When Dragons Die- The Complete Trilogy Box Set

by K. Scott Lewis

  The other two lunged at her. She grabbed both of their necks, one in each hand, her speed and reflexes heightened by Khiighun’s essence. She had taken the hellhound and the shadow knight into herself and was fueled by the dark energy funneled in from the dead soul material around her. As her sharp fingers dug into each troglodyte’s neck, inky black shadows emanated from her body and flowed into their mouths and nose. The troglodytes’ screams of terror and pain tickled her with delicious pleasure as their life force was drained to desiccation by the Dark elemental power she channeled.

  “To me!” Kaldor shouted. Troglodytes swarmed the tunnel, hissing incomprehensibly. “They are the servants of the Black! They know who I am!”

  Anuit picked up Arda and bounded to Kaldor’s side in one leap.

  He gave her one look. “We’ll talk about this later.”

  More troglodytes spilled into the chamber. Anuit opened her claws, preparing to gather the darkness once more.

  “No,” Kaldor whispered. “Everyone, place your hand on the egg.”

  Anuit almost ignored him. The desire to unleash the Dark and inflict suffering on the ones who would hurt her beloved Arda tempted her to stay and fight. At the last minute, she snarled and complied with the wizard’s command, placing her taloned fingers upon the sapphire-encrusted egg.

  Kaldor raised his wand and spoke two words of magic.

  A purple light flashed forth, blinding her.

  When it receded, all four of them stood once more in Kaldor’s living room in Surafel.

  “How?” Oriand asked.

  “I told you,” the wizard said. “I have to place an anchor to translocate over distance. That was the last spell I set before we left. Did you think I wanted to walk all the way back?”

  26 - The King’s Sacrifice

  Aradma and Odoune flew over Kriegsholm. She saw two horses a mile outside of town headed towards Windbowl with Attaris sitting atop one of them. She dropped out of the sky, alighting on the road in front of the mounts. She shifted into her elven form, and Odoune followed behind her.

  “Lass,” Attaris greeted her, pulling his horse to a stop. He didn’t seem surprised. Just sad. He looked over her shoulder. “Ah. You must be Odoune. I don’t believe we’ve ever formally met.”

  “Aunt Ma!” Keira exclaimed. She dismounted her horse and ran to embrace Aradma. “Oh, Aunt Ma, you’re too late!” she cried out.

  “What do you mean?” Aradma asked. “Why are you leaving if…” She shot a glance at Attaris.

  The dwarf nodded. “Kriegsholm is lost.”

  “It can’t be lost,” Aradma shook her head. “Keira, your family! The town. Are they all dead? Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  Keira pulled away. She shook her head. “No, they’re not dead. At least…”

  “They’ve been turned,” Aradma realized, pressing her lips together tightly.

  “They submitted,” Keira grimaced. “They volunteered to be turned to save the people of the town.”

  “As I said,” Attaris repeated. “Kriegsholm is lost. They’ve pledged fealty to Queen Iristine.”

  Aradma frowned. There was something that niggled at her mind, but she couldn’t place it. Fealty to the queen. Not the vampire count.

  “That’s the key,” she murmured. “The queen. She’s human. Attaris, I need to see King Donogan. Hylda’s on her way to find you. Tell her I’m sorry. She was right. I should have come sooner.” She turned to the troll. “Odoune, stay with them and make sure they get back safely.”

  “Where are you going?” Odoune asked. “I don’t think you should—”

  “I’ll be back,” she cut him off. She gave him a quick hug, tugged Attaris’ beard gently, and kissed the crown of Keira’s head before shifting and flying off into the sky towards Hearthholm.

  * * *

  Rajamin liked the silence after the temple hall emptied of congregants. He was tired. Always tired now. He sometimes wished he had never left Kallanista. Coming back to rebuild the Church—selling hope and the Old Religion back to the people of the Nine Realms—had not turned out to be the lucrative opportunity he had once hoped for.

