Copyright © 2019 by Troy Carrol Bucher.
All Rights Reserved.
Jacket art by Ryan Pancoast.
Jacket design by Katie Anderson.
Map by Jen LaVita and Troy Carrol Bucher.
Interior design by Alissa Rose Theodor.
Edited by Sheila E. Gilbert.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1832.
Published by DAW Books, Inc.
1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Ebook ISBN: 9780756415464
DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
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—MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
Version_1
Dedication
To David Bischoff (1951-2018)
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Together the Gods of Light and Dark created the universe, but those of light came to hate the darkness for the death and destruction it bestowed upon the worlds of man, so they tricked the Dark Gods, sacrificing hundreds of stars to create holes in the universe where the dark ones were pulled down through the fabric of existence and trapped outside time.
Although they could not conquer chaos and death, for those were built into the essence of the cosmos, the Gods of Light were free to act without balance. They built wonders that defied the laws of nature, ended disease and famine, and all but eliminated catastrophe and war for countless millennia.
Then, the Dark Gods found a way to return.
—Edyin’s Complete Chronicle of the Fallen
Chapter 1
The dark-haired boy sat quietly at the table, dinner already eaten. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself, so he stayed as still as possible while the grizzled old man across the table put down his fork and eyed the bone in front of him. Most of the meat had been stripped away though traces still dangled from the white knobby end. The man opened his mouth and placed the bone between spotted gums and missing teeth before swiveling it around, smacking and snorting as he angled it this way and that to tear off the last strands of flesh. When those were gone, he bit down with his molars, filling the single drab room of the house with the crunch of shattering cartilage.
The boy cringed at the sound, but he was careful to remain silent. Father’s attention wasn’t something he or his brother ever wanted. The bloom on his cheek was proof of that.
His father pulled the bone from his mouth with a slurp. Leaning forward, he spat cartilage and gristle onto his tin plate and wiped grease from his mouth with the back of a wrinkled hand. With a grunt of dismissal, he tossed the bone onto the tin, making a loud clang that announced the end of the meal. He thumped his chest until he belched and picked up his dinner knife to scrape at the underside of a fingernail. “Clean this up, Riam. Then go see what’s takin’ your brother so long in the barn.”
“Yes, Father.” Riam’s chair screeched against the wooden floor, and he froze, half standing with his heart in his throat. It didn’t take much to get Father going, and the scratch of the chair always irritated the old man. Thankfully, his father was too preoccupied with his nails to notice.
Careful not to make any more noise, Riam slipped sideways from his seat and made his way around the plain, sturdy table, stacking the tins and utensils. His hair was long, having gone all winter and through low summer without a cut, so he used one hand to brush it from his eyes whenever he bent forward. He left a plate with the remaining chicken leg, half a sweet tuber, and a burnt piece of flatbread for his brother Lemual.
Lemual was seven years older and had ridden to town earlier in the day. Once a month Father hooked up the wagon to purchase supplies from the mercantile. Lemual always rode in the day prior and placed the order so it would be ready. Riam envied his brother’s solo ventures. One day he’d be old enough to make the trip, and it couldn’t come soon enough.
With a sigh, Riam finished placing the last of the cutlery on the single wooden platter they owned and hurried toward the back door. He needed to make it outside before Father noticed the plate left behind.
“Boy . . .”
He jerked to a halt. He was an arm’s length from the back door, but it might as well have been a full homestead away. His shoulders sagged. He knew the words that would come next.
“Take Lemual’s plate with you,” his father said in his calm, cruel voice. “He shoulda finished by now. He’s lucky we let it sit as long as we did.”
There was no we in the decision, but Father always spoke in plurals when being spiteful, spreading the blame. Riam couldn’t hide the food either. He’d tried that before and had paid for it with a swollen lip and loose tooth.
I’m sorry, Lemual. I tried.
He wiped the disappointment from his face—he wouldn’t give the old man the satisfaction of showing his true feelings—and returned to the table to add Lemual’s plate to the top of the stack. It was his chore to feed the scraps to the pigs and scrub the tins in the water trough. He hated it. The rusted hand pump only sputtered out a trickle this far into summer and the handle went up higher than his reach, but at least it was getting easier. He’d hit a growth spurt this year and was closing in on his brother’s height.
