Skole’s whores. Skole had put them to work in the pleasure house’s kitchen, preparing meals for workers and guests. It was better than the alternative.

  It had been a rough three months since they left the tower. He had shot two men before people got the idea to leave them well enough alone, but his family had eventually run out of the food and water he had stashed. They had scrapped and stolen to get by until Skole’s agent approached him in the alley one morning. Jorey had considered declining the offer, but then the agent had implied that it would be sad to see his wife and daughter without protection and most tragic if they had to resort to more desperate means of making a living. He’d agreed after that. Skole paid him a small wage and a daily stipend of food. His family was given a single-room apartment in a building near the pleasure house.

  Just a few days later, something even more terrible had happened. A shimmering wave of energy, vaguely purplish white, had covered every doorway and window on every tower in the city. The strange light had climbed over the tower walls, reaching three hundred feet up their sides. They could see the people staring out through it. The first time someone had tried to pass through they had been caught in its field and just froze there. The strange energy was thicker than it seemed. The same had happened all over as tower inhabitants had tried to leave, only to be frozen suspended in the space. They had stared out into the streets with anguished visages, and the people outside couldn’t tell if they had died or still lived.

  The true horror began as the people inside began to starve. Desperate, they’d tried to push through the magic field until the space was filled with a mass of suspended flesh, bodies pushed up against each other trying to find a way through. Some people had tried to climb down from the outside, from ledges hundreds of feet above. Most of them had fallen to their deaths. Some had jumped on purpose, avoiding the agonizingly slow death of starvation. Or being forced to resort to eating each other. Jorey offered a silent prayer up to whatever god was listening in thanks that they had gotten out when they did, and that he had a place in the world for his family.

  Malahkma wasn’t the only vice guild, but Jorey learned that it was quickly becoming the largest, gaining power and influence over the other guilds’ territories. Slowly but surely, the legitimate crafting guilds of other trades pledged themselves to Skole for the protection he offered. It probably helped that an increasing number of their leadership were customers at a growing chain of pleasure houses. In the months working for Malahkma, a clear delineation in his mind grew of “us” and “them”—those who were part of the family and those who weren’t. He didn’t have to concern himself with expending the effort of compassion on those outside the guild. He even learned to kill for Skole when told to do so. It didn’t take long. Us or them. At first, “us” was his wife and daughter. “Us” expanded to the people in Malahkma, and “them” became anyone who threatened his circle of safety. He cherished the emotional callous that he had built. He didn’t have to feel anything and could focus instead on protecting his family.

  Until she came.

  He stayed outside her door from noon to midnight, swapping shifts with another guard who brandished a short sword. Skole had him posted with his shotgun during the high-traffic hours to keep her from wandering patrons. The door wasn’t thick, and he heard every conversation inside. He was familiar with the pattern by now. Skole would offer them a place to stay and give them the “medicine.” Malahkma’s Milk. He would give it freely for about a week, getting them hooked on the stuff. Then he would start withholding it until they were willing to do anything for another fix.

  Skole visited her every night the first week, taking advantage of her when she was high. He usually didn’t sample his women. She was unusually compliant, even more than the human women. And her body visibly reacted to the milk. Jorey learned to tell how far along she was into withdrawal by how dark and prominent those strange body markings grew. As soon as she had a hit, they all vanished.

  His heart fell when he heard her break. Through the door he heard her beg Skole for another dose, promising she would do anything. That’s when he knew Skole had her, just like he had every other wretched whore in this place. Skole brought in one of the other women to train the elf in the art of seduction and comfort—which mostly consisted of learning how to lie with your face, lie with your voice, and most importantly, lie with your body. She was made a finer gown, dressed in more class than the other whores, and her black hair was trimmed and pulled up into two buns with pigtails. Two long, neat strips of hair remained uncut and fell to her shoulders in front of her tapered ears.

  Every time they entered, he caught a glimpse of her. A few times their eyes met, and he saw sadness, and later resignation. Eventually, he saw the lie of contentment as the training reached completion. And yet, he never saw any customers. Only Skole and the matron visited her, and when training was done, even that diminished. Skole gave her the Malahkma’s Milk, but his sexual conquest ceased. With no sign of customers being led to her chamber, and by all appearances not intending to keep using her himself, Jorey suspected Skole had larger plans in mind.

  In the early afternoon hours, she started whispering to him through the door, and sometimes he spoke back if no one was around. He talked about Magda and Keira, and she listened intently, asking details about his life before Darkfall. She pressed him for knowledge about Dragons and the God-King, but he really didn’t know much about things like that. He only knew that once Artalon had been a paradise, and now it had fallen into hell.