  Money. It was usually about money with ratlings—the ability to trade value for value—and most ratlings didn’t have time for gods or faith. “Hope isn’t a business strategy,” they would say. It was ironic that they thought Rajamin was so different than the rest of them due to his conversion. He wasn’t the odd one—it was Yinkle. She never seemed motivated by profit, although she did share the ratling zest for life.

  No, Rajamin was just like every other ratling—it’s just that the first god he got to know was Geala, the Lady of Change. Geala was the Goddess of the Seas, but she was also the Goddess of Trade. She was right up the ratlings’ alley, if only they would stop and take the time to listen to their inner hearts and let her in.

  When he was young, read books on the Old Gods. He tried praying to Geala once out of curiosity—and she actually answered, revealing symbols to him as he slept. He tested what he dreamed by drawing those symbols and praying to her. They responded. When he actually healed someone with these runes, he knew she was real, and there was value in the ability to heal, value he could capitalize on. Over time, she revealed the stories of the gods to him, and he recorded each faithfully.

  In time, she taught him runes of all the gods, but it wasn’t until a year after he established his first church in Windbowl that the other gods started visiting his dreams. He eventually abandoned his petty ambitions in order to take part in a greater plan. He surrendered his greed and submitted to the will of the Pantheon.

  He should never have left Windbowl for the peace summit. His duty was to stay and protect Aradma at all costs. He had never told her that the gods had great plans for her. Daag himself had revealed it. Nephyr, the Black Goddess of Fate, had warned him that Aradma was the key to the gods’ plan for the world. She would be the central force that brought the world to the gods, but there was a danger. One man would come who could take her away from her destiny. This man was a threat to all of them, even though he too was once a child of the gods. Rajamin must make sure this man never came to lay his claim on the first seelie. Once he revealed himself, Rajamin was to ensure he met his end.

  Rajamin found the idea of killing someone he had never met somewhat distasteful, but he didn’t question his gods. They knew all, and he trusted them completely. What was more important, the gods trusted him. He would not betray that trust.

  Rajamin had a difficult task. He had to keep her alive, and her running off to join Attaris made that complicated. Worry for her daughter kept her safe here for nine years, but that was no longer enough. He also had to bring her to the gods, and that had proved more challenging.

  * * *

  Hearthholm was a city built in a narrow network of inter-joining valleys. Stone streets with bridges crossing and joining them over narrow mountain streams rose up the slopes over stone buildings. Of all of Hammerfold, Hearthholm had kept to an earlier architectural style, forgoing the wooden exoframes and white plaster covering stone that was favored in Windbowl and the rest of the realm. Its buildings were made of traditional gray and brown rock, with wooden roof shingles. It was believed that Hammerfold held a special place in Modhrin’s heart, for they honored dwarven inspired rules of hospitality. Hearth and home. Those were the virtues of Hammerfold, enshrined in its capital. Hearthholm was a monument to the traditions of kings of old.

  At the top of one of the slopes stood the castle which held the Throne of Hammerfold, a keep in the rectangular style of the lodges of ancient kings. Torches lit the walls with warm light in the courtyard where Aradma landed. She had never been to Hearthholm before but knew enough to follow the roads as she flew.

  She shifted into her elven body and summoned plant life from the earth to clothe herself. She decided instantly that she liked this place. Even though it was the heart of this kingdom, it felt more rustic, closer to nature’s elements. Antlers and bones adorned the walls, and a great
stone statue of a bear towered in the courtyard.

  She came to the front doors. Two guards with metal, horned helms stood in the torchlight and bore the traditional old weaponry of axes and shields.

  “I need to see the king,” she said.

  “All seelie are welcomed by the king,” the guard replied. “Who are you, that I might announce your presence?”

  “I am Aradma.”

  “The Heart of the Dragon!” he exclaimed. “I will inform His Majesty at once!”

  Curious, she thought. How does he know the meaning of my name?

  One guard ran ahead while the other bid her enter the front door.

