The Dragon Thief (Sorcery and Sin Book 1)

by Justin DePaoli

  The den stretched on. And on. And on even further. Young dragons darted in and out, flying up to the forty-foot-tall ceiling, then corkscrewing back down. Others were in training, and some sleeping.

  After walking for almost ten minutes, Oriana suddenly stopped as a smile almost swallowed her whole face.

  “There’s my girl,” she said. She clicked her tongue, and a dragon with brilliant blue scales soared down from a chunk of jutting rock, perching before Oriana. “Oof. You’re getting big, Sar, you know that?”

  Sarpella purred, raising her head so Oriana could scratch her neck.

  She wasn’t fully grown by any means, but she had to have been at least ten feet long, easily over two hundred fifty pounds. Scales covered her entire body, and her eyes had changed from harmless black pebbles to a seething blue fire.

  “You want this?” Oriana said, dangling the meat before her. The dragon made a guttural noise. “Only if you freeze it. Yes?”

  Sarpella purred.

  Oriana chucked the fist-sized steak into the air. Sarpella pushed off with such force, a gusty breeze swept over Oriana.

  The dragon swiveled this way and that, effortlessly gliding toward her prize. With a violent inspire, she opened her mouth and exhaled. It sounded like a young lion who hadn’t quite gotten the hang of roaring menacingly but sure had put the effort into it.

  Unlike a lion, however, a pillar of gaseous ice lunged from the dragon’s mouth, intersecting the free-falling meat, which froze instantly and fell to the floor with a thud. Ice crystals from Sarpella’s breath clinked against the walls.

  The dragon landed and danced around her food. She always danced around her food.

  “Oh, just eat it, you weirdo,” Oriana said. Sarpella eventually did eat it, but not before dancing some more, sniffing it, then inspecting it by pressing her eye against the crystallized coating.

  Oriana hugged herself and watched her little girl with amusement. The happiness she felt was brief. She had plans to redraw. If war swallowed Avestas, what would she do?

  She sighed. Nothing ever went according to plan.

  Chapter Twelve

  Elaya was twenty-six. Or twenty-nine. Maybe thirty. Birthdays weren’t exactly celebrated with smiles and cheer in Silderine. Regardless of her precise age, she couldn’t remember a time when she had enjoyed traveling at night.

  Things happen when the sun sets, and few of them are positive. Her encounter with Olyssi Gravendeer five nights ago reinforced that law. Or was it a theory? Didn’t matter—the darkness was not enjoyable. But the Eyes of Aleer weren’t far away now, and they couldn’t afford to rest long.

  They’d set up a small camp a few hours ago, allowing the horses to rest. There wasn’t much conversation to be had. The past few days had been sobering, and having gone empty on wine, there was no way of changing that.

  As she stared with empty eyes at a small fire that morning, Adom approached and asked if her mind was in the right place.

  “I can’t help but think it was a mistake,” she said. Maybe it would’ve been smarter to swallow those words. To stuff her emotions back in the pit of her stomach where they belonged. That’s a dangerous precedent to set, though, and she knew it. Emotions are like weeds. Try as you might to suppress them, they’ll emerge all the same. The difference is weeds can be chopped up and yanked out; they don’t cause any real harm. Bottled-up emotions, though? Those can kill you. And, sometimes, those around you.

  Adom fluffed his nonexistent hair. “We talkin’ about what happened at Craw’s Hold, or…?”

  “This whole thing. Kidnapping a king… Adom, what were we thinking?”

  Adom chuckled. “I told you before, and I’m gonna tell you again, Elaya. You’re too damn kind to be a mercenary. Gotta be cutthroat. Relentless. Unapologetic. And you’re none of those fuckin’ things. Well, maybe relentless. I’ll give you that; you’re relentless.”

  Elaya grabbed at and uprooted some grass. “I never told you the truth.”

  “That I’m a handsome lad and you’d like to get me under the sheets?”

  Elaya laughed. “Freedom and money and fame… that’s—” She frowned, trying to place the words from her throat on the tip of her tongue. “That’s not why I formed the Eyes. That’s not what I ever wanted out of this.”

  “No shit.”

  “What?”

