When Dragons Die- The Complete Trilogy Box Set

by K. Scott Lewis

  “I don’t know how to find Kristafrost,” Eszhira admitted. “I was taken to her guildhall once and was magicked away by Valkrage. She is well hidden.”

  “Oh, I suspect if our interests align as you say,” Rajamin chuckled, “she will find us. We are about to make a wave that cannot be ignored.”

  And he was right. They did not have far to go before seeing the sick and starving, those who had been outcast by the crime guilds and forgotten by those worried about their own problems. These were the maimed and the addicts suffering for their next fix. These were the poor. These were the suffering.

  Rajamin stopped at a blind beggar. The old woman put her hand out sensing his presence. “Please,” she begged, “please. Just some bread. I’m so hungry. Just a bite of bread.”

  Suleima watched Rajamin intently as the ratling priest knelt before the blind woman. “Will you put your trust in the Gods of Light?”

  “The gods abandoned us long ago to Karanos,” she said, “and He has abandoned us, too.”

  “They have not,” he replied. “They have been waiting for their children to call on them once more. I walk with the gods. Will you walk with me?”

  Aradma watched with interest. The blind woman seemed hesitant at first. Maybe she felt something. Maybe she figured it didn’t matter if she tried or not, that she had nothing to lose. Maybe she thought that if she agreed, Rajamin would move on and stop bothering her.

  But it didn’t matter the reason. She said, “Yes.”

  “Then in the name of Daag the Good,” Rajamin declared, “open your eyes and see me.”

  Aradma noted the faint glow of golden light that only she could see flow through Rajamin’s runes and touch the woman. It was the same light she had seen on the top of the rock spire in Vemnai months before when the vision of Soorleyn had appeared to her. She frowned. She remembered what Rajamin had said about the balance between the gods, and she hoped his way proved true.

  The milky whiteness faded from the woman’s eyes, and her face opened up in awe. “I can see!” she exclaimed. “I can see you!” She reached forward and touched the ratling’s robe. She shouted to the crowd that had gathered. “I was blind! He let me see!”

  “Not me,” Rajamin said. “Daag the Good God.”

  A man from the crowd came forward. He had a loaf of bread in his right hand. His left arm hung limp at his side, the hand mangled from some previous accident or act of violence.

  “Don’t!” one of his friends hissed. “She has been banished. You cannot help her.”

  The man ignored him. “I have passed you on the street many times,” he told the old woman. “But now that you see, I see too. There is hope.” He gave her the bread.

  Rajamin turned to the man. “You share your bread. Will you accept the Gods of Light into your heart?”

  The man still looked in wonder at the woman. “If they can heal the blind, yes. Yes, I will.”

  Rajamin took the man’s mangled hand. “Then in the name of Keruhn the Consoler, be healed.”

  The man gasped and looked down at his arm. He lifted his hand, finding it restored to fullness. He flexed his arm and opened and closed his fist, watching his fingers move at his command. “My arm! My hand! It is restored! Oh, thank you, thank you! Bless you!”

  The man’s friend slunk away into the shadows as the crowd grew. And so it went. The sick came to Rajamin, and he healed them, and word spread throughout the city of the return of divine magic.

  In the early afternoon, a small complement of armored knights arrived. The crowd parted for them.

  “Templars,” Eszhira said. She nodded towards the one who led them. “That is Pavlin.”

  Pavlin’s armor was etched with dead runes, and his sword hung at his side. Rajamin’s whiskers twitched as he approached. Eszhira tensed.

  Aradma and Tiberan moved in front of Rajamin, but the ratling priest waved them back. “No,” he said. “I would hear what he has to say.” The seelie stood behind the ratling, watching to see what the Templar would do.

  Pavlin met Eszhira’s eyes. His lips tightened, but he said nothing to her. He stopped ten feet from Rajamin and looked around at the people who had been healed or seen loved ones made whole and were enraptured by the ratling.

  He drew his sword, and Tiberan nocked an arrow in his bow. Ghost gave a low growl. Aradma put her hand on Tiberan’s arm. He relaxed at her touch, and the tiger followed his cue.

