The Dragon Lords: False Idols

by Jon Hollins

  Filing in after this pair came fifteen more soldiers in full dress uniform. Lette suspected that the creases in their trousers weren’t any less sharp than the curved scimitars hanging at their sides. General Tout had probably examined his reflection in one of their breastplates for optimal mustache grooming.

  “General,” said one of the councilmen at the table, standing up, his chair scraping, “so glad you could join us. We need to discuss war.”

  “War?” barked the general. He arched an eyebrow that clearly aspired to the same levels of bushiness as his mustache.

  “An invader has quietly snuck into our realm, General,” said Jocasta. “He has amassed an army, and turned the people against their rightful rulers.”

  And that was what had changed, Lette realized. That was the reason for it all. The cult of Theerax had reached critical mass in the streets of Bellenet. The people were more interested in what he had to say than in whatever the High Council was spouting that day. The people in this room were clinging to power only through the might of the city guard.

  That was why they didn’t even bother looking at our “proof,” she thought. They’re not looking for proof anymore. Just an excuse.

  Democracies, meritocracies … they always had far too many rules about going to war. It’s why she had always liked petty despots and tyrants. Give her the constant infighting of the five duchies with their autonomous princes, or the warlords of eastern Verra, over a democracy any day of the week.

  “A snake in our midst,” the general said, at earsplitting volume.

  “One poised to sink his fangs into our nation’s great bosom,” said Jocasta, clutching at her own for no reason that Lette could really elicit. “Which is why we need you to gather your troops and stab it repeatedly about the head, neck, and torso. Is that clear enough?”

  General Tout beamed at Jocasta. He had, Lette noted, absolutely terrible teeth.

  “Perfectly,” said the general. Then he yanked out his sword and rammed it neatly through Councilwoman Jocasta’s stomach.

  19

  Oh Snap

  For a second everything was very quiet in the Batarran High Council chambers. Everything except Councilwoman Jocasta, anyway. She was dying very noisily indeed. Then General Tout ripped his sword out, in a great jagged sideways slash, opening her guts up properly, and she passed out as she collapsed to the floor and generally spilled everywhere.

  General Tout stepped neatly away from the spreading pool of blood, guts, bile, and shit, and into a roar of shock and outrage.

  “What?” and “Why?” seemed to be a general theme, along with a heavy dose of “How dare you?” and the more declarative “You’ll hang for this!”

  General Tout looked unmoved by this outburst, pleased by it even. “A snake?” he roared, in a voice that would carry over cannon fire. “Poised to strike?” He spat massively. The gob of phlegm landed in the dead center of the council table. “Why, the poison has already rotted the heart of this once great nation!” He reached out and with his blade slashed the throat of a councilman who had possessed the temerity to approach him. “It is time to breathe new life into this pitiful shell of a nation. If there is a snake to kill, it is you!” He lunged forward, speared a councilor, who was slow to pick up on the general “run and hide” vibe that was circulating through the room. “You would have me strike against Theerax? I would have him deliver me from insidious turds like you!”

  With that he set about himself properly, hurling himself at the knot of paralyzed, panicked councilors, hacking at limbs and chests, coating himself in a fine spray of bright arterial blood, laughing manically.

  “Fuck,” said Lette. And then the full weight of it hit her. Because this was the man in charge of the whole city’s defenses. This was the man to whom the city guards reported. Which meant that they were not suppressing the populace. They were waiting to hand this city and this country over to Theerax. So again she shouted, “Fuck!”

  The soldiers who had accompanied General Tout into the room were spreading out, leaping up onto the table, smashing their blades into the councilors with a force and enthusiasm that spoke of years of pent-up hatred. The High Council had not been spending its drunken, sex-filled sessions making a tremendous amount of friends.

  Will spun toward Lette, grabbed her shoulder. “What are you waiting for?” he asked her, eyes wild. “Kill people!”