  She walked into the great hall. It was a simple room, filled with a long table, at the head of which was a wooden throne. People were gathered for a meal. Bearskins lined the floors, and stag skins covered the walls. King Donogan emerged in a wolf-pelt cloak. The smell of slow-roasted pork filled the hall.

  “Lady Aradma!” he greeted her. “You grace my hall with your presence.”

  “Your Majesty,” she said, bowing slightly. “May we speak in private?” The weight of urgency pressed on her.

  His face responded to her concern, and he grew serious. “Of course, please follow me.” Before they left the hall, he told the court to start the meal without him. “No use in letting their meals grow cold,” he said as he led her back to a private audience chamber.

  As they stood together, she realized that she was taller than him. She wondered if she should sit, but one did not sit when the king stood. Human formality was not ingrained in her, but he was the king of the land she accepted as home, and she didn’t want to appear rude. She wondered if it was odd for him to be looking up at her as they spoke.

  “What is it?” he asked. He didn’t seem to share her concerns over formality. “Are you here on behalf of Duke Montevin?”

  “Have you not yet received word from Windbowl?” she asked. “Duke Montevin is dead.”

  A dark shadow crossed Donogan’s face. “Tell me everything,” he said grimly.

  “Kriegsholm is lost,” Aradma told him. Just thinking about it broke her heart. “They pledged loyalty to Queen Iristine, and then their town leaders submitted to the Count Markus’ Covenant.”

  Donogan’s fist clenched. “We must send the army, we must—”

  “It is lost, Majesty,” she said, “unless you intend to slaughter the living that remain.”

  He shook his head. “No… how did they get through? Why would they do this?”

  “The contagion spread,” she said. “They did it to save themselves. The Covenant vampires cleared away those who would kill the rest of them.”

  “We must send out word,” he declared. “The entire kingdom must take measures… curfews, searches…”

  “Majesty,” she prompted.

  He stared at her with haunted eyes. “What are your thoughts?”

  “We thought for so long we were protected by the strength of our borders,” she said, “but we were wrong. We thought it was because of our guards, our rangers, and our druids, but again, we were wrong. They helped, but they couldn’t have held the tide on their own. It was you. The moment you ascended the throne, you stopped them from encroaching. Only now they’ve found a way past the border.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “In Erindil, I met the paladin Arda,” Aradma explained. “She and her companion had escaped Astiana but not before learning of the vampires’ weaknesses. They cannot sleep on foreign soil. If they do, they die. They fear crossing sovereign borders. The Covenant was able to cross your border just long enough to infect natives of Hammerfold. They rose, and the infection could no longer be tamed. The first wave was defeated, but the newly risen ones now spread unhindered throughout your realm, for it is their home soil.”

  “Why was this not done before?”

  “From what Arda told me, I suspect because those in Roenti have yet to learn control. For some reason, the Covenant can feed without killing and stay in command of their faculties. They are monsters, but they are rational monsters. They brood and plot and have found a way around their weakness. Now they have succeeded in having one town shift its allegiance. Queen Iristine’s border has expanded. But that’s just the township. Before that happened, new hungerbound—natives of Hammerfold—had already spread to neighboring towns. It’s just a matter of time before it spreads here, paving the way for more townships to shift their allegiance. Unless…”

  “Unless?”

  “You must give up your throne.”

  Donogan stared at her.

  “Why?”

  Aradma heard the trickling streams outside the hall and the quiet rise and fall of the king’s expectant breath.

  “The borders are the key,” she said. “Surrender your sovereign power and grant it to the cities. Split this land from one large realm to a coalition of small states, each with their own sovereignty. This will slow the vampire incursion and perhaps buy us enough time to clear and hold.”

  “From one king, many,” he mused.

  “Rajamin crowned you king years ago, soon after the fall of the Empire,” she expounded. “Establishing your border erected a barrier against the vampire contagion before it spread this far north.”

