Threads of Amarion: Threadweavers, Book 3

by Todd Fahnestock

  Which meant not even one dragon could escape to tell the tale to Avakketh’s army.

  “Sniff,” Mershayn cried as he ran after the huge gray dragon, who was only still in sight because it was taking its time to slither between the buildings.

  The monstrous dog howled and leapt off the back of the black-and-gold dragon. In five short bounds, Sniff reached Mershayn’s side.

  “We go after that one,” Mershayn huffed as he sprinted. “Get it. Slow it down if you can. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Sniff whined, barely trotting as he easily kept pace with Mershayn.

  “Go!” Mershayn commanded. “Catch the thing. Distract it. Make it pause, and I’ll be right behind you.”

  Sniff barked, but still didn’t speed up.

  “No. Dammit!” Mirolah seemed able to communicate with the dog, so he knew Sniff was capable of understanding, but the dog wasn’t listening to him. “I want you to—”

  Sniff snorted as if impatient, then opened his jaws and went for Mershayn.

  Mershayn threw himself away from those snapping jaws, but he wasn’t fast enough. Sniff’s teeth closed on Mershayn’s tunic and belt, and with a twitch of its mighty head, the dog tossed Mershayn in the air. As with the dragon, Mershayn flipped, looking for the ground.

  He landed on Sniff’s skinny back.

  Now Sniff ran after the dragon at top speed. The dog didn’t have hair or spines or anything. Just skin and bone and muscle. Mershayn hastily sheathed his sword and wrapped his arms around the dog’s neck.

  “Oh, well, yes,” Mershayn said into the one of the ear holes in the side of the dog’s long, flat head. “That’s a better idea. Well done.”

  Sniff snorted, his great muscles bunching and releasing as he fairly flew over the cobblestones and leapt over rubble. In moments, the dragon was in sight, but so was the castle. The great gray scrambled up the wall, sending stone and mortar crumbling to the street below.

  Sniff barked, accelerating. He reached the wall and launched himself at the dragon like a spear. As mighty a jump as it was, it wasn’t enough to reach the dragon. Mershayn pushed on the dog’s neck to throw himself upward and deftly placed his boots on the giant dog’s shoulders. At the height of Sniff’s jump, Mershayn launched himself with all his might.

  Sniff barked his approval, falling away below. Mershayn drew his sword as he came level with the thick end of the dragon’s tail, just below its scrambling legs.

  Right...there!

  Mershayn stabbed his sword deep into the dragon, and the beast howled. It scrambled to the top of the wall, lashing its tail and sending Mershayn flying down the walkway. He prepared for the impact, for the breaking bones, but the air slowed him gently and turned him upright.

  Landing deftly, he heard laughter and realized it was his own. He sprinted back at the dragon, sword flashing.

  The giant gray looked confused. It drew a breath, and flame shot from its jaws, engulfing the entire walkway.

  Again, Mershayn could see the flames and the spray, which he realized, as it ate into the stones on either side, was some kind of acid.

  The wind of the attack pushed at him, but the acid and deadly fire passed around him. This time, Mershayn didn’t stand amazed; he sprinted forward under the cover of the fire.

  When the big gray stopped and turned away, Mershayn had almost reached it. It didn’t watch him, didn’t expect him to survive the fire, which seemed strange as it had witnessed Mershayn’s entire army come through the black-and-gold dragon’s fire unscathed. Why?

  Because it doesn’t know about Mirolah. It doesn’t know we have a secret threadweaver.

  That had to be it. The dragons didn’t know about their human threadweaver. They thought it had to be Bands who had somehow protected Mershayn and his group. Now that she’d been left behind, the big gray thought Mershayn would again be vulnerable to the fire.

  The dragon leapt across the courtyard, a hundred and fifty foot span. Mershayn leapt after it, trying to catch that tail again before it got out of range, but he missed. The tail lashed out of his reach, and his sword whistled through the air.

  He pitched headfirst toward the cobblestones far below, but that same wind caught him, lifted him up. The dragon crunched into the side of the castle wall. Stones crumbled and fell, and it scrambled up. The wind threw Mershayn at the dragon’s back.

