Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kingsteel
The Dragonkin Trilogy™ Book Three
A Red Adept Publishing Book
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Copyright © 2015 by Michael Meyerhofer. All rights reserved.
Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
This book is dedicated to all the lovely people who are currently reading this sentence.
PROLOGUE
The cloaked man halted. Ahead of him, in sharp contrast to the snow-covered Simurgh Plains, lay a gaudy temple and a sea of tents and wagons sprawled before a great torch-lit gorge. Horses whinnied and pawed the snow, probably agitated less by the cold than by the ominous chanting and weeping coming from the tents. He felt a surge of pity for the animals. Lowly though they were, they deserved better. Granted, Humans were lowly, too, but they could blame no one else for their own wretched lot in life.
The man grimaced, not at all heartened by finally reaching his destination. Despite all he’d gained, arriving at a place like Cadavash was hardly something to celebrate—and he’d taken far too long to get there.
Chorlga chided himself. After entrusting the Sylvan king to kill Silwren, the Shel’ai-turned-Dragonkin, he had made the decision to return and once again bolster his own magic with the aid of Namundvar’s Well—just in case the king failed. He could have teleported himself all the way from Sylvos to Cadavash, but that was risky. Few uses of magic drained body and spirit more thoroughly than teleportation, and Chorlga had already nearly exhausted himself reaching the forests of Sylvos—much too weary to risk facing Silwren himself.
He’d told himself that he was just being cautious. There was no sense risking death just to avoid a few days’ walk. But Chorlga knew the truth.
Gods, I hate this place…
Though most of the dragonpriests were asleep, several still milled about the temple and the adjacent gorge, wailing theatrically and slashing their own bodies with ceremonial knives. Their madness washed over him—right before he reminded himself to wall off his mind from their emotions. He was tempted to slip unseen into the deepest, secret vaults of Cadavash and head straight to Namundvar’s Well, which the foolish dragonpriests did not even know existed.
The thought of what he was about to do turned his stomach, but he had no choice. Delving into the magic of Namundvar’s Well was dangerous. He needed to be at full strength for that.
Chorlga paused a moment, laughing at the absurdity of his situation. He had to make himself stronger before he could undertake a ritual that would make him stronger still. At any point, the slightest misstep might kill him.
He drew in a deep breath of winter air. He wondered what it would be like to feel truly cold, like those who had nothing of dragons inside them. Exhaling, he started forward. He walked past the temple, in full view of a handful of bone-worshippers, making no attempt to conceal himself.
As he passed an open tent, he paused, glanced inside. A group of naked worshippers—male and female alike, some little more than children—sat in a circle, rocking themselves and muttering feverish prayers. All had red, swollen eyes. He wondered if they were drugged or simply exhausted. In one direction, with slow reverence, the worshippers passed what looked like a dragon’s wingbone. In the other direction went a thin ceremonial knife, with which they took turns cutting their own legs.
Chorlga shuddered and looked away. Even by Human standards, bone-worshippers were loathsome. Still, he marveled that they could live in such a state. He almost pitied the young ones, born into such a life, until he reminded himself that they were still Humans.
In the next tent, a richly dressed merchant counted coins. A pair of muscular, armored bodyguards scowled in Chorlga’s direction. One warned him to keep walking. Chorlga resisted the sudden impulse to burn the men to ashes and continued toward the temple. Before he had made it halfway, two more armed men blocked his path. Unlike the bodyguards, the men had a green emblem sewn into their thick wool cloaks and painted onto their shields: a naked man with wings and a dragon’s head. The soldiers waved silently to a third guard, who raced back to the temple.
Biting back his impatience, Chorlga waited. Late arrivals were apparently an anomaly at Cadavash. Moments later, a squad of guardsmen descended the temple steps and headed in his direction, led by a dragonpriest. They smelled of sweat, incense, and ale. All wore the same green emblem, though in place of a cloak, the priest wore an extravagant robe.
While the dragonpriest appeared to be unarmed, the guards wore mail and shortswords and carried footmen’s spears tied with strips of green silk. Two of the soldiers carried bronze-collared torches.
The priest bowed stiffly. Scars from self-inflicted cuts covered the man’s wrists and hands, as well as his young, otherwise-handsome face. “Gr
eetings, traveler. You are most welcome in this holy place… though a gift of twenty cranáfi is required before you may approach. If you’re paying in iron crowns, we have reduced the cost from thirty to twenty-five, as a sign of respect to the Dhargothi prince.”