  * * *

  Pavlin met Skole in the city street one afternoon. He refused to give in to despair, even after the towers had been sealed by strange magic. He had enough Templars on the ground to form a police force to keep the peace. They were all that kept the guilds from breaking out into open violence against each other. Even though they ran free now, at least there wasn’t open warfare in the streets. On the surface, at least, people could pretend there was peace. The thought that he had degenerated into Malahkma’s private security force niggled at the back of his mind, but he made an effort to ignore it.

  As for the magic that sealed the tower inhabitants in to their doom, he could only imagine one person who was capable of such a thing: Valkrage. The very thought of the elf made him tremble with anger, but he was powerless to bring the wizard to justice. If he could raise an army, he would wipe out every last sidhe from the face of Ahmbren. Raise an army. Now there was an idea.

  “Good
afternoon, Pavlin,” Skole said courteously. “I trust I will see you this evening? Which lady’s company would you like tonight?”

  Pavlin thought a minute. He had kept company with most of Skole’s ladies, the human ones at least. He felt guilt after each one, but he kept coming back, trying to fill a growing void in his soul. “I don’t think I should come anymore,” he said. “I can’t keep doing that to them.”

  “There’s a new one,” Skole replied. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “An elf.”

  The Templar paused. “An elf?”

  “Yes, unlike any you’ve ever seen.”

  Pavlin looked around him, afraid of who might overhear. “How is this possible?”

  Skole shrugged. “She came to us. She seems… eager to please.”

  “If the Archmage finds out!”

  “Damn the Archmage,” Skole hissed. “Look around you. We run the city now. Thousands starve in the towers due to Karanos-knows-what—do you think the Archmage cares about what’s happening here? I need your men to keep the peace and they need you. Help me prevent this city from falling even further into chaos.”

  Pavlin didn’t respond, thoughts still churning in his mind.

  “Come see her,” Skole said, more gently now. “She will ease your burden.”

  Pavlin followed Skole back to the guildhall. They entered through a private entrance in the back. Down one of the side halls to the right, they came to a room guarded by a man brandishing a shotgun. Pavlin saw the rare firearm and made a mental note: if the Templars were going to regain power, they would need weapons like that to make up for their lack of runes.

  The man stepped to the side, not saying a word. Skole opened the door and bid him enter.

  The elf woman sat on the side of the bed, staring at the wall. “I wish there were windows,” she remarked, turning her head to the open door. “Oh!” she exclaimed when she saw them and gracefully rose to her feet. “My lords.”

  Something about her was off. Every once in a while, her calm demeanor was betrayed by a fidget, her serene brow by a twitch of anger, quickly erased. Pavlin easily forgot such details as he was taken in by her beauty.

  Indeed, Skole was right. He had seen sidhe women among the wizards of the court, and none had been as the wondrous creature in front of him now. They had been shorter, with more natural fair-colored skin. She stood tall, with black hair and gray skin. And those whorls on her arms and shoulders. He wondered how far down the body paint went. Was it paint?

  He immediately felt desire, but anger also surged within his heart. Elves destroyed his paradise, made a mockery of his faith, and he had been powerless to stop it. Here, finally, stood an elf powerless before him, who would bend to his will, his pleasure.

  “You will have your peace,” he turned to Skole, “but on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No one else may visit her. She is for me alone.”

  Skole didn’t respond at first. “She’s too valuable to reserve for one man alone, one man who isn’t paying.”

  Pavlin snapped now. “Drop the pretense. I’m paying with my Templars. That’s worth more than all the gold in this city right now and you know it.”

  Skole nodded, the smallest of grins curling his lips. “I’m glad we understand each other. She will be here for you and none other.”

  Skole left the two of them alone in the room, closing the door behind them. For a moment, Pavlin thought he saw a flash of fear cross the woman’s eyes.

  Excitement surged through his body, overshadowing any feelings of guilt. Here was a creature on whom he could pour his loathing, for himself and for the fate of his people. Here was a woman in whom he could sate his lust without guilt. She would be the proxy for all of elven kind on whom he would wreak his vengeance.

  * * *

  Jorey felt sick every time Pavlin arrived. He could hear the details of their visits through the walls, and only the thought of his wife and daughter being condemned to the same life kept him from opening the door and unloading the fury of his shotgun into the Templar. After Pavlin left, Jorey would take a damp towel and gently wipe away the green blood from Eszhira’s face. She cried, and he would stroke her hair gently, whispering, “Shhh… shhh… it will be okay…” knowing that neither he nor she believed it, nevertheless trying to soothe the both of them.

