When Dragons Die- The Complete Trilogy Box Set

by K. Scott Lewis

“Whom do we seek?” Arda challenged.

  The shrouded woman leaned forward and whispered. “The Gold Dragon.”

  “Why is your face hidden?” Anuit inquired. “I would see the woman who tells such lies.” She thought Arda’s touch would be distracting, but it gave her comfort. She didn’t want to let go of the paladin and kept her fingers clenched tightly in the woman’s hand.

  The stranger lifted the gauze hood and laid it back over the top of her head, revealing her face. Anuit gasped aloud.

  “I don’t like attention,” the stranger said.

  She was unlike any woman Anuit had ever seen. She had human features, but her skin was the darkest of indigos, and the irises in her otherwise human eyes were bright red. Each of her high cheekbones held small, three-inch long, crescent tusks curving smoothly to point at the floor. Underneath the hood, Anuit saw thick layers of black hair fall over her ears and past her shoulders. Her ears poked above the hair in tiny points. Anuit let go of her hold on the Dark and fell back into her chair from the shock of her beauty.

  “A troll,” Arda commented. “No, I imagine you don’t. How did you come to be here?”

  Anuit noticed that the way the troll sat with her back to the room, her face could only be seen by the two of them.

  “It is a long story,” the woman said. “And not one I care to tell. Kaldor found me when I needed to be found. My name is Oriand. He wants me to take you to him before you get mixed up in the sultan’s schemes. It is he who taught me the hand signs.”

  “Doesn’t walking around covered like that draw attention to yourself?” Anuit asked.

  Oriand shook her head. “There are so many beliefs here that the city believes in nothing. They don’t care what you do so much as who you are.”

  Anuit nodded. She thought she understood. Oriand could attract trouble for being a troll, but not for claiming that a creed or conviction prompted her to cover herself.

  Oriand looked down at the untouched hookah. “Do you mind?”

  Arda waved her hand in invitation, and the troll took one of the hoses and inhaled deeply. She sighed contentedly.

  “How long have you been here?” Arda asked.

  “A while,” Oriand replied. “As I said, I don’t want to discuss it.”

  “How long has Kaldor been here?” Arda changed the subject. Under the table, hidden from view, Arda’s fingers relaxed from their clenched embrace and returned to lightly caressing Anuit’s hand.

  “Not long,” Oriand answered. “If you don’t mind, I’m hungry. I’m going to order a meal before we leave.”

  “We’re leaving tonight?” Anuit asked. Her heart thudded, and her breathing felt shallow. Arda’s touch was comforting a moment before, but now she felt hot in the face. She raised her hand over Arda’s and slowly stroked the tops of the darkling’s fingers beneath the table.

  “It’s for the best,” Oriand answered. She put the veil back over her face and gestured for the lounge attendant.

  Soon, food and another beer were placed on the table. Once the attendant left, Oriand lifted the veil once more and proceeded to eat. “You must have found his message in Erindil.”

  “Indeed,” Arda confirmed. Her forearm turned slightly and her hand circled around Anuit’s, intertwining their fingers. She gave a gentle squeeze, and Anuit’s heart thudded in her temples. Thrilling chills shot through Anuit’s arms and legs.

  “How many others have come?” the paladin asked.

  Anuit was barely paying attention to the conversation. It was as if time had slowed, and she was aware of everything in the room, and at the same time, aware of nothing but the woman next to her who had taken her hand.

  No, she heard Bryona’s voice in her mind. This is not for you. You don’t want to become even more twisted.

  Anuit didn’t care. She felt so happy. These feelings that Arda had kindled in her were worth any price. It was a better feeling, more clean, than anything sorcery had ever made her feel. She didn’t know how Arda could reach out to her in this moment yet still seem so focused and calm in the presence of the troll woman. Anuit felt giddy, and she had to force herself to maintain composure.

  “You’re the first,” Oriand said after chewing and swallowing a mouthful. “And I suspect the only. Kaldor wants to leave soon. I don’t think he’ll wait much longer.”