Chorlga frowned. He wondered at the dragonpriest’s choice of words, then remembered seeing Dhargots on the plains the day before, massed some distance away, under a telltale cloud of smoke and screams. He realized that in the dark, he might have been mistaken for one of them. The thought made him laugh.
“I am no Dhargot.” He threw back his cloak, letting the soldiers’ torches reveal his long, tapered ears and violet eyes. He smiled at the men’s surprise. A few reached for swords. “Nor am I a Shel’ai.”
“You look like one. Those eyes…” The priest’s face tightened with fear. He gestured, and the soldiers formed a protective ring around him. “In fact, you look like the one who came here a few months ago and killed—”
Chorlga undid the clasp of his cloak and let it fall onto the snowy plains. He waved his hand, and the soldiers’ torches flared to life, turning from yellow-orange to violet, blazing so fiercely that the soldiers threw them down. On the ground, the torches continued to blaze, brighter and brighter. The blaze did not push back the darkness so much as brutalize it.
A few soldiers screamed and stepped back. Others turned to the dragonpriest, anticipating an order to attack. But the priest stood paralyzed, his eyes locked on the plains. Chorlga traced the line of the man’s sight and realized the priest was gawking at Chorlga’s shadow, which had suddenly grown enormous. Chorlga studied the priest’s expression of horrified astonishment. He did not need to delve into the mad priest’s mind to know that he was trying to figure out how a cloaked man could produce a winged shadow.
Mad, this one… but not stupid.
“As I was saying, I am not a Shel’ai. Nor have I come to buy dragonbone.”
A few soldiers had drawn their swords.
Chorlga waved, and those swords flew from their hands. Chorlga drew closer, edging around the guards. Though he faced the dragonpriest, whose eyes were wide and wet with fear, he spoke loudly enough for all to hear.
“For years, you have prayed that your lamentations and self-imposed suffering would reanimate the bones of dead dragons… that the dragons themselves might return, burn you, devour you, and thus make you part of them forever.” He paused. “Followers of Zet the Dragongod, rejoice! For this night, in my blood… in me… that wish shall finally be granted.”
Without further ceremony, Chorlga pressed one hand to the dragonpriest’s scarred face. The young man’s jaw dropped. His eyes grew wider still. He might have screamed had Chorlga permitted it. Instead, Chorlga drained the man’s essence, absorbing it into his own. He sensed both the man’s terror and his dreadful willingness. Chorlga grinned at the familiar, welcome rush of exhilaration, even as the draining of a Human, rather than a dragon, turned his stomach. When he let go, the dragonpriest’s eyes were black and blistered. The corpse slumped quietly to the ground, where it steamed in the snow.
Chorlga turned slowly, surveying those around him. In addition to the guards who were still paralyzed by his magic, their swords glinting in the snow, other priests, worshippers, and a few simple tradesmen had come closer to see what was happening.
They all stared.
Chorlga released the guards from his spell. Tendrils of wytchfire ignited from his fingertips, racing back and forth along his arms, leaving his clothes unburnt. Chorlga turned again, slowly. “Who else wishes to bathe and burn in the legacy of dragons?”
No one moved. Then an old dragonpriest limped forward, moving slowly. His scarred, wrinkled face was damp with tears. The old priest knelt before Chorlga, speechless, head bowed. His narrow shoulders trembled, though Chorlga could not be certain without probing the old man’s mind whether it was from cold, fear, or anticipation.
Chorlga smiled. “Good choice.” He pressed one flaming, open palm to the old man’s face. Like the first priest, the Human did not scream. A moment later, another corpse slid to the snowy earth, its eyes burnt out, the sockets blackened and smoking. The flames coursing along Chorlga’s arms grew slightly brighter, as did the torches still blazing on the ground.
Chorlga took a deep breath, held it, let it go, then turned to find the next volunteer. He expected to find only one or two, so that he would have to compel the rest by force. Instead, he found a dozen men and women already kneeling.
Others ran, spreading word of his arrival. Dragon-worshippers began to shove, eager to reach him. Some cried out in wild exaltation. Within minutes, nearly all the souls in Cadavash stood before him.
When they saw the haze of unearthly violet light, a few people backed away, aghast. A handful, mostly merchants, ran. Chorlga let them go. After all, in less than an hour, he already had a small army of joyous, weeping figures, so many that he had to fight back the urge to teleport elsewhere or burn his way to freedom, just so he could be away from them.