  At first, he thought Skole would punish him for overstepping his bounds as a guard, but the guild leader surprised him. The first time he caught Jorey tending to her wounds, he handed Jorey the silver cup of Malahkma’s Milk to offer her, which she eagerly took from him.

  Every night became a ritual. Pavlin would come and satisfy his lust. On a bad night, he beat her. The Templar would leave, and Jorey came in to wash and comfort her, wiping the tears from her cheeks as she cried. Then, in what started to feel like an act of compassion, Jorey would whisper soothing words and give her the draught of Malahkma’s Milk. She eagerly drank, and within a few minutes, after all those body markings vanished, she would smile and soothe Jorey, telling him that everything was okay and she was happy. It was all worth it.

  When Jorey’s shift was done, he would go home to Magda, unable to speak to her or even meet her eyes. He lay in bed with his wife, never touching her. All such desire was overshadowed by guilt-driven nausea.

  When Magda tried to soothe him, he pushed her away. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  He couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t reveal that he had come to resent her and Keira for the sacrifice their safety cost him. He couldn’t admit to himself that his resentment slowly festered into hatred with every cut and bruise on Eszhira’s face from which he wiped away a now too familiar mixture of blood and tears.

  “Because I’ve sold my soul.”

  29 - Kristafrost Must Die

  It was early July, and the sun brought a balmy heat, pregnant with the moisture of the sea. Everyone sweat, and fresh water was a premium. The old days of rune-cooled rooms were gone. The brilliant glare of copper and glass buildings only seemed to make it worse, and there were times in the day where it was difficult to see—it seemed the sun was always in one’s eyes. Despite the wet heat, Skole leaned back in his chair and smoked his tobacco pipe. He pulled a sip of the smoke in through his lips, allowing the thick taste of molasses and hickory to shoot over his tongue and suffuse every corner of his mouth. He exhaled it through his nose, the taste rolling into scent as the tobacco smoke streamed from his nostrils. He relaxed into his chair and took another puff. Life was good.

  Whatever had happened to this city, he had come out on top. His investment in the elven whore had proved wise. The Templars’ sword-strength that her body bought for him far outweighed the price of two guards watching her and even made up for her exclusivity with Pavlin. He wondered if he could find more like her. He never had to worry about Eszhira getting pregnant. Elves and humans couldn’t produce offspring together, and she proved capable of buying high people at high prices. With the Templars clearly in his pocket, the other guild leaders started to pledge themselves to him, becoming satellite guild offices under his control. When the Assassins Guild took out the leader of the Thieves Guild in retribution for the stolen contracts, the Thieves’ second-in-command came forward and offered loyalty to Skole in exchange for protection. The Assassins were still independent, and of course, there was the matter that their contracts were still missing. If he played his cards right, he would soon rule Artalon. Or what was left of it. If he could locate those documents, he might have some bargaining power with the Assassins.

  Skole prided himself on his attention to detail. He documented everything, every business transaction and contract. He wrote down his plans and strategies and took great comfort in reviewing his papers. It reminded him where he had come from and revealed possibilities of where he might take the guild.

  He did this for two reasons. First, Malahkma was his legacy. If something were to happen to him, he wanted it to continue. He left det
ailed notes so his most trusted captains could step in and guide the guild to its ultimate ends—domination of the Empire. Second, he could not possibly remember every detail. Having a written record of everything reminded him of, and sometimes revealed for the first time, weaknesses in others that could be exploited. Each transaction recorded an individual’s desire and willingness to act on that desire. As he reviewed logs and ledgers, patterns unfolded and revealed themselves. In time, he would be the sole authority in Artalon, assuming the God-King never returned. By now, no one believed he would. Skole had learned from Pavlin that the whole religion of Karanos had been a lie, admitted by the Archmage himself.

  Skole retrieved a handkerchief and wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead. Well, he had not been a man of great faith in any case, so the Church mattered little to him. He had observed the forms, of course, while the Empire required it, and the runes had been convenient. But with Karanos’ magic gone, it seemed that not only was his avatar missing, but that Karanos himself was, too. The resurrected god was not so resurrected after all. What good was a resurrection if it didn’t stick? Skole considered for a moment whether it would be worth it to revive the worship of the goddess Malahkma. Should the guild turn to its namesake? He decided no, he was doing just fine on his own.

  He sucked in another pull of smoke, three in succession. He held the smoke in his mouth before exhaling through his nose. The pipe bowl warmed his hand, and he knocked its brim on a cork to jar loose the burnt ashes before replacing the stem in his mouth. He decided to go over his accounts again. There was one book in particular that he prized above the others, one that recorded his dealings with other guilds. Maybe he could find a weakness in the Assassins.