Songs for the Sacred and the Soulless (Roads of the Righteous and the Rotten Book 2)

by Kameron Williams

  Yari had ridden up to Vlysa, and in the finest showing of theatre she had likely every performed, pretended to be social at the local inn. And it had paid off. Some big-mouthed, big-bosomed barmaid had shared every piece of local gossip she thought fitting, from travelers who were interesting or strange, to her opinion on the new state of the realm with King Dandil presiding. Among the chatter, she had mentioned two travelers, one coming before the second, and the second asking about the first. What was strange was that the horse of the first traveler, which the second traveler used to identify them, matched exactly in description to the speckled white mount that Yari had found with Zar and Lyla when she first took them. But that didn’t make any sense. She had led that mount back to Snowstone. Unless she recovered it when she escaped. Or sometime after.

  The barmaid said they both had ridden south, and though Yari had just ridden up from Lolia, she found herself mounting Ivy and heading back down into wine country. She continued her thus far successful trend of gossiping at local inns, starting in the west. She’d explored eastern Lolia, namely the towns of Rianne and Bruuda while looking for Zar, and this time made her way to Wyndor and Palta. Not much information had come up in Wyndor, but in the little inn in Palta she’d come upon a gem. Three men had been left dead in a room.

  It was more than that, though. Two travelers who had reportedly come right after the other and who had purchased rooms adjacent to each other were the believed suspects. They had left before the night was over, presumably after the skirmish, not even staying in the rooms they’d paid for. Perhaps the most important part was that the men who were killed weren’t found in their own room, but in the room of one of the other patrons. They were the attackers . . . the men who were killed.

  Yari mounted Ivy, sitting still for a moment outside of Palta’s inn. She ran a hand over one of the ram’s curled horns, the surface of undulating ridges looking like a polished, ornate wood carving under the sun. Ivy shuffled restlessly, and Yari spoke aloud, trying to put the pieces together.

  “They were the attackers—they were in a room that wasn’t theirs. They went into Zar and Lyla’s room—but why? For the bounty? Aye! No, that’s not right. The other two travelers were in separate rooms. Why would Zar and Lyla—if they are indeed traveling together—stay in separate rooms? Quite a waste of gold. Unless I’m all wrong and this has nothing to do with them.”

  Yari thought hard. Where would I go?

  If she rode to the east, it wouldn’t be long until she was met by the hills just below Wyndor; to the south, grasslands that passed from fervent green to a paltry brown, and eventually to sand, the closer one came to Cyana; to the west was a rather quiet land, a near endless stretching of plains that would eventually bring one to the sea, above the Burned Coast and below Bahzia— Aye, the west.

  It was an area too far from the mainreach to be well-traveled, and while close to the sea, the Burned Coast of Cyana and the city of Bazhia stole any reputation the place might have had. As far as notoriety, west Lolia was probably as unremarkable as any place could be.

  “I’d wish to be somewhere remote,” Yari concluded, “I would wish to be away.”

  Yari whispered a command in Ivy’s ear, and the ram pranced away from the inn. She tugged at the left strap of the reigns, and the leather slackened against the noseband, the ram’s muzzle tilting in the direction she pulled. They turned to the west, picking up a trail that wound through the plain that was clearly well-traveled but not quite a road. The earth was ruptured from heavy hooves, the grass plucked and turned over, dark impressions in the soil showing underneath. Yari decided she’d follow it, and after riding half the day, passing through a grove of chur trees that, judging by hoof marks, other riders had passed through recently, she looked down the plain to see some odd pile of debris far ahead.

  As she came closer, she saw it was a cottage. Well, it had been. She came upon it, white ashes blowing from the pile like flurries of snow. Something unmistakable poked up from the rubble, an arm burned to the bone, shriveled and crisp like the remnants of an unattended roast.

  Then, somewhere in some far place in the sky above Yari, there was a shrill and awful screech.

  21

  Tuskin traced the perimeter of the impression until his mouth fell open.