  Pavlin held out his sword in both hands, presenting it horizontally to the ratling priest. The blade was covered in runic etchings. “How is it possible,” he asked, “that Karanos graces your runes with His power, but the runes He has given us, His paladins, will not answer our prayers?”

  Rajamin’s whiskers twitched once more. “Karanos is dead,” he answered clearly so the crowd could hear. “My faith is in the Old Gods, the Gods who are the Light. It is they who live!”

  “Half a year ago, I would have killed you for such blasphemy,” Pavlin said. “My blade would be alight with Karanos’ fury, and I would have been confident that Karanos is the only god. But now… now I don’t know.”

  “Karanos’ time has passed,” Rajamin said gently. “But you can put your hope in the gods. They never abandoned you. It is your people who turned away from them.”

  Pavlin looked back at his men. He met the haunted stares in each of their eyes. Aradma felt the tone of their souls. They had been broken from the inside and wanted something to believe in again. Guilt and self-loathing dripped from them in cascading notes of disharmony.

  Pavlin turned back to Rajamin. “Will the gods have us?”

  Rajamin’s head cocked to the side. “Something tells me you have already replaced Karanos with another god.”

  Pavlin looked confused for a moment. “No. A guild, but…” his voice trailed off and his eyes widened.

  “I renounce Malahkma,” he said. “Guild or goddess, I serve her evil no longer.”

  His men muttered and nodded in agreement. “About time,” one of them said.

  Pavlin threw his sword to the ground. He started unbuckling his armor. “And Karanos,” he declared. “Karanos’ time is passed, and I will cling to the ways of a dead god no longer. I renounce my office as a Templar and accept that a dead god can have no paladins.” His armor fell to the ground in clattering pieces, and the crowd began to cheer. One by one, his men followed his example.

  Finally, he asked, “Can the gods forgive my sins?”

  Rajamin stared at him for a moment, as if reflecting on his words. Finally the ratling answered, “I don’t think it is the gods whom you need to be asking.” He stepped aside and looked up at Eszhira.

  Aradma felt Eszhira’s anger and apprehension wash from her in waves. The dark-haired seelie woman bit her lip in trepidation.

  Pavlin came before her and fell to his knees, bowing his head.

  “I have sinned against you,” he confessed. “I beg your forgiveness. I beg you let me pay for my crimes against your body and against your soul.”

  Aradma couldn’t see the speed of her movement, but suddenly Eszhira had taken one of Tiberan’s daggers from him and held it high over Pavlin’s head, ready to strike.

  The crowd gasped and fell silent.

  Pavlin closed his eyes. “If my life is the price for your peace, it is yours. Let my men join your cause—it was not they who trespassed against you.”

  Eszhira’s hand trembled as she held the blade. She stared down at the man, unable to strike and unable to turn away.

  Aradma felt the notes of Eszhira’s soul resonate loudly within her own.

  He should die, Aradma’s own inner Fae court whispered. Forgiveness is not our way. She will kill him.

  Perhaps, Aradma silently responded to them. But we are not Fae. We are the Dragon. We will see.

  Eszhira seemed to be having the same internal struggle.

  The note of her soul changed. Aradma felt understanding and acceptance overtake the other music within her. Understanding, and a sort of
kinship.

  Eszhira threw the dagger to the ground. Tears fell from her face. She reached down and raised Pavlin to his feet. “I want with every fiber of my being to kill you, but I know what it means to hate yourself,” she said. “I will never forget.” She slapped Pavlin across the face, once with each hand. “And I cannot forgive you.” She straightened her shoulders, and turned her back to him with haughty grace. Rajamin looked at her with pity.

  Before she left, she turned her head over her shoulder. “If you want to earn my forgiveness, serve your people by serving the ratling.” She left them to be alone outside the edge of the throng.

  Yinkle followed Eszhira, but Aradma stayed with Rajamin as he continued throughout the day. More came to be healed, some just to listen. Suleima used her runic magic, somewhat surprised her prayers to Rin were still answered, and helped Rajamin heal the sick. The Templars sat at their feet, and Pavlin hung on Rajamin’s every word with haunted eyes.

