An elf with antlers on his head waited at the other end of the bridge. He held his arms wide as Alfric ran past him. Rather than being stopped again by the invisible wall, he entered Eosorheim. Bradir stood beside him. He let Cyne onto the grass.
Atop galloping horses, the hunters entered the bridge, screaming their war cries.
"Eosor, god of beasts, hear me!" the antlered elf yelled, cutting through the warriors' yelling. The warriors' horses suddenly stopped, throwing their riders from their saddles and onto the stone bridge.
Tree leaves behind Alfric rustled. Out from the branches sprung a horde of squirrels. Bears, foxes, and badgers swarmed from the forest. The woodland creatures came as a wave of fur, claws and teeth, surging over the warriors. Squirrels gouged out eyes and chewed on them like they were hazelnuts. The bears twisted necks and severed heads. Badgers sunk their teeth into necks. Even as hunters threw themselves into the waters of Darkstone River, the beasts followed them. Not a single hunter returned to the surface.
"You have found my sign," the antlered elf said. "I am Hurn, the tender of this land and servant of Eosor. Welcome to Eosorheim."
Alfric slept soundly that night. The wraith hadn't taken his mind. He woke to the sound of waters trickling down a fountain. The bed of long grass was difficult to arise from, yet the smell of fresh blood beckoned him.
He passed the great pine trees, aware of the woodland creatures nestled in their branches. The memory of how they had devoured the hunters at Hurn's command came back to him. Alfric hadn't seen Hurn since he'd allowed them entry into the forest. He'd barely been able to keep his eyes open before he'd passed out on the grass. The last thing he'd seen was the stars, and yet he hadn't turned.
Alfric found an elk's carcass laid out on a wooden log. Hurn stood beside it.
"I understand you refuse to feed on human flesh." Hurn's voice was slow and measured, like someone for whom time was meaningless. "This will suffice for now. One of the hunters slew it. Your companions are elsewhere."
Alfric went about eating until his stomach felt bloated. He washed his hands and face in the stream and returned to Hurn.
"Where is Eosor?" Alfric said.
"Within his orb in the glade.
"I tried to come here before, but I couldn't. Something kept me out."
"I made a special agreement with Eosor so that he would allow the skinwalkers to enter. It is his magic you have to thank for allowing you to remain as you are by holding the wraith at bay."
"You speak of Eosor as though he talks with you." Hiroc had thought Aern spoke with him at Tyme's Hill. Alfric shook his head, not wanting to think of what his brother's fate—and that of all of Indham—might be.
"He does. One must listen if they wish to hear the gods speak."
"I wish to offer thanks to the Guardian for asylum."
Hurn bristled. "Eosor is not a Guardian. Do not refer to him as such."
"We have always called them Guardians in Indham."
"This is not Indham. Knud, the one who called himself the First Priest, fashioned the term so that the people would not realize what truly lies within the carcaern orbs. Guardian implies that the gods trapped within the orbs serve us, guarding against evil forces. But it is not they who serve us, but we who serve them. Those you call Guardians are gods."
"I've always thought of them as gods. I think everyone has."
"That is how it has come to be. But it was not always so. The truth does have a way of eventually reaching people, even if it’s shrouded in falsehoods." Hurn's eyes lingered on the book in Alfric's hands. "May I?"
Alfric gave Hurn the book.
Hurn snapped a twig from a branch and pricked his finger with a sharp end. Blood seeped from the small cut, and he pressed it against one of the book's blank pages. Alfric gaped as letters formed where there had been none. The calligraphy was vastly different from the descriptions of tonics and potions earlier in the book. It was still written in the language of Wallan—the language spoken in all the continent. Yet it was archaic, the spelling variants of the common tongue.
"Do you know what this is?" Hurn asked, holding the book out for Alfric to inspect.
"It must be magic."
"It is. This book is a grimoire, a copy of the very one Knud wrote. They were sent all over the known world two thousand years ago. It holds many secrets, and Knud's very own magic preserves it." Hurn paused, tilting his head as he stared into Alfric's eyes. "What troubles you? You doubt my words?"