  She reached for a knife, but her hands were slow, her mind racing this time. Because what would it achieve? They had needed the Batarran High Council because they needed an army. But the council didn’t have an army anymore. Even if she cut down General Tout now, it would achieve little. His colonels and lieutenants would be loyal to him—and therefore loyal to Theerax—not the council. And they would be out in the city right now. If she cut off this head, another would simply arise and take power. Tout was a general, a strategist. He would only be here—grinning so broadly as he sawed the head off a councilman that Lette could see the blood staining his teeth—if he already had a hundred contingency plans in place.

  And she … she was just a foot soldier. A mercenary. A blade in the darkness. She had no contingency plans. She just had Balur out there in a city that was in the middle of going to shit.

  She put the blade back in her pocket. Soldiers had not yet blocked off the door behind her. They were having too much fun in the middle of the room. One stood on the table, spearing councilors in the head one by one. Two others held a councilwoman by the shoulders and feet while a third hacked and hacked at her stomach.

  “Balur,” Lette said simply, and ducked back toward the door.

  “What?” Will stared at her. “But we … These people.”

  Lette grit her teeth, let a blade fall into each hand, and killed two soldiers with an open fling of her hands. Two more looked up at them. Otherwise the slaughter carried on unabated.

  “There,” Lette said. “Now we have to run. Happy now?”

  Will stared at her. “What? No!”

  “Well, neither am I, so at least you made two of us.”

  They had four of the soldiers advancing on them now.

  “Can’t you …?” Will said desperately.

  And that was flattering in an oddly stupid sort of way. “There are four of them,” Lette pointed out, “and I just completed a forced march.” She took a breath. “I am not semi-divine. Now can we run away, please, or do I have to tell you this is a tactical withdrawal as well?”

  Will grimaced. “Gods.” But he was turning to run.

  Which set the soldiers off, of course.

  Lette turned and fled.

  20

  That Which We Have Come to Fear the Most

  Will sucked air as they emerged out of the Batarran Council chambers and into the city of Bellenet proper. Then he glanced around, lowered his head … and hesitated as Lette put her hand on his arm.

  She’s touching me. Which was not an appropriate thought. Partly because it was a pathetic one, especially after this long together, but mostly because of the whole running-for-their-lives thing.

  “Slow down,” Lette hissed. “We don’t want to attract attention.”

  “This city is being overthrown by a dragon whom we have openly opposed,” Will pointed out. “Speed seems like it would be of the essence.”

  “Openly?” Lette gave him a look like he had just made an indecent proposal. Well … actually, as Will recalled, there was a time when she had actually been quite open to indecent proposals, but … he wasn’t thinking about that.

  “We have opposed Theerax to a governing body so far removed from the people it governs that they have chosen a giant fire-breathing monster over them.” She started pulling him by the arm, entering the streets at nothing more than a brisk walking pace. “No one here has a clue what we said.”

  Will felt himself relax. “So we’re—”

  “No.” Lette cut him off. “Of course we’re not okay. Not everyone in this city is going to support Theerax and so there is g
oing to be violence. Probably quite a lot of it.”

  Will stopped relaxing. “I’m coming back,” he said, “to the point where I’m fairly sure we should be running.”

  Lette shook her head. “The city guards are waiting for a signal.” She nodded at yet another of the ubiquitous patrols. “And they’ll be massively on edge. The last thing we want to do is alarm someone and set this whole tinderbox on fire. No. We just walk briskly and hope we make it back to the Balding Eagle before—”

  Suddenly the streets rang with a cacophony of booms. Will ducked, pressed his hands to his ears. When death didn’t smash him to the ground, he whirled around and searched for the source of danger. Plumes of smoke were emanating from the roof of the Council Chambers.

  “Before,” Lette said, grimacing as she resumed, “the guards in the Council Chambers fire the cannons signaling to the rest of the city that the council is dead and the coup has begun.”

  So they ran.