  Adom scratched the splotchy, increasingly furry hair on his cheeks. “Fame and fortune, I mean—if that’s what you’re after, you don’t pass up on plunderin’ caravans and defenseless villages. And freedom, hell. You don’t need a bunch of mercenaries to achieve that. Just pack yourself a lunch, get a horse, and gallop off into the sunset. There’s your freedom. I always knew you were after something else.”

  Elaya didn’t know whether she should feel disappointed because she’d apparently failed spectacularly at hiding her motives, or relieved that Adom hadn’t felt betrayed. “Why did you join me, then?”

  He shrugged. “Somethin’ to do. Seemed better than shovelin’ cow dung and milking goats, y’know? I wasn’t about to ask what you really wanted out of this. Not my business. But,” he said, lifting a finger and leaning in close, “that doesn’t mean I don’t want to know, if you’re willing.”

  “Wouldn’t have brought it up if I wasn’t. Since the day I left the Daughterhood, I’ve dreamed—and I’ve had nightmares about it too—of going back to Silderine and—”

  “Overthrowing the Daughters?” Adom ventured.

  Elaya nodded. “Killing the Twin Sisters.”

  “They’re already—”

  “Dead. I know that. Obviously I know that. I mean kill them—their idea, Adom. The terrible, insidious religion they spawned. I will free the Daughters of their imprisoned minds and the slaves of their chains.

  “I’ve always wanted that,” she continued. “And I thought, I really thought, that the Eyes of Aleer could grow into the strongest and largest mercenary organization in Avestas. We’d have the numbers to take Silderine. But.…”

  “But mercenaryin’ is hard work, huh? You know, it ain’t over yet. Word’s already gotten out about the Eyes overpowering Olyssi Gravendeer. I guarantee that. And if this ransom thing with Lavery works out, we’re putting ourselves on the world stage, Elaya. There’ll be mercenaries and sellswords and assassins lined up for miles to join us. If you want ’em, you’ll have ’em.”

  Elaya wondered if Adom was being truthful or simply accommodating. He wasn’t one to lie, so maybe he believed his own words. Maybe hope did still exist.

  She thought back to that conversation as the Eyes rode through the night, but a very angry and very old man rode up beside her, stealing away her attention.

  “My kindness,” Baern said, “is wearing off. We made a deal: I lead you to buried treasure, you release me and Lavery. I don’t know what’s going through your mind, but I promise you, the buried treasure is not this way.”

  Dried leaves crunched beneath the relaxing pace of Elaya’s mare. “Blame Olyssi Gravendeer. We need to seek safety now, not treasure.”

  Baern cursed. “Again, for the fifth straight day, where are we going?”

  She chewed on the idea of finally telling him. She’d resisted so far, fearing he might plot an escape if he felt either his or Lavery’s life was in danger. He needed to trust, or at least remain somewhat certain, that she wouldn’t harm them. But keeping secrets tends to breed suspicion.

  “A hovel for miscreants,” Elaya finally said.

  Baern grimaced, readjusting himself on the saddle. “Look here, Elaya. I know people. Understand? You release us, set us free, and I’ll fix this whole mess you’ve gotten yourself into. The people I know—they can temper Olyssi Gravendeer’s, well, temper.”

  Elaya shivered as the moon went back into hiding. “And you’re going to ride for one of these people as soon as I set you free?”

  Baern scooted forward, shifted to the left. To the right. “I think there’s acid eating into my buttocks.”

  “
Saddle sores,” Elaya said.

  “Mm. Anyways, I can’t promise I’ll ride straight for them. But I’ll be in contact soon enough.”

  She gave him a sidelong glance, one that suggested he had a better chance of convincing the mountains to talk. “How about I make you a deal, Baern? You take us to one of these people right now, and I’ll set you free after everything’s settled.”

  Baern blinked.

  She edged her horse closer to Baern’s, putting herself within arm’s length. “Do not treat me like an imbecile. You know no one, and I’m not setting you free. It’s not out of malice. If you break from the Eyes right now, you’re as good as dead.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “The Gravendeers will have sellswords, Jackals, everything you can imagine—they’ll have them scouring these lands for us. It’s only a matter of time before they catch you. This place we’re going, we’ll be safe there. For a while, at least. Until we can draw up a plan.”

