by Colt, K. J.
Raem smiled grimly. “They are fools . . . but useful fools.”
He tugged his mount’s reins, spiraling down.
Below, the tribesmen shouted and fired arrows.
The deformed bat shrieked and banked, dodging the assault.
“Warriors of Goldtusk!” Raem shouted. He had studied their language as a child, for all children of the Seran royal family spoke the tongues of surrounding lands. “I am Raem. I come from Eteer, a distant land of plenty. I come with gifts.”
Circling above the camp, he opened the sack at his side and spilled its contents. Copper, tin, and bronze coins rained onto the tribe. The warriors below lowered their weapons and knelt. They crawled in the mud like worms, grabbing the coins, baser than hens pecking for seeds.
The deformed bat landed with a hiss, her bones creaking, her eyes weeping. When Raem dismounted, the pathetic creature—perhaps still clinging to some memories of her old, human self—curled up into a ball of skin and jutting bones.
Raem stood upon the hill below the totem pole. As pitiful as his mount was, he was glorious. He wore armor of polished bronze, and a jeweled helm covered his head. A shield bright as the sun hung upon his arm.
The tribesmen—clad in muddy furs, their jewelry mere beads of clay—gasped at Raem’s splendor. A few covered their eyes and whispered prayers. Many knelt and began to chant.
“Raem! Raem! A god of metal!”
Several rocs gathered around, still tethered to posts, and hissed and clacked their beaks. Their talons tore up soil, and their yellow eyes blazed, and wind shrieked into their nostrils. The beasts were larger than his human bat—they dwarfed any one of his demons. The malformed creature, sensing the danger, shrieked and bared her teeth. Her human face—bloated and pale—twisted in a mix of fear and hatred.
My demons are small, Raem thought, stroking the creature. Only human flesh could make demons grow as large as dragons, a price Raem was not willing to pay. He would not feed healthy humans to his demons, for all human life was a gift of Taal—even these barbarians. With his unholy swarm, Raem could perhaps root out the weredragons hiding in Eteer—frightened, weak creatures who lurked in shadows, daring not shift. But to find Laira . . . to find the escarpment where the wild, northern dragons flew . . .
Looking upon the rocs, Raem allowed himself a thin smile.
These ones will kill dragons for me.
“Who leads you?” Raem shouted, an idol of metal, standing above the kneeling tribesmen. “Bring your leader to me.”
The tribesmen below parted. A tall man came limping up the hill, clad in buffalo hides. Here was the chieftain. He wore necklaces of true gold, and a bronze sword hung at his side—not a curved sword like those in Eteer, but a wide, leaf-shaped blade the length of asuch metal man’s forearm. Half the chieftain’s head was burnt away—the ear gone, the eye peering from scars. The wound stretched down his arm and leg.
Dragonfire, Raem knew. Good.
“Are you the one they speak of?” Raem called down to him. “Zerra of Goldtusk?”
The chieftain reached him. The two leaders stared at each other, only a foot apart. While Raem was clean-shaven and bald, a meticulous man, his armor priceless and gleaming, the other—Zerra—was a brute of hair, fur, and grime.
He is a barbarian, Raem thought, but he will serve me well.
“Who are you, man of metal?” Zerra said. Half his mouth faded into scars, and his teeth were yellow.
“A king,” said Raem. “A soldier. A bringer of gifts.”
He pulled the second sack, the larger one, off his demonic bat. It clanked onto the hill, opening up to spill its treasures. Helmets, shields, and bronze daggers clattered into the grass.
The tribesmen gasped. Raem smiled thinly. He saw but a single bronze weapon here; a cache of this much metal would be priceless to this tribe.
Zerra looked down at the treasure, then back at Raem. His eyes narrowed. “Do you style yourself a god?”
Raem smiled thinly. “To you I am. And I will bring you more metal. Spearheads. Arrowheads. Swords. Vases and chalices and a throne to sit on. I will make you a king in the north.”
The chieftain lifted a bronze helmet, sniffed at it, and tossed it aside. He spat. “I am Zerra, Son of Thagar, Chieftain of Goldtusk. I take no gifts from gods or men. I am no beggar.” He drew the bronze sword from his belt. “I take my metal with blood. I slew the warrior who wielded this sword. I did not take it as a gift.”