  Oriand started in sudden surprise as her gaze froze on the two of them. She saw that they had leaned closer to each other, and that their forearms were intertwined. Her eyes narrowed, and she set her food down.

  With the accusing chill in the troll’s face, the handholding that had felt innocent in its happiness now seemed a forbidden and guilty intimacy. Anuit’s eyes dropped, and she pulled her hand away. The idea that she was indulging in demonic desire washed through her veins in an icy chill.

  “We should go,” the troll said coldly. “We’ve wasted too much time here.”

  * * *

  At that, Anuit pulled her arm away from Arda and stood up. “You’re right,” the sorceress said. “Let’s go.” She wouldn’t make eye contact with the paladin.

  Arda wondered what had caused her to pull back so quickly. Surely it wasn’t just that Oriand had finally noticed. Or maybe it was that simple after all. She grinned. This powerful woman who could bend demons to her will was so uncertain of herself. In time, Arda would help pull her out of her shell, but that was for later. For now, she would follow this troll and, assuming there was no trickery about Oriand—though Arda felt that she could trust her— finally meet the head of her Order.

  Oriand’s demeanor had shifted from business-like to cold. The troll dropped her veil over her face and stood, moving towards the front door. Arda followed behind Anuit, and the three women left the inn.

  While mourning the loss of Dart, Arda had also spent much of the time on the ship’s voyage thinking of what she had seen in Anuit’s eyes that night in Narim’s house. She could have been thinking about the encounter with Aradma and the elven vampire. She could have been thinking about what she would say to Kaldor and what she might learn from him. Those, however, were clear-cut. They were not puzzles she could solve. She couldn’t predict what Kaldor would say, but she knew what she must say to him. The incarnation of Archurion would then decide what to do with her, and it did her no good to fret over it.

  Anuit was another matter. Arda really liked the woman though she hated her demons. She also didn’t like the thought of going back to being alone. In the end, she decided to take the risk and overlook Anuit’s sorcery. It may or may not have been wise, but Arda was a decisive woman. When she knew what she wanted, she went after it.

  She steered her thoughts back to the matter at hand, such as the troll woman in front of them guiding them through the streets of Surafel. People still crowded the alleys, unlike the towns and cities up north. It seemed that businesses had no intention of closing any time soon, and the chaotic, organic life here challenged the paladin’s need for order. She wondered briefly if Aradma would like it here. Attaris told her once that Aradma believed civilizations were a natural part of mortal life, just as much a part of nature as the forests. Very odd for an elf. Attaris would like it here. Good thing he wasn’t, though. Attaris wouldn’t like what she wanted to do with Anuit.

  And here she was, thinking about the sorceress again. Anuit wouldn’t make eye contact with her. She wondered if she had moved too fast. Maybe Anuit had been offended and too shocked to pull away immediately. Maybe Arda had completely misread her. Arda felt shame and trepidation. She hoped she hadn’t done anything to hurt their friendship. There were some lines that, once crossed, were difficult to uncross.

  Oriand led them to a clothing shop. Unlike the street vendors, this building was closed. She unlocked the door with a key and led them inside. Upon entering, she removed her veil and hood, freeing her head to the air. Her straight black hair fell thick and long down her back, trimmed neatly at the ends just a few inches higher than her waist.

  The shop front was a
typical tailor’s shop with bolts of fabric, thread, and clothing put out for haggling. The back apartment had a main living room with an open kitchen and stove and two windows for ventilation. Stairs led up to a second floor, which Arda presumed had bedrooms. Oriand had them all remove their shoes and boots in the hall connecting the shop to the living room. The living room floor was covered by a thick, soft wool carpet with intricate floral designs. Arda’s toes sunk into it, and she realized why they didn’t want people tracking dust on their shoes from outside.

  A black-skinned human man slept on a low sofa. He wore a simple cotton robe, and his sandals had been kicked off onto the rug. He lay on his back, snoring contentedly with a book folded over his chest. His head lay somewhat upright on the sofa’s arm, and a pair of gold-rimmed reading spectacles had fallen a few inches, leaning cockeyed on the tip of his nose. His entire head was clean-shaven except for gray eyebrows. Arda could not make out his age. She guessed he could be anywhere in his forties or fifties.