  Mershayn’s laughter and sword hit the dragon at the same time, this time high on its back. The blade sank deep right next to the spine. The thing screamed and jumped sideways in its agony, pitching them both off the castle and over the city’s outer wall. Beyond was only a steep, snowy slope and a deep ravine.

  Mershayn sawed at the dragon’s back as they fell. The fall was going to kill him, but he was determined to at least paralyze the dragon before they hit.

  The dragon twisted, screaming in pain and rage, trying to get to him. Its jaws opened, as tall as a house, and descended on Mershayn as he yanked his sword out and pointed it straight upward.

  Mershayn and the dragon struck the mountain. Something shoved him forward into the dragon’s mouth. The jaws snapped shut behind him. His sword sank deep into the soft flesh.

  Mershayn spun in sloshy wetness. The dragon’s tongue was like a giant worm, slithering around him as he spun, over and over and over, hanging tight to his sword. Finally, the spinning stopped. The dragon was still moving, but not tumbling, like it was sliding down the slope instead of rolling. Mershayn yanked his sword out, bringing a gout of ichor down on himself, but the tongue wasn’t quivering anymore. The jaws weren’t trying to chew him. The dragon wasn’t moving.

  The squishy, wet mouth reeked of dragon breath and blood. He turned, blinking, and saw light between the clenched teeth. He sheathed his sword and, scrambling on hands and knees across the sloppy tongue, he reached the teeth. He could smell fresh air beyond, and he longed to get out.

  Bracing his feet between two lower teeth and his shoulders against the slimy upper palate of the dragon, he pushed with all his might.

  The jaws levered open, and Mershayn gasped and sucked in the fresh air.

  Time it well or you lose your legs...

  With one might surge, he pushed the jaws up and leapt into the snow. The teeth snapped shut behind him.

  Mershayn rolled down the snowy slope and finally came to a stop. Inhaling the glorious air, he looked up at the gray dragon. The thing was as big as four houses in a row, but it was dead. The mark of Mershayn’s last strike was a barely discernible blood spot on the top of its head, but it was a true strike. Straight through the brain. He heard Master Debarc’s voice in his head.

  Masterful strike, swordsman....

  His legs went wobbly then, and he fell onto his knees, let his sword fall in the snow as he breathed hard. He knelt there for a long time, trying to catch his breath and calm his heart.

  After a moment, he heard a noise, like a low roar. Frantically, he fumbled in the snow for the hilt of his sword and raised it. He stumbled to his feet, looking for the next dragon, but the noise wasn’t coming from a dragon.

  The wall the dragon had leapt from, high above on the top of the mountains slope, was filled with Teni’sians.

  And they were cheering.

  33

  Mershayn

  Mershayn walked slowly through the burning streets of Teni’sia. He hurt everywhere, from his skin to his muscles to the marrow of his bones. He couldn’t say what kept him on his feet, but he refused to fall. He had to see the damage.

  The danger was done for the moment, the dragons slain, but the devastation was staggering. Flames rose to his right, consuming a sign that said The Weaver’s Art. He stared at it as it burned. The gold paint peeled and bubbled, and soon the words were unreadable. Lo’gan was organizing fire crews to haul water up from the Inland Ocean. Mershayn could only hope they would be here soon.

  “We should take you to the palace, Your Majesty,” Deni’tri, who followed close behind him, said.

  Dead bodies lay i
n the street, horribly burnt or chewed in half. The battle had barely lasted an hour, but the carnage was unspeakable. And these dragons had been grounded. He could only imagine how quickly they would have destroyed the city if they’d been flying.

  “He means to kill us all. Every single human,” Mershayn murmured.

  “Who, Your Majesty?”

  He wished she would stop calling him that. She had known him before all the craziness of his kingship. But everything had changed now. Mershayn wasn’t that man anymore. Deni’tri wasn’t that same guard. They didn’t live in a safe little kingdom where the worst enemy was a snake pit of backbiting lords vying for power. This death, this devastation... This was a war unlike anything this kingdom had ever seen. Every single person would become a soldier in this war, because there was no other choice.