Before Riam could retrieve the tin from the table, the front door opened with its familiar creak. Father’s back was to the door, so he didn’t see Ferrick, the town magistrate, step inside. Ferrick’s immense, round belly draped over his wide brown belt, and his second ch
in shook with his steps. Everyone knew serving as the local magistrate was Ferrick’s first love. He wore a white shirt without wrinkles under a brown vest that matched his belt, and the truncheon of his office dangled from his side next to woolen trousers that were ironed crisp and straight. No, the man wasn’t lazy. His weight was simply the manifestation of his second passion—food.
Why hadn’t Ferrick knocked? Father barely tolerated the magistrate on the rare occasions they spoke, and he always grumbled about it afterward. If the magistrate thought Father was short with him when taxes and rent were due, he was about to get a full barrel for barging into their home. Father’s temper was like a caged marcat. If you unlocked it, for Fallen’s sake, you’d better not be in the cat’s path when you lifted the gate.
Hopefully, it wouldn’t go too badly. Despite his father’s contempt, there was a strength and honesty beneath the magistrate’s soft flesh most others lacked. Ferrick always snuck him sugar hardened with flavored syrup or, on special occasions, sweetcakes whenever Father wasn’t looking. He didn’t want Ferrick to stop. Father wouldn’t spend a single dreg on sweets if he were the richest man in Nesh.
A thin man, almost as tall as the doorway, stepped from behind Ferrick’s bulk. His hair was tied behind his head, revealing deep red-and-blue tattoos that twisted down his neck and disappeared under his shirt. The one under his left ear, an angry-looking owl with menacing red eyes glared at Riam. The owl’s sinister face scared him nearly as much as the newcomer himself. Riam tried not to look at it, but the owl remained at the edge of his vision, watching him.
Beyond the tattoos, the man wore loose trousers tucked into knee-high boots and a long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled and held above the elbows by narrow straps that buttoned to the sleeve. Both the trousers and the shirt were the threatening deep gray of a storm cloud. Most striking, however, were the twin, leather-wrapped sword handles jutting out above his hips.
Riam didn’t know who the man was, but he knew what the man was—a Draegoran. On more than one sleepless night Lemual had frightened him with tales of the demon men. Always dressed in gray and covered in tattoos, the demon men could read minds and killed people for their impure thoughts. His brother’s tales usually ended with the Draegorans dragging children away, but the really bad children—those, they executed. He’d never quite believed his brother’s tales, but here stood a Draegoran, exactly as described—a demon come to life—right in his own home.
The Draegoran looked Riam up and down, and the corners of his lips lifted into a satisfied smile that was anything but friendly.
He’s come for me, just like in the stories. The tins slid from Riam’s hands and hit the floor, filling the room with the clangs of bouncing utensils and tin plates.
Startled, his father jabbed the knife under his fingernail. “Faen’s balls, boy!” He dropped the knife to the table and rubbed at the end of his finger. Finding nothing bleeding or damaged, he reached out with a greasy hand and snatched up Riam by the shirt. He yanked Riam close, so hard a button popped free and clattered along the floor. “You got the graces of an Esharii tribesman. Maybe a few nights in the barn will make you a little more careful.”
Normally, Father’s anger made him cower, but this time Riam ignored it. His attention remained fixed on the demon in the doorway. He tried to say something, but the words wouldn’t come out. He could only stand there, mouth opening and closing like a landed fish.
“Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you.” His father drew back a hand.
Riam tensed for the blow and the words that had failed him a moment earlier came flowing out. “But the door—”
“I heard it. Your brother ain’t gonna save you from . . .” He caught sight of the men, and his words trailed off. His hand lowered. The smile left the Draegoran’s face, and for a long, awkward moment the only sound in the room was the soft hiss of the wind through the shutter slats.
Finally, the Draegoran broke the silence. “You were told the test was today. Why was the boy absent?”
Riam’s father glanced at the knife on the table. He licked his lips.
“Don’t be stupid, Ingis. Just answer the man so we can get this over with,” Ferrick said. “I told him you were old, and it likely slipped your mind.” He gave a slight nod of encouragement.
Ingis stared at Ferrick, his mouth slightly parted, contemplating the way out the magistrate offered. He shook his head slightly and folded his arms. A smirk lifted the corner of his mouth. “He won’t be twelve until winter.”
Riam gasped at his father’s thin words. Even he knew you couldn’t lie to a Draegoran, and he’d never seen one before.
The Draegoran moved, fast as an arrow. One instant he was at the door and the next he stood beside Father, holding him by the hair. He wrenched Father’s head over the chair back, exposing his throat.
Riam’s father kicked at the floor, trying to get his feet beneath him. He fumbled at the Draegoran’s arms.