  At the end of the day, Rajamin grew tired. “We must find a place to rest,” he said. “Tend to each other,” he told the throng. “Care for one another. We will speak again soon.”

  And that was when Kristafrost stepped out of the crowd. She looked for a moment at the three seelie and then fixed her gaze steadily on the ratling priest. “We need to talk.”

  Rajamin and Kristafrost sat across from each other in the private dining room in the gnome’s guildhall. The rest of the companions sat on either side of them, lining the table.

  “The guilds are where I need them,” Kristafrost said. “One push and they will fall.”

  “Then our timing is right,” Rajamin answered.

  “I don’t like the idea of gods,” Kristafrost said. “The common folk may be dazzled by magic and power but not me. Just because you flash a rune here and there doesn’t mean you have their best interests in mind. Ahmbren has had enough of gods. We have a thousand years of Karanos as proof of that.”

  “And what would you have them turn to?” Rajamin asked.

  “Reason!” Kristafrost declared. “Reason and knowledge!” She pounded her fists on the table.

  Yinkle chuckled. “Don’t go too hard on her Raj. She sounds like a ratling.”

  “Rajamin is right,” Aradma said. “I don’t trust gods either, but people will need something to turn to. Right now they are traumatized. The only hope they know is through faith, and this world cannot be healed without hope.”

  Kristafrost stared at the seelie woman. “Well, I don’t like it.”

  Aradma looked down at the little gnome. “You don’t have to like it. The question is, will you help us? Soon other seelie will be answering Valkrage’s beacon—hundreds, maybe thousands. I would have this city on the road to recovery rather than have them come into the volatility it is now.”

  “Damn elves,” Kristafrost muttered. “Okay, okay, I give up. Yes, we’ll work together. I’ll take down the guilds, you build up the people. And hopefully, when your people show up, things won’t fall apart again.”

  33 - Scratching at the Abyss

  It had been six weeks since the guildhall of Malahkma had been infiltrated and the elf whore had vanished. Other pleasure houses had been raided, too, and each time some of the women disappeared. Skole knew it had to be Kristafrost, but every time he got a lead on the bastard’s location, it firmly pointed to a different guild. The other crime guilds had been stolen from as well, and they all blamed Malahkma.

  The magic barriers to the towers had collapsed, but no one wanted to enter. There was no telling if they would come back, and whoever was foolish enough to venture inside might be trapped.

  Then there was the day the zeppelin airship had floated over the city. Skole stood in the street in front of his guildhall and had watched it sail over the street leading to God Spire, stopping at the top of the tower. His people came running to him when the strangers came out of the tower, not with one but with three light elves. Eszhira was among them.

  He had sent Pavlin with a contingent of Templars, only to have them pledge their allegiance to that ratling priest. That’s what you got when you trusted people who worshipped gods. On the other hand, maybe that was his problem—he didn’t, and there was no one up there looking out for his interests.

  Now he hid in the back rooms of one of his smaller guild houses. He had abandoned the guildhall when the other crime guilds came for him. Without the Templars, he no longer had the edge, and they didn’t appreciate being subjugated to him.

  His father had always warned him to be careful of greed and overextending himself. He could have stayed a small-time brothel owner, but he had wanted control of the city.

  He walked out of the small pleasure house.

  “Good news,” Davin said as he hurried up to Skole.

  “Out with it,” Skole muttered to his captain.

  “Our men killed the Red Panther leader this morning.”

  Skole took in a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. At least that was something. “One more down on a long list.”

  “The Templars are after all of us,” Davin reminded him. “Not just us. We might be able to leverage that. We’re all feeling the pressure.”

  “We shouldn’t be fighting each other,” Skole said. “We need to combine our strength.”

  “But the Red Panthers raided our pleasure houses,” Davin said. “They had it coming.”

  “No,” Skole said. “Kristafrost keeps playing us all. Set up a meeting with the remaining bosses.”

  Skole walked back to his room later that evening where a whore waited for him. She smiled at him coyly when he entered, her bright red lips striking against fair skin. Her brown hair fell playfully over her forehead.