  For a moment Will really thought they might outpace the slow burn of the revolution. In the wake of the cannon blasts from the Council Chambers, there was initially nothing but echoing silence. The city seemed to be second-guessing itself. Everyone looking around, asking, “Are we really doing this?”

  Then groups of guards started to shout and chant, rattling the swords in their scabbards, pounding spear butts on cobbled streets. “Theerax! Theerax! Theerax!” Next came the crowds, blooming out of stores like flowers in the warmth of the sun. They raised their arms, cheered, whooped. Some had banners. Others dropped to their knees, hands pressed together, praising the gods.

  And still, as Will and Lette pounded down the streets, they were largely ignored. The resistance Lette had predicted seemed curiously absent. Instead everyone was too caught up in their own celebrations to care about two people running—perhaps in joy—through the city.

  Then they rounded a corner, and Will almost tripped over a body in the street. A young man … perhaps not even old enough to be called a man yet. He had his throat cut, his life making a crimson mess in the street.

  “Next street over,” Lette said, backpedaling fast.

  “But …” Will could see the fight that had left this body behind a hundred yards up the streets. Bodies tangled, teeth bared. “There are people there struggling against Theerax. We can’t just abandon them.”

  “Those people are going to lose,” Lette snapped. “Remember the army we thought we could fight Theerax with? Well, now they’re on Theerax’s side. Now they’re directly opposed to these people. And let’s not forget, Theerax is almost certainly coming here, his new seat of power. And what’s he bringing with him? Oh yes!” She slapped her forehead. “His own enormous army. So that’s two well-armed, well-organized military forces against …” She peered. “Oh gods.” She shook her head. “I think there’s someone in there trying to use a loaf of bread as a weapon.”

  Will stood, openmouthed, tried to process. “So we …?”

  “Balur is lying unconscious somewhere and this shit is only going to get worse,” Lette snapped. “He is where my loyalties lie. Fuck these people. I am finding him, stealing a wagon, and getting out of this shithole.”

  Will stared at her. “And then what?”

  She grabbed him by his shirt, shook him until his head hurt. “You’re the one who comes up with the fucking plans! When are you going to start consistently remembering that?”

  Which didn’t really feel fair to Will. This was a crisis. This was the complete collapse of his plans. This was proof that all he had thought of had amounted to nothing. And now? Now Lette wanted a plan? In this moment of utter ruin?

  “No,” he said, and even felt righteous doing it. “No, I don’t come up with a plan just because you snap your pretty fingers and demand one.” Piss on it. He hadn’t meant to say “pretty.”

  “Then,” Lette said, and there was something in her face that brought Will up short, something that looked a lot like pain, “we use my plan. We survive. And we do it any way we can. And if that means leaving these people to die, then that is what it means. Because we can’t fight shit if we’re dead. And, honestly, if we lose, then I will fight for Theerax. Because that’s what survival will mean.” She held his gaze steadily. He felt her eyes boring into him, and he looked away.

  Will was pretty sure that Lette’s decision for him to take Balur’s shoulders while she took the lizard man’s feet was wholly driven by the fact that she was still pissed at him.

  They struggled down the streets of the merchants’ district—loaded down by the unconscious lizard man, and a few wineskins Lette had defined as “provisions”—looking for a wagon to load.

  This being the merchant’s district, a wagon was easy to find. Finding one that wasn’t missing a wheel or on fire was a little harder. Finally they discovered one tucked into an archway off the street. Behind it a yard full of crates and barrels sat waiting for looters.

  Apparently they were the looters. Lette started ransacking things while he tried to heave Balur up onto the wagon bed. As she did, his conscience twitched. “These people—” he started.

  “Survival.” Lette’s tone was biting. “Mine. Balur’s. Yours. In that order. That’s the plan. If you have a problem with that …” But she bit the thought off, stalked back toward the crates and barrels.

  “What?” said Will. And then, even though he knew she would hate it, “Please.”