"It's not that I doubt them. It seems a foolish thing to hide secrets when all that's required is a speck of blood to reveal them."
"Not any blood. Only someone who has opened their spirit to the realm of the gods. The spiritsoul an incantation leaves in the bloodstream allows the secret letters to form."
"But there are many mages throughout the world. Maybe not in Aernheim, but at least in Lamworth and elsewhere."
"When Knud was alive, there were many less practitioners of magic. The art of Devotion had not yet been discovered. And the gods ceased to call men. Only those who had been called since before the gods were captured were able to perform magic. Anyone with magic flowing through their blood can use the First Priest's grimoires. He never intended them to be kept secret from those who use the arcane arts. For he thought no one would use them for ill. A surprising thing, considering the evil he performed. But he was so very light of mind when he penned these grimoires. A pity, for one so intelligent. Yet even the most intelligent can lack wisdom." Hurn closed the book with a snap. "How did you come to possess it?"
"Bradir gave it to me. I think he might have killed the real owner."
"How unfortunate. I would have liked to ask them where they found it. Nevertheless, it is more valuable than you can imagine." Hurn handed Alfric the book, although his hand lingered, as though he might snatch it away before Alfric took it.
"I expected only to find mindless skinwalkers, and yet you possess a mind. Eosor will want to hear of this. He is the one who created the wraiths, you know. At least, in their current form. They were once humans, their spirits enslaved at the bottom of the Infernal City, deep within the ravine where the dead give service to the gods."
"I have trouble believing that the thing that shares my body was ever human."
"It is true. They made a deal with the god of beasts, Eosor, so they might escape their eternal punishment. He granted them entry into our mortal realm, merging their spirits with the spirits of beasts, but a deal with the gods always comes with a price." Hurn's pointed gaze at Alfric's fangs made him shift uncomfortably.
"What did Eosor gain in return?" he asked, looking away.
Hurn tilted his head.
"You said the men made a bargain with Eosor. What did he get in return?"
Hurn shrugged. "Even elves do not question a god's motives. Eosor is as far above mortal creatures as we are to the dust of the earth."
"And are we not as far above beasts?" It felt a strange question to ask, especially since Alfric felt more like a beast than a human.
"We? If you mean humans, then you are no longer one of those. But if you mean you and I who have reached beyond the mortal plane, then yes, we are above beasts. I am an elf. I was not human even before Eosor granted me the gift of spirit-melding with an elk spirit." Hurn pressed a finger to his ear. Upon closer inspection, Alfric could see that the ends had been clipped and healed over. "An early sin against me. One I paid back in kind.
"Nevertheless, rational creatures are the tenders of beasts. The gods gave us this responsibility. Tell me, do you think that the people of Indham honored this responsibility when they enslaved the dragons?"
Alfric shook his head. He remembered seeing from afar the glade where the dragon enclosure sat. It had been on his second day of traveling with Sigebert and Cenred to Grimwald. He had felt such pity for the dragons.
"And Indham was not the first to enslave the highest beasts," Hurn continued. "The suppression stones found in the Mikill Mountains were fi
rst used by the world's greatest civilization."
"The First Priest's?"
Hurn laughed dryly. "His was not the greatest. Let that be clear. My sister, Elmyra, was Queen of the First Empire. Knud and his 'empire' was nothing but an imitation that used her downfall as a stepping stone." Hurn's lips drew back in a snarl. He breathed loudly and composed himself. "I stopped my sister from conquering the world, but that does not mean I do not love her. I saw Knud take her glory for his own, and it still perturbs me."
He held out his hand, uttered an incantation, and the tree above him teamed with life. Birds flocked to its branches, squirrels and skylarks chased each other among its leaves, while bears and elk gathered around its mighty trunk. They seemed to have been summoned from thin air, and just as quickly as they had come, they were gone.
"There is an order to things," Hurn said. "But that doesn't mean the lowly should be mistreated."
Alfric agreed with that. He had seen animals treated poorly for most of his life. The worst of it had been Indham's dragon trade. Though he'd never actually seen the dragons being sold, he hated it. He hated that the same creature who saved his life could be enslaved and sent to fight in King Beorhtel's wars.