  He walked towards her and then stopped. Something wasn’t quite right. She smiled, but her eyes were not dull with the milk. They were bright and alert. Bright and alert women did not smile at Skole, much less coyly.

  Skole made as if to pull his boots off but instead pulled a concealed throwing knife from the bootleg. Without hesitation, he straightened and let loose the blade. It buried itself between the woman’s pretty bangs, right above her surprised eyes.

  He walked over to her body and felt through the folds of her dress. He found two small knives, freshly coated with a clear liquid, and a half-filled vial. As he suspected, an assassin.

  He flung her body over his shoulder, walked out to the front of the building, and dumped the body across the street. He bent over once to pull his knife out of her skull, wiped it on her dress, and then walked back into the brothel.

  “Come with me,” he told the house chief, a skinny man with a bald crown and gray hair tufting over his ears. His eyes had always struck Malahkma’s guild leader as unusually wide and large.

  The man followed Skole back outside.

  “How did this happen?” Skole demanded, pointing to the dead woman.

  “I…” The man nervously rubbed his hands together and cracked his knuckles.

  “She’s not one of your whores!” Skole shouted. “How did a strange woman get sent to my room?”

  “I…”

  Skole grabbed the man’s head and snapped his neck. He walked back into the tavern. “You’re in charge,” he told the barkeep as he walked past and down the hall to his room.

  He fell into his bed, laying on his back and staring at the ceiling. He couldn’t think straight. It was at least an hour before the seething anger simmered down, and he fell asleep in his clothing.

  The next morning, he awoke unable to remember his dreams, but they must have gotten to him, for he felt as if he hadn’t slept at all. A strange feeling of unease weighed upon him as he sat up on the edge of the bed. It was the oddest thing, but it was almost as if he could detect the slithering of serpents behind the walls. In his mind, he could hear a faint hissing, there but not there, like a catchy tune that got stuck in one’s head. He stood and stepped out to start the day.

  “A meeting’s been set,” Davin informed him at breakfast. “The other guilds ag
ree. We need to take out those elves and their pet ratling first, and then deal with the Templars.”

  “Where are we meeting?”

  “Tonight at dusk in the grove south of Oakstone Tower.”

  “Very well,” he said. “Maybe we can turn this around. What else do you have for me?”

  “The followers of the ratling continue to spread,” Davin said. “It’s to be expected, I suppose. He wields the power of the Old Gods.”

  “Those elves must be behind it,” Skole muttered. He still burned with anger over losing the seelie whore. She was at the heart of this unravelling, he was sure of it. He would not let her get away with it. It would be hard to fight an empowered church head-on, but he could still recede back into society’s underbelly. He would take her back with him. If only he could get close to her. First things first, though. He had to get the crime bosses to agree to an alliance, and he had to somehow erase this Assassins Guild contract on him. At least they weren’t one to meet with other guilds. They wouldn’t be there to argue against him.

  He went to the grove at dusk as planned, with a cutlass strapped to his side and a selection of knives and blades hidden in his coat. The place was called a grove, but trees hadn’t really grown there in a long time. Its high stone walls encircled what once was a hidden garden, offering privacy from those passing by in the streets. High brush and grasses grew inside, and a thick clump of gnarled sawgrass bushes obscured a view of the grounds.

  He waited for a while, but none of the other crime bosses showed. Cold anger coursed through him, and he stepped towards the grove entrance to leave. At that moment, he saw a shadow of movement and instinctively reversed his course, stepping back at the same time that a pistol shot cracked sharply. A hooded man moved in the darkness.

  “Gods damn you!” Skole cursed, filled by an undeniable surge of rage. He bolted forward towards the shadow. The man seemed surprised that he would rush at him rather than flee. Another gunshot snapped loudly through the air, and Skole hardly felt the bullet tear through his left collar, just missing bone. He grabbed the man’s face with his right hand and lifted him from the ground. With a surge of adrenalin, he slammed the back of the man’s head into the stone garden wall repeatedly. The assassin’s limbs flailed like a straw doll as his blood stained the stone in thick drops.