Raem raised an eyebrow. “That’s not what I hear. They say along the river that Zerra, Son of Thagar, Chieftain of Goldtusk, was once a humble villager living in a clay hut. They say his brother, a blacksmith, forged this sword for him—a gift of love, not a trophy of battle. They say this brother is a weredragon, that he leads a clan of weredragons, and they say, Zerra . . . they say you fear him.”
Half of Zerra’s face, leathery and stubbly, flushed a deep crimson. The other half, a ruin of scars, twitched. He raised his sword and his fist trembled.
“I do not ask you to accept these gifts without a fight, chieftain,” Raem said calmly. “But I am not your enemy. It is not me you should fight.”
Zerra stared into Raem’s eyes, his gaze judging, dangerous, seeking. Finally he grunted.
“Follow,” the chieftain said and began walking downhill.
They approached his tent. The buffalo hides were painted with scenes of hunters and bison. When they stepped inside, Raem found lion pelts upon the ground, a crackling fire in the center, and statuettes of voluptuous women—their hips wide, their breasts hanging low—carved of stone. A living woman lay upon a rug, not as luscious but attractive enough, her breasts painted with blue rings, her thighs red with bite marks. Zerra sent her fleeing the tent with a kick.
“You speak dangerous words, stranger,” said Zerra. He limped toward the campfire, pulled out a burning stick, and extinguished it inside his burnt hand, perhaps an attempt to impress his guest. He waved the smoking branch. “Why are you here?”
Raem lifted one of the female figurines. He caressed the stone form, remembering his wife. It had been years since he’d seen Anai, since he had caressed her body like this. He had caught his wife shifting, and she had fled him to these northern lands, to this very tribe, her reptile spawn Laira with her.
“Two weredragons traveled with you,” Raem said. “A woman named Anai. A child named Laira. The woman was my wife, the child my daughter.”
Zerra barked a laugh, a horrible sound. “I bedded them both. Here in this tent. The child was particularly willing. Thrust right into her, nearly broke her. The poor thing screamed.”
Raem placed down the statuette and frowned. The chieftain stared at him, mocking, caressing his sword.
He’s goading me, Raem thought, refusing to take the bait.
“If you catch Laira again,” Raem said, “you may bed her as much as you please, so long as you give her to me once she’s worn out. Then she would be mine to torment.”
The chieftain smirked and tossed another branch into the fire. “Your wife is dead. I killed her myself. The maggot child escaped.”
Raem raised an eyebrow. “And you are such a mighty warrior that you cannot capture her? The whole north is speaking of this . . . escarpment. Of this canyon in the stone, a network of caves of some sort. They say it’s a fortress.” Raem snorted. “And they say you fear to fly there.”
Zerra spun toward him, enraged. He drew another flaming branch and waved it. “I fear nothing! Nothing, metal man. The rocs refuse to fly there; the birds are cowardly. You claim to be some king? Fly there yourself. Fly upon that malformed demon of yours. The escarpment is swarming with the reptiles.”
“My bat is swift but small, barely larger than a mule. Your rocs are larger than dragons. Do you want more treasures of bronze? Then you will get your rocs to fly.” Raem clutched the man’s shoulder and sneered. “I will make you a king in the north, but first you will slay dragons for me.”
Zerra stood very still, staring, the b
urning branch still clutched in his hand. The flames were licking his wrist, but he would not drop the stick.
“Two hundred spears tipped with bronze,” the chieftain said. “Two hundred swords and ten thousand arrows. A breastplate and helm for every warrior in my army, chalices for them all to drink from, and plates inlaid with jewels. And you will send me three smiths and a hundred miners, so that we may forge the metal on our own. That is my price to you. Promise me these things, and I will slay the dragons for you, all but Laira. She will be mine to break, then yours to keep.”
The man is greedy, Raem thought. The man is cruel. This is exactly the man I need.
He nodded. “They will be yours.” He turned to leave, walked toward the tent door, then froze and looked over his shoulder. “Is it true, then? That your brother is a weredragon?”