  Baern cursed. And again. Then he fell away, to the rear. Probably to rejoin with Lavery, who was passed around from one horse to another each time they set up camp.

  Elaya disliked lying. You lie once, she wagered, you’ll lie again. And it’s a cumulative effect. You start reaching for fables faster than you reach for the truth. And you’ve got to remember all the tales you told, the minutiae of it all. But sometimes, and this is especially true as a mercenary, lies are the least damaging weapon available to you.

  The might of the Gravendeers probably wouldn’t be scouring the hillsides and forests for the Eyes of Aleer and, perhaps more importantly, Lavery Opsillian. Not yet, anyhow. Mobilization takes time. And even when it would come down to a hunt for revenge and for justice, roaming the land would be a pointless endeavor for the Gravendeers. The family was smarter than that. They had spies, little birdies that would sing them songs when the Eyes arrived here or departed there.

  That was why Elaya set a course for the aptly named Grim, a dwelling of thieves and snake merchants. Of killers and rapists, swindlers and cheats. She had contacts there. More importantly, she could recruit, bolster the Eyes’ strength. They were going to need it in the weeks to come.

  The knifelike tops of silhouetted trees seemed to be vaulting toward Elaya, as if the forest approached her instead of the other way around. She dreaded this forest. Supposedly, it was cursed. Though she doubted that, choosing instead to believe it was simply a brutal, bloody woodland.

  The forest had lots of names. Some called it the Way of Death, others the Pit of Bones. Officially, it was the Sanctum Woods.

  Mostly, it was referred to as “that fucking forest,” or “ah, shit.” It sandwiched itself between two earthen humps, eventually fattening out and overtaking the entire land for miles and miles on either side. If you wanted to get to Grim, that forest was your only way in. Unless you fancied taking a sixty-mile detour toward the west or a hundred-mile one to the east. And if you did that, you’d better be good at rock climbing, or have a skillful mountain goat to carry your ass up the unforgiving cliffs.

  Elaya and the Eyes weren’t mountain climbers, and mountain goats tend to be difficult to wrangle, so the forest it was. Regrettably.

  Lavery had never seen a forest like this, and he hoped he would never see one again. It was a strange feeling, being scared among the trees. The small woodlands surrounding Valios were among his favorite places to play and walk and just to look up into the sky and ponder what really mattered. He loved the smell of pine and the mustiness of wet leaves, the skittering of squirrels and the creaking of branches. Peaceful, that’s what it was.

  This forest was not peaceful. Only slivers of moonlight bled through the canopy of needles above, splashing the floor of brambles and vines and dead things with a ghostly milkiness. Nothing seemed to move, not even the thinnest and weakest of branches. No creaks, no crackles—nothing but the absolute purity of silence.

  Sometimes he heard hooves trampling across thick patches of fallen pine needles, but mostly he heard his own breath and nothing more. No one talked, not even Baern. Lavery wanted to ask him questions—stupid, mundane questions just to hear the old man’s voice. But if everyone else was being quiet, there had to be a reason.

  Maybe they’re listening for something, he thought. And suddenly, a gruesome chill washed over him.

  The stuff that makes you shake with utter fear, that makes you clench your fists till your knuckles turn white and gnash your teeth till they almost shatter—it’s not the big, scary monster down the hall. It’s the big scary monster behind you, breathing down your neck. You don’t know what he looks like, what he’s capable of.

  There’s nothing worse than the unknown. You can adapt to anything—anything—except the unknown.

  Lavery touched his tightening chest; his heart thumped against his palm. He concentrated on the rhythmic beating.

  His horse carried him onward. A fan of needles softly brushed his face, smearing sap on his nose. He smiled then, for the first time in many hours. Maybe everything would be okay. Maybe things would work ou—

  “Wot in the hells… oh, fook me!” Tig’s voice. “Fook me!”

  A terrified horse shrieked. Pattering hooves danced frantically somewhere over there, or over there. Where, exactly? Lavery couldn’t tell.

  Someone cried, and something thudded.

  “Tig!” Adom yelled. “Tig, where the hell are ya?”

  “Fookin’ bastard just threw me off.”

  A gust of wind ripped past Lavery. He thought he saw the shadow of a racing horse going the other way.

  “Here he is,” someone said. “I’ve got him.”