"There are two men from Indham staying here." Hurn smiled. "Perhaps you'd like to see them?"
"Sigebert and Cenred?" Alfric said.
"They are still here. They have not taken well to my requests, nor my insistence that they not leave. Perhaps you can tell them what I've told you. I tried, but they would not listen to me."
Each day Alfric felt less a man and more a beast. Maybe it would do him good to connect with something from his life in Indham.
Alfric looked at himself in the pool's reflection. His ears had lengthened, the ends now folding over under the weight. Fangs peeked out from beneath an overhanging jaw. His shoulders drooped and his arms hung at his sides. Hair covered all of it.
What might the warriors say when they see me?
19
Fryda
Below the peak of Mount Dragir crowded hundreds of tiled rooftops burned red in the light of sunset. The largest city Fryda had ever seen, and yet she'd never heard of it. None of her lessons with Edoma in the temple library had included this place hidden northwest of Grimwald Forest, shrouded beneath the shadow of Mount Dragir.
Tursn dived down to land at the iron gates separating two guard towers. Giant ballistae, painted black and the quarrel heads barbed, sat on the parapets.
"For dragonkind," Tursn said. "Those who did not take the oath must be kept out somehow. Walls are not very good at keeping dragonkind away."
Fryda's neck hurt from staring up for so long. It was hard to look away. She'd thought Indham's gate was large, but this one could let through thirty carts abreast of each other. The cream-colored stone blocks were at least the size of a cart. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't figure out how anyone had managed to build something so big. There was only one answer—magic.
A slender soldier wearing glittering chainmail stood in front of the iron gates. He hit the butt of his spear on the ground, his chainmail clinking, as they approached. He was, as far as Fryda could tell, the only guard outside the gates.
The guard spun his spear as he stepped toward them, pointing the leaf-shaped blade at Tursn's head. He screamed something in a language Fryda hadn't heard before. Iron clanked above them. The ballistae shifted so that their giant projectiles were pointed at Fryda and the wyverns. The guard's spear suddenly glowed a bright green. The air around the blade crackled with magical energy.
"Show him the dragon soul," Tursn said, nudging Fryda. With one eye on the terrifying soldier, she removed the pendant from her boot. She held it out for the guard to inspect.
His eyes widened. He let up his spear and stepped forward. The pendant’s light shone over his face and revealed pointed ears. He wasn't human at all. This soldier, Fryda realized, was an elf.
The soldier retreated into the gatehouse for a moment, and returned. He peered at Fryda with awe as he called out to the other soldiers hidden on the parapets. The language was harsh yet poetic.
The iron gate lurched upward.
"Go straight to the queen," the soldier said to Fryda in perfect, though accented, Wallan. "She awaits you. No flying inside the city. Walk north until you get to the foot of Mount Dragir. An escort will await you there. Do not tarry. Her Eminence does not have an ample supply of patience."
Fryda walked behind the wyverns as they passed through the gates, the sun disappearing behind the mountain.
Red-tiled rooftops soared above her. The buildings were at once ancient and yet so beyond anything the stonemasons in Indham were capable of constructing. Lanterns in the shape of dragons hung from peak to peak, swaying in the wind as if in flight and illuminating the streets like low-hanging stars. Her boots clicked against the bricks constructed of multicolored stone that flickered with light.
More people like the guard outside milled about, as active in the night as normal people were during the day. Wings jutted from the shoulders of every one of them, and dazzling scales marked their high cheekbones and bare skin. Their white togas hung down to their bare feet. The women's togas plunged to deep necklines, their breasts exposed with only a thin strand covering their nipples.
Tursn and Naeth flicked their heads from left to right, seeming as awed as Fryda. They had said that they'd never been to Dragir. For them, Fryda and the dragon soul was their redemption—their chance to enter a city that had been forbidden to them and their forefathers. That thought came to the forefront of Fryda's mind as she realized that she might never leave Dragir.