  Oriand knelt over him and placed her hand on his shoulder.

  “Kaldor,” she said.

  He mumbled.

  She shook him gently. “Kaldor, wake up. We have visitors.”

  He opened his eyes and looked around the room. He made eye contact first with Anuit, and then with Arda. He jolted himself awake, and then sat.

  “Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. Oh.” He rubbed his eyes, not realizing he had knocked his spectacles to the floor. Oriand grabbed them before he stepped on them, and then took his sandals and moved them to the hall.

  Kaldor stood. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I was sleeping.” He closed his book and placed it on a small table beside the sofa.

  His eyes grew bright and alert. He stared at Arda intently.

  “I can see you are a paladin,” he said. “A Kaldorite paladin, to be specific. I am surprised, however, that the only paladin who seems alive in the world today is a darkling.”

  That was not what Arda had expected in the least.

  Suddenly driven by the memory of the village of Traversham, and her inability to achieve judgment from Tulley, she knelt before him on one knee and unsheathed her sword. With head bowed, eyes to the floor, she presented him the hilt of her zorium blade.

  “Lord Kaldor,” she said. “I have come to you to confess my sins and seek your judgment. I have failed you, the Order, and myself, by betraying the Ten Values of the Light with my arrogance. My blade has spilled the blood of innocents, and I am no longer worthy of being your paladin.”

  20 - Outbreak

  Attaris bolted upright from his bed and almost wet himself when a large iron box fell from the sky and broke through the stone wall with a loud crack, followed by the clangoring screech of iron grating over broken rock.

  “By Modhrin’s Hammer!” he shouted, instantly awake from the surge of adrenalin as he scrambled away against the head of the bed, crouching with his back against the headboard. It took a few moments for his mind to fully waken to lucidity. Where was he? Oh. Kriegsholm. It was the night after the failed peace summit, and they were to leave in the morning to return to Windbowl.

  But now there was an iron box that was eight feet in height lying in a hole in the wall of the guest bedroom Jorey had given him. The wintery night air rushed in around its edges, casting a biting chill over the room. He shivered in his night robe.

  It must have fallen from the sky, and for a moment, he wondered if the Artalonian Sky Navy had returned. Impossible, he reminded himself. Karanos’ runes died nine years ago.

  The box seemed damaged from the brick and mortar it had fallen through. There had been chains and a lock on the box, but they now hung loose.

  He heard more bangs outside and realized this was no accident. Grabbing his hammers, he hastily threw his woolen coat over his night robe and moved towards the hall to wake the others. Then he heard it.

  A slow sigh uttered from within the box. Attaris froze and studied the thing from across the room, waiting in horrid fascination. A shuffle and then a tap came from inside. He took a step away from it, and then a loud, inhuman scream wailed within. Whatever was inside thrashed violently, shaking the box. Its lid came loose but was arrested by the slackened chains.

  Long white fingers slid out from the iron lid and curled around its edge. Their nails scraped and bit into the metal, digging deep rivets in its surface. The squeal of the metal made Attaris’s bones shudder in discomfort, and he bunched up his cheeks and nose in a sour grimace.

  The thing inside stopped for a moment, growing quiet. He heard sniffing sounds, and then it exploded again in rage, screeching as it thrashed the lid back and forth. The chains started to pull apart.

  “Here we go,” Attaris muttered. Then he whispered a prayer to the Storm Lord and kissed each hammer. The runes on his weapons came to life, shining with gold light. Fingers of lightning crackled over their silver-lined steel surfaces. He crouched, knees bent at the ready.

  The fingers creeping out of the box dissolved into mist, and fog rolled out past the box’s seams. It solidified and rose as a vampire, the likes of which Attaris had never seen. It saw him and screeched, flying at him through the air in frenzied desperation. It was gaunt, its flesh dry and taut across its bones and as white as its teeth. To call it a him or her would have been beside the point. All that flew towards Attaris was the embodiment of famine that wouldn’t die.