  “Biggest track I ever seen!” He looked back at Shahla behind him, and she eyed him from high on horseback, looking down with just a hint of a squint over her eyes. The Cyanans were quiet behind them, and when Tuskin rose to look down on the tetrad of dragon’s feet imprints in their awful entirety, he was reminded why the company hadn’t yet found words.

  The tracks looked hideous, and Tuskin supposed this was due to the fact that they were entirely foreign to them. Foreign to everyone. Leviathan was a creature of the sea, and the only things more frightening than knowing it had come to land besides seeing it in person were those tracks. The set of them was widely spread, and it gave them all a good idea of just how big the dragon was, seeing the distance between the marks. There were depressions where its feet had stomped, and around the indentations were holes digging down where its claws had sunk in. The tracks were deep, telling of its weight, and behind them a broad line fanned out in an arch through the dirt, which Tuskin could only imagine was the swing of its tail.

  Tuskin turned around. Baram and Ringo, mounted on tall, tawny camels that were shaggy-haired and looked as amply armored as the men themselves, were still looking at the tracks. Horned, iron chamfrains covered the animals’ heads, their bodies draped in caparisons of studded quilts. It was mid-morning and warm, and a line of camel-mounted archers formed behind the two commanders, their mounts equally adorned.

  “I don’t think we need Tuskin anymore,” said Ringo. He pointed down at the tracks and bellowed a short, deep laugh.

  Tuskin eyed the giant man with a smirk, noting that he’d never heard anything resembling humor from the commander before. It seemed his best attempt at a joke, and Tuskin didn’t think it was half-bad, so he offered a chuckle in response.

  “How close?” Ringo asked, as if it to say it was all a jest and they did indeed need Tuskin after all.

  “These tracks—as fresh as a spring flower,” Tuskin answered. “He was here today—our dragon.”

  Ringo’s face stiffened back to its usual grimness, and he pulled the visor of his helmet down until there was nothing open save a slit for his eyes. Baram was mounted beside him, head free of a helm. His red hair was pulled back and braided to the back, and he wore a studded leather brigandine buckled tight over a shirt of mail.

  Baram twisted in his saddle and called out to the archers behind him, “Think of the gold, lads! The gold.”

  The man glanced left at his fellow commander, and Ringo the Hammer met his gaze pointedly, glistening dark orbs barely visible in the shadow beneath the helm’s eye slit.

  “Our good king,” Ringo called to the archers, “not only gives you the pleasure of a hunt but rewards you in gold for serving! More gold than you lot have ever had.”

  There wasn’t a response to this, at least not from the archers, but the two commanders volleyed a bit more banter.

  Tuskin mounted his horse, a stout, chestnut roan, nudging it to trot off to the west without a word to the others. Up ahead he saw a tree that had fallen, or, rather, as he witnessed coming closer, a tree that had been knocked down. It was split not far above the base, narrow and green, a fracture of long splinters poking out where it had been bent to the point of breakage.

  Tuskin spurred his mount onward, sighting in the distance great rows of cliffs looming far down the plain. Beyond them, the horizon blurred into a dark blue line where the sea crept in, blending into the clear, bright hue of the azure sky just above it. From all he’d read of Leviathan, from all he’d heard, and, lately, from all he’d seen, Tuskin knew a place like that would be something like a haven to the beast.

  Tuskin rode to the cliffs, Shahla riding by his side and the Cyanans following not far behind. It was afte
r two hours westward that the dark form of Leviathan was seen resting on one of the far away cliffs, the beast and its perch both looking small in the distance. The smell of the sea was strong in the wind, and the sun had climbed high in the sky, its heat summoning sweat from every rider. Tuskin looked up at the position of the sun in the sky and then at the dragon’s form far off.

  “Of course,” he said for no one else to hear. “Makes perfect sense, it does.”

  They traveled several hours more to the west, toward the ever-growing scent of brine, toward the cliffs they had all seen Leviathan favor. The dragon had long since flown off from its roost on the scarps, and the group settled against the bluffs, quiet with fatigue or focus or fear. The cliffs rose before them like a maze, columns of stone pillars and uneven mounts separated by deep gorges and long canyons. The sun was now low, near setting, and the group gathered in behind Tuskin as he looked up into the cliffs.