  “Avakketh,” Mershayn said, answering her question.

  “Who?”

  “The god of dragons.” Of course, to Avakketh, this was merely a skirmish, not nearly the end of the world, and certainly not the bulk of his forces. This may have been only to test how formidable humans would be. How many dragons would come south when the war really began? Hundreds? Thousands? Tens of thousands?

  If Mirolah hadn’t brought these dragons to earth, if Bands hadn’t provided the weapons to fight them, they would have killed every last Teni’sian. Six dragons. They would have reduced Teni’sia to rubble and its population to zero. This beautiful city with its centuries of culture, with its lively, determined people, would have been no more. They would have been erased from history.

  And we stopped them. Barely. This was a victory.

  He stopped, staring at the burned body of a child in its mother’s arms, half buried in crumbled stones. A badly turned stone caught his toe and he stumbled, went down to one knee next to the corpses.

  Victory looks like this....

  “Your Majesty?” Deni’tri knelt next to him, took his arm.

  “They came to slaughter us. And they almost succeeded.... Look.” He pointed. “How can we call this a victory?”

  “We beat them back, Your Majesty. We did what we had to do.”

  “Barely....”

  “You’re tired, Your Majesty. You need rest.”

  “Yes.” He could hear the concern in her voice, and she was right. He was rambling. A guard shouldn’t have to hear her king ramble.

  Stand up. She needs to see you standing.

  But he stayed on his knees. He gazed at the snow mixed with ash, blood, and bits of smoldering wood. His own fist was black with drying dragon blood from that terrifying moment inside the dragon’s mouth. Bits of scale clung to the sticky ooze.

  He placed his sticky hand flat on the black stones and stared at the corpses of the woman and her child.

  You brought this, Avakketh. You brought death to my city.

  “Never again,” he said aloud.

  “Your Majesty?”

  “They’re not getting a second chance to do this.”

  “We will stop them, Your Majesty,” she said with conviction.

  “No. Next time, they’re going to have to stop us. Next time, we’re taking the battle to them.”

  34

  Grendis Sym

  Grendis Sym followed Mershayn and Deni’tri at a quiet distance, stopped when they stopped, and hid behind the stairstep of a broken wall. In the panic and confusion, not only was Mershayn practically alone, but everyone had forgotten about Sym. This was his moment, his only moment.

  It was time for Mershayn to die.

  After today, there would be no opportunity to strip the Bastard King of his political power. He was the hero of the dragon attack. Dozens of Teni’sians had seen him kill a dragon in one-on-one combat. Not only that, but it had been the largest dragon, the leader. Even Sym’s staunchest supporters would swing to Mershayn’s banner after that ridiculous display of courage, after such an impossible victory.

  Sym had to grudgingly admire the man’s unexpected success. Who had that kind of courage, anyway? It was madness or idiocy, and as a result, it would soon become a legend. The story was already sweeping through the city. It was the only thing anyone was talking about. The entire city would have carried Mershayn through the broken and burning streets on their shoulders if he’d let them. Instead, he put them to work putting out fires and tending to the many dead, which only built his legend further.

  Mershayn, the Bastard King whose only concern was the people and the city.

  No, there would never be a better time to put an end to the Bastard King.

  Mershayn’s lone guard, the bald bitch named Deni’tri, knelt next to him, conveniently offering her back to Sym as well.

  Well, that suited Sym just fine. He had two crossbows, cocked and loaded only moments ago. During the battle, dead guards lay everywhere, their weapons discarded. He’d had his pick.

  It would be a quick bolt in the back for the guardswoman. Then, before the obviously dazed Mershayn knew what was happening, Sym would raise the second crossbow and fire. One last bolt for Mershayn. This close, only twenty paces away, Sym couldn’t miss. Afterward, he could pull the bolts out and kick the bodies into the burning building.

  No one could trace the death to Sym, and Mershayn would make a much more useful martyr than he would a living king. Sym could use those stories.