  She stopped walking but she didn’t turn around. Just stayed still as a statue. Will felt more uncomfortable by the second. What did she expect from him?

  “Where is your anger?” Lette didn’t sound angry anymore. Just tired, and bitter. “Where is your righteous rage? Where is your hatred?”

  And Will found he didn’t have an answer for her. He didn’t know. Looking about him. Listening to the sounds of this absolute disaster … he didn’t feel angry. He felt sad. He felt weak. He felt pointless. But he didn’t feel angry. He knew exactly why these people had thrown over their High Council. If the alternative weren’t a dragon, he’d probably be encouraging them. How could he be angry at these people for hoping for something better than the shitty deal they had?

  So instead he heaved as much of Balur into the wagon as he could. As he worked, Lette loaded chunks of cheese, ham, and other dried meats beside him. Splintered wood lay in the courtyard behind her.

  “Hey!” He was torn from his work by a shout from the street. He looked up. A man was there, in his late fifties, gray in his beard, a pitchfork in his hands. He was wearing a yellow cotton work shirt, and braces held brown trousers up over an ample belly. There was a woman of similar age behind him, and a young man of perhaps twenty, only a few years Will’s junior.

  “Yes?” said Will.

  “Get off my cart!” the man yelled. “And get the fuck away from my ham!”

  Lette, who was in the back of the wagon with him at that moment, slowly put down the large ham she was holding. Will could feel the tension running through her.

  “Don’t,” he whispered.

  “Not if they don’t make me,” she hissed back.

  Will held out his hands, placatory. He did not want this fight. The very idea of it made him sick. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We’ll put it back.”

  “We will n—” Lette started.

  Then she was cut off.

  The sound was low at first, a slow, steady beat. A rhythmic thump, thump, thump building gradually in the sky.

  They looked up. They saw.

  Theerax burst into the space above their heads. He was massive, titanic. He was an impossibility in the sky. He was the sky. Everything above the street was him. The heavens were simply scaled muscle, rippling and flexing. The wind was just the downdraft of his wings, whipping dust down the narrow street, making the surface of the puddles ripple and dance.

  And then he was gone, leaving only Will’s thundering heart in his wake. Theerax crashed and clattered his way through the air toward the Council Chambers. His new seat of power. Will was
nothing to him. Was utterly insignificant.

  Slowly, everyone’s attention came back to the matter at hand. Will felt the urge to clench his fists, to grit his teeth. The tension was a living, pulsing thing in the air between them.

  He did not want this to end in blood.

  Survival. That was what Lette said it was about: survival.

  Slowly he raised one fist into the air and pumped it. “Theerax!” he shouted. “Theerax! Theerax!” He turned and looked at Lette. She was staring at him. He made an encouraging motion. “Theerax! Theerax!”

  Hesitantly, Lette raised her own fist. “Theerax,” she said, without what Will would have called the necessary conviction.

  The man with the pitchfork, though, was apparently convinced. Or at least convinced enough to shout, voice raw with emotion, “You fucking people make me sick!”

  Will paused, fist in the air. “Wait,” he said. “What?”

  “Throw over our own council for some beast. Praise him instead of the gods. Steal my goods.”

  “No!” Will waved his hands desperately. “We didn’t mean it. We were just saying that because—”

  But the man wasn’t interested in why Will had been saying that. Instead he let out an inarticulate bellow of rage and charged at him, thrusting the pitchfork at him as he came.

  “No!” Will yelled again.

  He heard a thrum in the air beside him, turned, saw Lette standing with her arm extended out, and looked back to the street. Three dead bodies lay there. Knives were in their necks. The man with the pitchfork hadn’t even gotten to finish his bellow of rage. His wife and son hadn’t even got to step forward to either help or hinder him.

  Lette knelt and picked up the ham.

  “Why?” It was all Will had. This moment, this action. It felt so empty. So fucking pointless.

  “Survival,” said Lette. She stacked the ham in a neat pile she’d been making near Balur’s head.