The streets were laden with polished statues of a woman with pointed ears and a delicate crown. Beautiful wings, intricately carved, rose out from narrow shoulders. Every statue featured the woman in different poses, so that none were exactly the same. The winged people carried flowers to the statues, bowed, and then rested them on the statues' plinths.
"Who are the winged people?" Fryda asked.
Tursn said, "Drakens. They are the most abominable of Eosor's creations. When Madrem's orb left Dragir, Eosor took ownership of the mountain and the city beneath it. He melded the spirits of men with those of dragons, making the detestable drakens. Neither human nor dragon. The Witch Queen, in her mercy, has chosen to spare them and make them slaves." Tursn bowed to a statue as he made mention of the queen's name.
"The woman is Elmyra?"
"Would I bow to anyone else?"
Fryda thought to ask why the queen had enslaved her own people, but thought otherwise. Tursn seemed to have a zealot's devotion to the queen. Naeth didn't seem to share his reverence for the statues. They passed dozens of them. Tursn bowed his head as he passed each one, but Naeth offered them only cold stares.
As Fryda walked the busy street, she received strange looks from the winged people, though not one said anything. She didn't know whether their silence was borne of business or because two wyverns escorted her. The wyverns, too, received wayward glances.
Hawkers cried out in a foreign tongue as they stood beside pots atop open fires. The smells of a dozen different spices drifted from the canvassed stalls as meat sizzled. The only people buying from the stalls were tall and, Fryda realized, wingless. Silky hair framed unblemished skin. Velvet robes hung on slender frames, fanning at the sleeves. Necklaces fashioned from the finest gold, thin like woven thread, connected with golden jewelry on their long, tear-shaped ears.
Elves.
So the soldier outside hadn't been unique.
A pot clattered to the ground, the stew inside spilling. A hawker roared, thrusting a finger at a draken lying on his back. He must have somehow slipped, taking the pot with him. An elf approached the scene. He took the draken by his toga collar and lifted him to his feet. There was a moment of silence as the elf stared into the draken's eyes. With each passing moment, the golden necklace around the elf's neck grew brighter.
Fryda wanted to separate them, to tell the el
f that it had seemed nothing but an accident, but she could feel Naeth's hot breath against her back, silencing her.
The elf barked a word at the hawker, who quickly grabbed a ladle from one of the pots. The elf took the ladle in hand and held it over the open fire where the spilled pot had once lay. The iron reddened with heat. The elf removed the ladle from the fire and pressed it against the draken's cheek. Hot iron seared into scaled flesh. The draken clenched his eyes shut, but he didn't scream.
The elf announced something to the crowd before going back on his way.
Whoever these ruthless and uncaring elves were, they were nothing like those she'd heard of in stories.
A female draken rushed over to the burned one.
Fryda came to them both. "Do you have water? For his burns?"
The female draken widened her eyes. "You mustn't speak the language of Wallan here." She seemed more concerned about Fryda speaking a forbidden language than the male draken’s burns.
"We must go now," Tursn said. "The queen awaits us."
"Treat his burns with water and dress them with honey," Fryda said to the draken. "You do have honey here, don't you?"
The woman frowned, seeming not to understand.
Before Fryda could explain, Tursn dragged her away. Rather than fight against the wyvern, Fryda submitted. The draken seemed so confused by Fryda's offer of advice. These drakens were a subjugated people after all, treated far worse than the Fatherless of Indham had ever been treated.
"Why do they not fight back?" she asked as she and the wyverns pressed through the throng of people.
"The nornthread prevents it."
Fryda had no time to ask what nornthread was because Tursn unkindly shoved her forward. His claws bit into her back as his wings urged her to move.
The street unfolded into a circular plaza. In its center were a dozen contraptions. Though Fryda couldn't name them, their purpose was clear. Male and female drakens, in various stages of life, were hung, stretched, pierced, and bludgeoned, as nooses tightened, ropes pulled taught, blades sliced, and hammers struck. This was, as far as she could tell, open torture. Though they made their pain known with blood-curdling cries, none of the passersby spared them a second glance.
The Dragon Soul (Vagrant Souls Book 2) Page 13