The man slapped Father’s hands away as if wrestling a small child. He leaned down until they were face-to-face. “I could remove your right hand for lying.” The words were low and flat.
The Draegoran would do it, too. He would cut off Father’s hand with no more thought than someone gave to chopping wood. Riam could see it in his eyes and hear it in the emotionless, monotone words. Father spoke the same way when the beatings were the worst, telling Riam how everything was his fault and how if he were only a better child, then he wouldn’t have to be punished so much. It was always his fault.
Is that it? Are Lemual’s stories true? Is the Draegoran here to drag me away for my mistakes? He took a step back and found himself blocked by the ladder to the loft. He pressed against the rough wood, but it seemed to push him back toward the demon man.
“The truth this time. Why was the boy absent?” The Draegoran drew one of his swords with his free hand. The weapon slid out of the worn leather sheath without a sound. “Think carefully before you answer.” He waved the blade back and forth. It swayed like a thorn snake before striking, hypnotizing its prey. There was no looking away.
Ferrick took a step forward and opened his mouth to speak, but a hard look from the Draegoran stopped him. Ferrick held his hands together with his thumbs at his lips, too afraid to do anything more. A Draegoran’s authority far surpassed a small-town magistrate’s.
“I . . . I . . .” His father stammered. He looked back and forth between the Draegoran and the blade. “I . . . decided not to bring him.”
“And why is that?”
His father trembled. “Because . . . I didn’t think anyone would notice.”
Riam had never seen his father scared of anything, and a part of him liked what he saw. How many times have I cowered in the loft, shaking with that same cold fear? He liked that someone was showing his father exactly how the man made him feel—terrified of the next blow. But, at the same time, it was his father. He didn’t want anything bad to happen. Scaring him so he understood would be enough. Then maybe Father wouldn’t hurt him anymore.
“And?” The Draegoran looked with hunger at his father’s hand. He sniffed the air. “You aren’t lying, but you aren’t telling me something.” The blade drifted higher, preparing to come down.
Why wouldn’t Father answer? The Draegoran would do it if he didn’t answer. For Fallen’s sake, say something!
His father swallowed and licked his lips again. He looked to Ferrick for support, but the magistrate turned his head and studied an empty wall. Father’s shoulders slumped, and his hands dropped to his lap. “Because you Draegoran bastards deserve to be stood up to. You take everything but give nothing in return. Why should I have to abide by agreements made generations before my great-grandfather was born?”
Ferrick sucked in his breath.
“It doesn’t matter anyway.” His father sagged. “Go ahead. Get it over with. Your kind ruined my life long ago.�
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For the first time, Riam saw his father for what he truly was, an old man—older than a man raising two boys ought to be—a tired man who hated his life and made his children pay for it. Disappointment and sadness filled Riam. Father would never change, not even with the Draegoran threatening his life.
“We give you peace. We give you freedom. We die to keep the Esharii from burning your homes, but it’s not enough.” The Draegoran cocked his head back toward Ferrick. “You see, Magistrate. People thrive under our protection, but they’re unwilling to pay even the smallest price.”
Defiance flared back onto his father’s face. “Thrives! No one thrives. We barely survive!”
The Draegoran shook his head. “My words are wasted on you,” he said. “You choose not to accept, or even understand, and so you never will. It’s the same in every town and village from the plains to Mirlond.” He let go of his father’s hair and wiped his palm on his father’s shirt. He took a step toward Riam.
“Don’t be afraid, boy,” the Draegoran said. “I’m going to touch you with the crystal, the same as I’ve done with a thousand others your age.” He held up the leather-wrapped hilt. The silver pommel held a large, white-clouded gem. “You may feel nothing, but if my instincts are right, you’ll feel a strange tug and see and hear things. It won’t hurt you, though. I swear.”
Riam wanted to run, but Father had taught him long ago that running only made things worse. Once, he’d torn his good shirt, the one reserved for going into town, while playing in the barn. His father’s face had gone completely red, and Riam, scared of his anger, had run. He couldn’t remember the beating when Father found him hiding in the grain field, but he remembered waking up in the barn bruised and sore. It was a lesson he’d never forget. Yet, despite this, it still took all his strength to stand and watch the hilt move toward his face.
A buzzing noise filled the room, growing louder the closer the sword came. The milky clouds moved within the gem, slowly swirling, hiding a distorted face—or maybe an animal of some kind. It was hard to tell. Riam’s heart raced, and the gem pulsed in time with his heartbeat. He strained to make out the figure.
Lies of Descent Page 1