The chieftain grinned horribly, displaying his rotting teeth. “Twin brother. I will kill him last . . . and slowest.”
Raem turned to leave again. This time Zerra’s words stopped him.
“And is what I hear true as well?” the chieftain called out. “That your own son, your heir and prince, is one of the diseased creatures?”
Raem’s throat tightened. He clenched his jaw. He looked back at the chieftain and found the man smirking.
“Concern yourself with my daughter, not my son, barbarian. He is mine to deal with; she will be yours.”
With that, Raem stepped outside the tent, stood in the wind and mist, and felt the old rage, fear, and sickness rise inside him. He craved. He needed the release.
He needed to become the reptile.
The urge nearly blinding him, he approached his demon. He mounted the creature, spurred her flanks, and soared into the sky. As he left the tribe far below, he realized he was digging his fingernails into his palms. The blood dripped down his arms and Raem narrowed his eyes and prayed to his god.
TANIN
TANIN WALKED THROUGH THE CITY of stone, seeing demons everywhere.
“By the stars, Tanin,” Maev whispered, walking beside him. His gruff, golden-haired sister clutched her bronze sword under her fur cloak. “This place is as haunted as your undergarments.” She sniffed and wrinkled her nose. “Smells as bad too.”
Tanin scowled. “This is no time for your jokes. Keep both eyes wide open. We’re looking for Vir Requis.”
She thrust out her bottom lip, looking around her. “So are about a thousand demons.”
The creatures flew above, cackling and beating insect wings. They laughed upon palm trees and domed roofs. They ran through the streets, chasing women, pawing and groping and tearing off garments. Some creatures were small, no larger than cats, scuttling little things on crab legs. Others were as large as horses—some scaled, some bloated, some creatures of bones and horns, others balls of slime.
“Dragons, we seek dragons!” they chanted.
The city must have once been beautiful, Tanin thought—a place of marvel such as he’d never seen. Cobbled roads stretched between houses—real houses of stone, several stories tall and topped with domes, not simple clay huts like men built across the sea. Palm trees, fig trees, and flowers grew along the streets, and bronze statues stood in city squares, shaped as winged bulls. Far ahead, past a hundred streets and countless homes, rose a palace, a building that Tanin knew nobody in the north would believe could exist. Columns lined its walls, blue and gold, and lush gardens grew on its roof.
Whoever had built this city had created a wonder, but today this was a place of rot. Demon drool covered the cobblestones and blood stained the walls. Several corpses lay strewn across the street, torn apart. Demons were feasting upon the entrails.
“Dragons, we seek dragons!” they chanted, sniffing, moving from street to street. They spoke in many tongues; Tanin could understand his own language and make out several others.
“I guess flying is out of the question,” Tanin muttered.
Maev grabbed his arm and pointed. “Look, past that dome! A tower. The stories say the prince is kept in a tower. Let’s grab the boy and get out of this place.” She walked by a dead monkey—demon teeth marks could be seen upon it—and shivered. “I want to go home.”
Tanin grinned bitterly. “What happened to Maev the Brave, the girl who spent years boasting of being an explorer, an adventurer, a heroine?”
She gave him a withering glare. “Say another word and that girl will plant her foot so deep up your backside, you’ll be able to bite her toes.” She tugged him along. “Now come on, you stupid lump of a brother.”
They kept walking, moving down a cobbled road lined with wineshops. Soon they reached a palisade of columns, each rising taller than oaks. Their capitals were shaped as silver men, their heads lowered, their arms hanging at their sides, the palms facing outward. Beyond the columns spread a wide boulevard, its flagstones smooth and polished. A procession was moving down the road. Priests walked at its lead, clad in white, swinging pots of incense. One priest held a clay tablet engraved with cuneiform writing; he sang out the words. Behind them moved seven bulls, tugging a great chariot of wood and metal. Upon the chariot rose a great statue of the same slender, silver man, his palms open, his head lowered.
“Taal!” chanted city folk, kneeling on the roadside as the procession passed by. “Taal!”
The demons swarmed above, hissing with hatred, sneering, spitting. Yet they dared not approach the procession, and when the smoke of the incense wafted near them, they fled with shrieks.