So many wanted to join him. So many had waited and prayed all their lives—not for this moment, exactly, but near enough. Praying, crying, and pleading, the throng pressed in on him. Though his senses whirled and he had to fight to keep from retching, he forced himself to hold his ground until he had welcomed them all.
Soon, the corpses piled around him like walls. Then Chorlga had an idea.
CHAPTER ONE
Flight from the Fire
It was sunset now, blood-gold light spilling through the trees behind them. All of them shook with exhaustion. Still, not one of the cloaked figures slowed to glance back over their shoulder, let alone rest—none save Shade. The ragged band of Shel’ai had been fleeing since dawn.
Shade turned to scan the forest for signs of pursuit. Hours had passed since they’d blundered into a war band of Wyldkin. For all their magical senses, the Shel’ai had somehow been utterly surprised. Two Shel’ai had died in a hail of arrows, another from a thrown spear, before a blaze of wytchfire had driven off the rest of the Wyldkin.
I should have been more careful. Three more dead—because of me.
Though it further weakened him, Shade had used his magic to enhance his senses. He expected the Wyldkin to call for reinforcements and pursue them, but the only sounds he heard came from faraway battles. He reminded himself that most of the Sylvs were probably still trying desperately to drive the Olgrym out of their homeland.
As they drove us out… He shook his head. No, it wasn’t the Sylvs. It was that Isle Knight, the one with Fâyu Jinn’s sword. And Silwren…
Though a surge of grief threatened to bring tears to his eyes, Shade turned and rejoined the others, who had slowed but not stopped. Four men still carried the litter, their faces slick with perspiration, while two more, both women, scouted ahead. As quickly as he had squelched it, Shade’s feeling of grief returned. Gods, only six of us left!
“We do not stop until we are clear of the forest,” he said.
The other Shel’ai did not protest. Shade did not have to use his magical aptitude for mind reading to tell that they could not keep up the pace much longer. He hoped they would not have to.
In the distance, the forest began to thin. Here and there, the towering wytchwoods gave way to the sickly trees of the outer world: oaks, yews, and even a few dogblossom trees that must have been brought from the Isles, then forgotten centuries ago. Beyond these trees, snow-flecked hills rolled on beneath a naked blue sky.
Shade shuddered. Already, he missed the shelter of the wytchwood branches soaring hundreds of feet over his head—though even they paled before the World Tree into which the Sylvan capital had been carved.
The city we failed to take.
Memories of the battle washed over him. It had seemed at first as though they had won. The Sylvan forces—a mixture of Wyldkin and a handful of Shal’tiar
, plus a frightened multitude of hastily armed conscripts from Shaffrilon, most of them women and children—had been routed. Olgrym swept through the smashed gates, their hulking bodies painted with the blood and entrails of their victims. The Shel’ai followed, led by Fadarah himself.
Between the Shel’ai wytchfire and the Olgrym’s sheer strength, they had decimated the Sylvan armies, thrashing the once-mighty Shal’tiar and burning every fort and village between the capital and the Ash’bana Plains. All that remained was to surge up the walkway into the city and find and slay the Sylvan king—then centuries of injustice would be set to right. The Shel’ai—driven out of the forest, hunted for their innate ability to work magic, and hated for their perceived similarity to the despotic Dragonkin who had ruled a thousand years earlier—would finally have a home.
Then he had appeared.
The thought of Rowen Locke caused Shade’s lip to curl in disgust. He clenched one fist, wytchfire smoldering between his fingers, before he felt the magic draining what little strength he had left. He forced himself to relax. Still, the image haunted him: that red-haired Human, the lone Isle Knight, stalking toward them, Knightswrath in hand. The sword’s blade was wreathed in flames… the flames that meant the sword’s ancient power had been rekindled and that Silwren was dead.
“No…” Shade choked on the word then shook himself again, glad the others had not heard. He shifted his attention to the litter the sorcerers were carrying. Hastily constructed out of wytchwood boughs fused by magic, the litter was strong enough to support three grown men. Still, the boughs bent and strained under the weight of the wounded man.
Shade was tempted to check for Fadarah’s pulse since he had not done so for hours, but that would mean stopping. They had already sacrificed as much magic as they could spare, urging healing energies into the Sorcerer-General’s body. They could do nothing more for him. If Fadarah had already died, at least he’d died in the shade of the trees.
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