  “Tomorrow, when the sun is high, it’ll bask on the cliffs,” said Tuskin. “Just like that one.”

  He pointed a finger to a low rock embankment, a sort of step-like protrusion at the base of a rising spire. A lizard jittered on the stone, scales of pine-green with brown flecks shimmering under the last of the sun. Its head turned, one eye facing the group like it knew it was being spoken of.

  “That’s a lizard,” came from behind Tuskin, chuckles following after.

  “Ah! And what’s Leviathan, then?” Tuskin returned. “You all seen it, baskin’ on the cliffs, soakin’ up the sun.” He dismounted and walked up to the base of a cliff wall, running his hand over its surface. “The stone is warm. The dragon likes it.”

  Shahla awoke, brushing open the flap of her tent to see the dark of early morning, the indigo sky telling her it was long before dawn. She had to pee.

  She left Tuskin snoring in the tent, pulled a burning stick from the bonfire outside and snuck away from the camp. She waved the torch in front of her, lighting the way, seeing a crevasse where the cliffs split away up ahead. She slipped into the fissure, following it back a good ways until she felt secluded enough. She squatted and relieved herself.

  When she was done, she just stood there, resting her back against one of the chasm’s walls. There weren’t many things that made her more prone to reflection than a quiet, early morning, air as cool as rain, standing alone in silent darkness. She thought of many things, but more important than those things, how she’d made her peace with them. Like Zar, his coldness and unfamiliarity, she’d accepted it. For as long as she’d known the man, he’d never stayed any place long. He was always on the move, restless, almost, and had never settled with a woman, let alone spoken of it. She was foolish for thinking she’d be the exception. She knew that now, and she didn’t bear him any ill will or anger. Zar would be Zar, and she, she’d decided, must move on and be Shahla.

  No. Scarlet Quill.

  Shahla headed back, returning the way she came, dust and rock rubble falling from the cliffs above and joining her in the crevasse. When she heard a noise and a pebble rolled down from above and struck her on the head, she glanced up and lifted her torch. Straddled above her, Leviathan opened its jaws, limbs and tails and wings a horrific blur in the murky air. It was perched between the two cliff walls that housed the fissure, its head lowered down into the crack, just fitting between the two stone walls. Then, all Shahla saw was fire, and she ran as fast as she could.

  She screamed, the heat on her back growing so hot she thought her clothes were on fire. She made it out the fissure and turned sharp, throwing herself to the ground, witnessing flames leap out the gorge like waves. She had just gotten out of its way, she saw, the fissure overflowing with fire as if it had breathed it itself.

  Shahla ran back to her tent, and Tuskin appeared in the doorway, tossing her bow and quiver to her before calling out, “Up! Up you fools or be dragon food!”

  The camp was astir, men shuffling out their tents, shouts of courage, cries of panic, feet scurrying to and fro, the thudding of their heels a quiet backdrop to the whoosh of the dragon’s wings. Shahla could feel the wind of them, blowing over her body like an ominous gale. It was right above her! The dragon spit fire, and in some sensible moment, where panic gave way to reason, Shahla concluded it must’ve been a good thing she was directly below Leviathan instead of in front of it, for the area it set to fire was far ahead of her, two tents drowned in the blaze, a screaming man running from between them, body aflame.

  Shahla threw on her quiver. She stopped her run and the dragon passed her, slowing in the air to hover not far in front of her. She drew and loosed, drew and loosed, drew and loosed—three arrows in rapid succession, all striking the place she had aimed, the beast’s belly near its right hind leg. Leviathan whooped and whirled, spinning until its great, black orb of a dragon’s eye fastened on Shahla, the right side of its head facing her and only one eye visible, a terrifying gleam in the dark morning air, lit by fire.

  Shahla’s heart nearly stopped in her chest. She darted away.

  She ran and ran, and a screech cut through the air behind her, sounding so loud and sharp it made her miss a step. She tumbled, knocking an arrow in the process, rolling onto her bottom and turning to face the creature that had scurried up over her, its front claws on both sides of her, bordering her body like a gate. Its neck lifted above her, its head facing down, mouth opening to boast vicious rows of long, curved teeth. Shahla shot her arrow, but nothing seemed to happen. There was no squeal of pain, no reaction save the flames that welled up in the dragon’s throat.