  “From the one, many,” he said again. Then he added thoughtfully, “My court will not be pleased. The Throne of Hammerfold has just been restored after the thousand years under the Shadowlord’s yoke.”

  “Is preserving the throne worth Covenant rule?”

  Donogan stared thoughtfully at Aradma for a long moment.

  “I will do this,” he finally said. “Arrangements will have to be made… treaties and such.”

  “Those are details that can come later,” Aradma insisted. “We must move quickly on this.”

  “We need Reverend Rajamin’s help,” Donogan said. “Sovereignty is the domain of the goddess Athra. The Church charged me with the crown. It must dissolve my sovereignty and crown the new kings of the city-states.”

  “Leave Rajamin to me,” she told the king. “I must go now. Time is of the essence.”

  He nodded.

  She left the castle and shifted into the falcon once more to fly back to Windbowl.

  Aradma stopped in the mountains to sleep after midnight, landing on a remote cliff-top with icy cold winds. She remained as a bird, puffing her feathers out to catch and warm the air around her. She summoned a shelter of thickly knotted wood and leaves, shielding her from the outside elements.

  When dawn’s light warmed the branches, she opened them and returned to the skies, finally descending into Windbowl by mid-afternoon. She sent word to her seelie and human druid students who had mastered their art enough to shapeshift, telling them to meet her at the temple. Odoune had not yet returned with Hylda, Attaris, and Keira, but there was no time to get him.

  Fernwalker sat with Ghost on the temple’s front steps. The sun was high and unusually warm for the end of February. It had snowed the previous night but was already melting away from the streets and rooftops. Icicles hung and glittered from roof edges, dripping fresh wetness on the ground.

  “Mom!”

  “Fernwalker!” Aradma chastised, taking her daughter’s shoulder and looking at the water-soaked bottom of her gown. “Don’t sit in the water! You’re going to catch cold.”

  “Mom, you can all heal me; it doesn’t matter if I get sick.”

  Aradma stared at her daughter sternly. “That’s not the point. Where is Rajamin, or Suleima? I need to see them.”

  “They’re inside,” Fernwalker said. “It’s boring here. I want to go back to the hills. Where are Dad and the others? Are they back?”

  “No, not yet sweetie.”

  Rajamin and Suleima emerged from the front door, arguing in hushed tones.

  “You shouldn’t have let her go,” Rajamin whispered emphatically.

  “What was I to do?” Suleima asked, arms crossed over her chest. “She will shape this world; you can�
��t keep her here forever.”

  “But now’s not yet the time—”

  They both clamped their mouths shut when they noticed Aradma standing there with her daughter.

  “What was that about?” Aradma asked. She had no doubt they were speaking of her.

  “It’s nothing important,” Rajamin said. Suleima shot him a glance. “What’s the situation in Kriegsholm?”

  Rajamin listened, whiskers twitching, as she told him about Kriegsholm’s fall and her meeting with King Donogan.

  “I need your help,” she concluded. “I need you to give your authority to the priests of each city to perform coronation rites for their city leaders, whether they are dukes or mayors. And I need you to revoke Donogan’s kingship so he can abdicate and split the throne’s power.”

  Rajamin thought for a moment. “I’ll have to get word to them,” the ratling runewarden said. “It will take time.”

  “My druids are within two days’ flight from the farthest reaches of the realm,” Aradma said. “We can carry your instructions to your churches.” Aradma gestured, and for the first time, the ratling noticed scores of birds—everything from doves to falcons, owls to geese—perched on the surrounding rooftops.

  Rajamin nodded. “Very well,” he said. “On one condition.”

  Aradma frowned. “What?”

  “That you perform the rite that strips Donogan of his kingship.”

  “What!?”

  “You allow me to vest the authority of the Church within you. You will represent me, and the gods, and act as priestess for this purpose.”

  “I’m no runewarden.”

  “You don’t need to be,” he said. “The people already have faith in you. You can be made a priestess with the authority to perform Church rites without learning the runes.”