  The great Bastard King. Not only did he die fighting the leader of the dragons, but he vanished afterward like some hero of old. And Sym would weave himself into the tale, embellishing his own role in the dragon attack, that he had been by Mershayn’s side, that he believed in Mershayn’s mission. Sym could swing the overflow of goodwill toward himself.

  And then he would take the reins of the kingdom once more.

  Sym raised the crossbow and aimed at the base of Deni’tri’s neck.

  “Never again,” Mershayn said.

  Sym paused, caught by what would be Mershayn’s last words. Perhaps they could be woven into the legend Sym planned to weave.

  “Your Majesty?” Deni’tri said.

  “They’re not getting a second chance to do this.”

  “We will stop them, Your Majesty,” she said with conviction.

  “No. Next time, they’re going to have to stop us. Next time, we’re taking the battle to them.”

  The conviction in Mershayn’s voice seemed to paralyze Sym. It was honest passion. There was no jockeying for power in his tone, no goal he could possibly have in mind by saying such a thing in this desolate street, side-by-side with a guardswoman who already belonged to him, who would jump off the castle wall if he asked her.

  Sym’s finger trembled on the trigger. He curled his lip in self-derision. What was he doing? The moment was now. He had to strike.

  But Mershayn’s courageous fight against the dragon flashed through his mind. Like everyone else who had watched, Sym had been awed when the bastard stabbed his way up that monstrous dragon. Sym had even felt, for an absurd moment, that the dragon was overmatched by Mershayn’s relentless fury. Sym had faced that fury himself when Mershayn had toyed with him in the king’s chambers, giving him a sword like it would make a difference, bashing aside Sym’s strikes like he was a child.

  For the first time, Sym glanced around at the utter devastation those six dragons had left behind, and he realized that he couldn’t have stood in Mershayn’s boots today. Certainly he wouldn’t have attacked a dragon by himself. The very notion was ridiculous.

  But Mershayn had.

  If Sym had been king, he would have died today. Every other person in Teni’sia would have died today. Sym wasn’t a religious man, but he was suddenly struck by a sense of destiny. What if Mershayn was the right person in the right place at the right time? Who else could have done what Mershayn had done? What kind of fool grabbed a dragon by the tail and survived?

  What if Mershayn could actually lead them to a victory over the dragons? What if he was destined to do so? What if he wasn’t simply a lout who knew how to swing a sword? What if he was mor
e?

  The suddenly realization staggered Sym. Up until this moment, he had known he was the best person to lead Teni’sia. He had known he was the only one with the will and capability to truly do it. An outcast son of an executed father, Sym had made his own opportunities. He had created his own network of supporters. He had dared go beyond the boundaries where other nobles stopped. He’d made his own roads. He’d taken this kingdom. He would have made it what it needed to be....

  But even Sym didn’t have the will or capability to do what Mershayn had done here today. Where Sym would have run, Mershayn attacked. And not only had he attacked, he had won.

  Sym clenched the haft of the crossbow. He wanted the bastard’s death so much he could taste it. Mershayn had humiliated him, cast him from his rightful place, torn apart his network. He wanted the bastard’s ruin.

  But he wanted Teni’sia to endure even more.

  Once, Sym had envisioned a long and glorious rule with him as king. But now, after this dragon attack, all he could see was Teni’sia in ruins if he took the throne. When the dragons came back, what could Sym do to stop them?

  His elbow ached as he lowered the crossbow, and he felt a sudden foreboding that he would regret this decision for the rest of his life.

  Instead, he quietly drew a breath and steadied himself, looking down at the wall. He set the crossbow next to its fellow. When he looked up, Deni’tri was watching him. Her hand was close to her hatchet.

  “My lord,” she said.

  “Deni’tri,” Sym said. “They’re looking for him. It is time for him to return to the castle.”

  Deni’tri nodded and, without taking her gaze off Sym, helped Mershayn to his feet. The king seemed dazed. “It’s time to go, Your Majesty,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “We’re going to escort you back to the castle.”

  “We?”

  “Sym and me. He stands behind you, ready to...protect you.”