  Shahla knew her time was up, for the fact that she could redraw and plant another arrow in the creature meant little against the fire that now rolled in its throat. One arrow, or two, or how many she could fire before Leviathan launched its fire wouldn’t be enough to stop it. Her heart pounded in her ears, its drumming nearly the only thing she could hear. But there was something else she heard: a bellowing voice, Ringo the Hammer’s.

  “Loose!”

  The dragon’s neck jerked, and the fire vanished from its throat like it had been doused with water. There was a sizzling sound and its mouth clenched shut, spittle running out of its jaws. Leviathan turned away, scrambling for the row of Cyanan archers who had covered its back and wings with arrows, commanded by Ringo. They had given Shahla the time she needed, and she wouldn’t waste it.

  Leviathan scrambled after the archers, tearing into them with frenzied claws, leaving their camels groaning and running, blood spilling out of them. Shahla had already redrawn when Tuskin fell to her side.

  “Fill it with as many arrows as ya can!”

  Ahead, where the dragon had left all but a few archers dead or crippled, Ringo the Hammer had run in to engage the beast head-on, with Baram circling to its rear. Shahla and Tuskin sent arrows flying to aid them, burying in shafts whenever they found an opening, in the soft places that could actually be pierced, which they had found was mostly on its underside, especially near its limbs. A holler rung out, Leviathan's jaws closing around Ringo’s ribs, its teeth crunching through the commander’s plate armor.

  Baram climbed onto the beast’s back, his scimitar, Sorrow, in one hand as he clung on to the rigid, armored scales. Perched behind its right wing, he sliced down with Sorrow at the base of it, cutting deep through the dragon’s skin, nearly taking the wing off with the blow. It flapped and writhed, hanging half-way off, and as the dragon released Ringo and turned to his wounded wing, Baram slashed at it again. The dragon shrieked and the wing fell to the dirt, flopping on the ground like a fish out of water.

  And then there was fire.

  Leviathan spun in a frenzy, spitting fire until great walls of blaze swarmed through the clearing. Ringo was lost in the flames, his large body seen flailing as the surge swallowed it. His roars could be heard long after his body vanished in the smoky red haze.

  Baram, having fallen off the creature’s back, rolled onto his feet and darted away. He scampered around the patches of fire—and sometimes through them�
�and Leviathan crawled after him, blood pouring from the nub of its cut off wing. The Cyanan commander ran for the cliffs, throwing himself into the gorge between two rising rock walls. Leviathan pursued him but couldn’t quite fit, its head and neck shooting into the chasm but its shoulders wedged tight between the stone, going no further. Shahla and Tuskin ran after it, using the diversion to fill the beast’s backside with as many arrows as they could fire. But Leviathan pulled its head out the fissure and turned around, open mouth overflowing with flames.

  While it was quite a sight to see Baram mount the beast and hack off one of its wings, Shahla couldn’t help but think he had made the situation worse. Perhaps the dragon would’ve flown off once substantially hurt; but now, wounded, angry, and unable to escape, pursuing this quarrel to its final end was a dangerous endeavor. Maybe even foolish.

  A quick glance showed Shahla that not one of the Cyanan archers in sight still lived. Ringo had been burned alive, and Baram was wounded, and had scampered off to safety between the cliffs. They were losing this fight, and it was now just her and Tuskin.

  22

  “How do you know it’s going that way?” Lyla looked up from the ground and met Zar’s gaze, red Cyanan locks unbound, a mess over her face like plant tendrils in the wind. They had woken up with the sun, excited by dragon tracks leading toward the sea that they’d seen the night before.

  Zar sported an incredulous look. “Know anything else that could make these tracks?”

  Lyla looked back down, seeming to contemplate the man’s question. There, at the edge of a wood, the tracks tearing a trail through the dirt were violent. The grass was scraped away, and the umber soil was flung to the surface as if dug up by a miner’s pick. Lyla shook her head. “I don’t doubt these are Leviathan’s tracks.”