  “There’s a body,” Tig said. “In the trees. Hangin’ from the trees! I swear on me life and me mum’s life he moved. He’s still alive.”

  Gradually moving from its shelter within the clouds, as if casually summoned, the moon appeared. It stabbed through a slim opening in the canopy, soft beams of faint light sledding down tree trunks, some of them reaching the forest floor. It was sort of peaceful in a way. Or at least it would have been, if not for the man with a noose around his neck, hanging from a knotted branch.

  His face had turned blue. His feet twitched; perhaps he was kicking them. Or perhaps the muscles were simply spasming, one last breath before death.

  “I got his legs,” Adom said, idling his horse beneath the man and wrapping his arms around his knees, supporting the man’s weight and relieving pressure from his neck. “Somebody cut this fuckin’ rope!”

  “Steady, girl,” Elaya said, inching as close to Adom as she could. “There you go, easy. Easy.” Sword in hand, she continued whispering “easy” as she deftly lifted herself off the saddle and onto her knees.

  Kneeling on a saddle is generally not recommended. But it was the only way Elaya could reach. One swing of her blade chewed halfway through the rope, and a second swing severed it.

  The man fell into a pile of dry needles. He reached for his throat, gasping. Dried blood slathered his bald head, and his nose was crooked.

  “Hold tight, pal,” Adom said, kneeling beside him. He slid the noose up over his head. “There you are. You feelin’ all right?”

  Wide-eyed, the man grabbed Adom by the collar of his tunic. “Get”—he wheezed, breath rasping in his chest—“out of here. Now!”

  Lavery felt a chill unlike any he had ever felt before. The tops of his teeth trembled against the bottoms as he swiveled about, peering around tree trunks and between bushes.

  “Calm down,” Elaya told the man. She cupped the back of his skull and offered him some water. “Who did this to you?”

  He slapped the skin of water out of her head. “Listen to me! You need to leave this place.” His eyes… they seemed to shiver. “They’ll get you. They’ll get you.”

  “Who will—” Elaya went taut.

  Lavery did too. He heard the same thing she had—a faint snap and a rustling.

  Elaya stood. She and Adom looked at one another, their fingers wrapped tightly
around their hilts.

  “No, no, no,” said the man. He pushed himself away, scooting his butt across the forest floor. He wept.

  Lavery sniffed; a curious smell lingered in the air. It reminded him of the way old coins smelled. Had he been a little older and not so naive, he wouldn’t have likened the smell to coins, but rather to blood. It was a noxious, overwhelming odor that emanated from the air itself.

  “Oooooh,” crowed a nasally woman. “Youse was right, Ulauna!”

  “Mm-hmm, uh-huh,” said another. She had a high-pitched, bubbly voice. “I told you.” She giggled, and the other woman cackled.

  Deep within a coppice of tightly packed shrubs and rotting trees, where the pale moonlight did not shine, Lavery saw shadows stumble and bumble, weave in and out erratically and drunkenly.

  “Soooooo easy to catch nasties,” said the woman with the nasally voice.

  “Whatcha think, Imriss? Ought we fry ’em, boil ’em, or do ’em raw?”

  One of the women gasped. “Look! So many! Lots for the tree, lots for us!”

  Between two evergreens stood a pair of grotesque, unspeakable horrors. Their limbs were bent and gnarled, wrists so deformed they were upside down, pointing at their faces. And oh, their faces—misshapen and pockmarked, covered in boils and milky scars. They wore old, tattered linens that were torn and dirty.

  “Tsk, tsk,” said one of the women—or perhaps more accurately, one of the creatures. “These are our woods. And ye never asked permission to pass through.”

  The other clucked. “Oooooh, the tree don’t like that. No, no. He don’t like that at all. And he’s got himself a temper, ’cause he’s hungry. Hungry, hungry, hungry.”

  “But! We got ’im food.”

  “Mm-hmm. That we do, Imriss. That we do. Come, lovelies… die for us.”

  The mercenary Lavery was riding with, Froll, jumped off his horse. He touched Lavery’s leg. “Stay here.”

  Maybe he would have stayed there had the horse remained calm. But it whined and whinnied. It snorted and swished its tail. Lavery felt its muscles seize. He clumsily fought the saddle as he tried to dismount, eventually face-planting into the dirt.