  Attaris swung both hammers, slamming their heads together in front of him. The lightning exploded in an eardrum-splitting roar and shot forth a bolt of electricity, knocking the vampire back into the box. Electric sparks crawled over the creature and into the iron container, and it writhed and twitched in the magical current.

  Attaris separated his hammers, and the bolt of lightning disappeared. He heard shouting and screams from outside.

  The vampire groaned. It struggled to move, stunned for a moment, and then shuffled to its feet. Attaris realized it must be starved for blood. He was used to vampires being much faster and intelligent. This thing seemed almost mindless, like a zombie.

  The vampire proved Attaris’ first assumptions correct in an instant. One moment it struggled to stand, and the next it rushed forward almost too fast to see, stopping in front of the dwarf. It bared its fangs and hissed, and then threw back its head, opening its mouth wide in anticipation of entering Attaris’ flesh.

  Well, at least it was still stupid. Attaris stepped to the side, his own speed and reflexes heightened by the glow of his god’s runes upon the hammers. He swung his weapons, discharging jolts of electricity again into the vampire’s body, slowing the undead creature. He clapped his hammers together once more. Thunder boomed, and a solid bolt of lightning shot forth a second time.

  Attaris knew electricity alone would not kill the vampire, but enough of it would ignite the body, just as a lightning spark could set off a forest fire.

  He kept the storm bolt from his god flowing, and it was not long—less than a minute—before the vampire’s clothing, and then his flesh, ignited. The undead screamed in agony as the flames spread, quickly immolating its entire body while it howled and disintegrated into ash.

  Attaris ran from the room, looking for the others. They weren’t in the house. He rushed out the front door and found them engaged with vampires outside. Dozens of iron boxes had fallen in the streets and through the rooftops.

  Maybe Count Markus wasn’t lying after all. It seemed Roenti had broken through somehow. Attaris didn’t know what time it was. Vampires rushed at people indiscriminately, not trying to fight or defend themselves. All they wanted was to satiate their thirst.

  Montevin fought at the side of the town’s wolven. At least, Attaris thought it was Montevin. The duke was the only wolven wizard he knew, and though he was not good at telling them apart in their lupine forms, one of the beasts hurled balls of fire instead of fighting with tooth and claw.

  Seelie fought at their side, but whenever one of the elven rangers appeared, the vampires immediately turned their attention
to them. He saw elf after elf being swarmed and falling in a splattering of green blood.

  More iron boxes fell, impacting all over town. Where are they coming from?

  Seredith appeared at his side. Her hood was down and her lifeless face exposed. “Let us fight together,” her voice crackled. Her pale cheeks stretched into the semblance of a smile. She turned and lifted her wand, uttering words in a quicksilver language that Attaris’ ear couldn’t follow. One of the vampires exploded in flame.

  They completely ignored the revenant. She had nothing they wanted. Her blood had dried to dust long ago. A pack of five vampires rushed at Attaris, and it was all he could do to stun them with his lightning long enough to run for his life. Seredith tried to take them out, but she was not fast enough.

  Attaris sprinted down and around street corners as fast as his short stocky legs would pump. He finally stopped to catch his breath. They were still after him.

  Suddenly, Rajamin was at his side, crooked staff flashing in divine light. “For Nephyr!” he cried aloud, invoking the Goddess of Death. Nephyr hated undeath, for it was against the natural order of things and cheated death of its rightful prize. The touch of his staff singed the vampires, creating acrid smoke as their flesh burned away. They screeched but would not stop.

  Attaris swung his hammer high, crushing a vampire’s head. The skull impacted, and the thing fell to the ground. It twitched and tried to move, but Rajamin finished it off by driving the butt of his staff through the thing’s heart. Wood alone might paralyze them, but wood filled with the wrath of the Gods of Light proved lethal.

  More boxes fell.

  “It’s not enough!” Attaris shouted. “We’re not enough! People are dying.”

  Rajamin looked at him grimly. “I know. But now, the only thing we can do is fight.”

  Attaris steeled himself inside and nodded. “Aye. May the gods ever be at our back.”

  “May the gods ever be at our back,” Rajamin agreed, and they both turned together to face the four other vampires running at them.