“This city’s in the middle of a bloody war,” Maev said, peering from behind a column. “Taal must be their god, the slender silver man.”
“And the demons aren’t too fond of him.” Tanin winced to see one of the creatures scuttle by, dripping rot. The procession was moving directly ahead now; the demons fled like water from the prow of an advancing ship.
Maev seemed unusually subdued. She spoke softly. “These demons are hunting dragons. You heard them. There might be many more Vir Requis in this city, not just the prince. I think these demons are Eteer’s bloodhounds; hunters.” She shook her head. “By the stars, Tanin. What have we found here?”
He squared his jaw, watching the last priest move by, his cloud of incense lingering like a wake. “A place I want to leave. Now let’s race to that tower, free your paramour, and go home.”
Gripping his sword, he was about to step out onto the boulevard when several voices rose in the alley behind him.
“Weredragons . . .”
Tanin spun around and felt himself pale.
“Bloody stars,” Maev muttered and drew her sword. The doubled-edged blade—as wide and long as her forearm—gleamed in the sunlight.
A demon lurked in the alleyway, a creature of many human heads strung together like a string of beads. The unholy strand rose like a cobra about to strike, taller than Tanin. Each of the heads leered, full of sharp teeth. They all spoke together.
“We smell weredragons. Comrades! Comrades, come to feast!”
A dozen demons appeared upon the surrounding roofs—great winged insects, hooks and blades growing from their bodies. When Tanin heard a wet slush behind him, he turned to see a towering blob, dripping and sprouting hair, crawl forward to block the alley’s exit. Tanin could see mice, two cats, and a dog trapped within the translucent jelly, still alive and writhing.
“Weredragons!” the creatures cried.
Tanin sliced the air with his dagger. “Don’t shift,” he told his sister. “We’ll fight them off with blades. If we blow fire, the entire city will see.”
She snarled and raised her own blade. “I don’t need to shift to kill these buggers.” She spat toward the string of heads. “Come to me, darling, and taste my blade.”
The ring of demons tightened around them. They leaped from the roofs, landing before them. Trapped in a circle of rot, the siblings swung their blades, prepared to kill or die.
A high voice rose, piercing the alleyway, pure and strong.
Light flowed.
The dem
ons hissed and cowered.
The voice rose higher. Tanin could not see its source, nor could he understand the words. The voice spoke in the tongue of Eteer; Tanin understood only the word “Taal” repeated twice.
The demons wailed. The creature with many heads retreated, coiling into a doorway. The winged beasts fluttered off, vanishing over the roofs. The blob slithered away, leaving a trail of slime. The pure, white light filled the alleyway, blinding them. Tanin and Maev shielded their eyes with their palms, blinking and trying to see.
Through the glare, Tanin could discern a figure walking forth, clad in white. It looked like a ghost or goddess of starlight.
The light slowly faded, revealing the figure. She was a young woman, a few years younger than him, clad in a white tunic hemmed in gold. Her eyes were large and green, and a black braid hung across her shoulder, tied with a golden ribbon. A headdress of golden olive leaves and topaz gemstones crowned her head. The light seemed to come from an amulet that hung around her neck. When she tucked the talisman under her tunic, the last rays faded, leaving only sunlight to fall into the alleyway. The noon sun blazed overhead, yet its light seemed dull after the splendor Tanin had seen.
The young woman stared at them, eyes widening. When she spoke again, she spoke in their tongue, her accent thick.
“You are northerners?” She looked down at their fur cloaks, then back up at their faces. “From across the sea?”
Maev growled. “How dare you banish those demons? I was going to slice them all. I was going to pummel them into mush. I was—“
“Maev, for pity’s sake!” Tanin interjected. He shoved down his sister’s blade and turned back toward the young woman.
By the stars, he thought. She’s . . . She’s . . . well, she’s beautiful.
A strange tingling filled his blood. For many years of hiding in the canyon, dreaming of Ciana’s face over and over, Tanin rarely talked to women—aside from his sister, whom he often wished to bury under a boulder. At the sight of this stranger, he suddenly felt awkward, too tall and gangly. His eyes strayed down to her body, which was slim and pressed against her tunic, and he quickly looked away, feeling even more self-conscious.