When Dragons Die- The Complete Trilogy Box Set

by K. Scott Lewis

  “It was through this that you came,” the Matriarch snapped, pointing to Kallanista on one of the maps. “And it was through you that the psyche of my people are wounded and our druids lost to us. I will make sure we are never deceived again!”

  “The ratlings have never done you harm,” Aradma argued. “They are innocents in this! They do not deserve your wrath! I do!”

  “The ways of Athra are unnatural,” the Matriarch seethed. “Ratlings were made by a man. Their city was made by a man. You betrayed me for a man. Kallanista is a city; it is a crime against nature.”

  “The spider builds a web,” she pleaded, appealing to the Matriarch’s reason. “The bird builds a nest. The troll builds a village. The ratling builds a city. It is all natural.”

  The Matriarch shrieked, “They are a scar, a scab on the land. The jungle will reclaim the island!”

  Anger finally took Aradma. “You pitiful creature. You claim to worship nature, but you are nothing more than a petty-minded, frightened hypocrite. You disgust me.” She immediately regretted the venom of her words, but she could not unsay what had been said.

  The Matriarch screamed and grabbed a runestone from her belt. She thrust it towards the elf. Two other priestesses did the same, and three golden beams of light shot forth, binding the seelie’s body with stiffened air.

  Aradma knew then that the Matriarch could not be saved. If she had a lifetime, maybe, but she would not sacrifice everything to live only for the sake of this woman. Others depended on her. In her mind’s eye, she saw again the great network of divine webs that had formed the goddess of her vision bind the trolls together and coalesce like a crown on the Matriarch’s head. The vision faded.

  The Matriarch drew a black dagger. “Your blood will cleanse my heart,” she hissed.

  Aradma couldn’t move her body, but the trolls couldn’t touch her spirit. She reached out and connected to the great life force pulsing through the jungle and its soil.

  A thick root sprouted from the ceiling and fell like lightning, shattering the Obsidian Throne with a loud crack. Green vines broke through the obsidian floor, sundering its reflective tranquility. They grew thick and wrapped themselves around the priestesses, holding them in the air and binding them in place. The vines twisted the captured trolls’ wrists until they each dropped their runestones.

  Freed from their magic, Aradma stood unhindered before them. She walked up to the Matriarch and stopped six inches from her face. The Matriarch seethed.

  “You worship a false goddess of lies as the mother of nature,” Aradma said. “And for it, you bind yourselves in ways that are an abomination against life itself. Life is organic, and your war against sex is a sin against the world that brought you into being. If you want to heal your people, free your love for your men.”

  “But I don’t want men!” the Matriarch hissed.

  Aradma threw up her hands, exasperated. “Then love women, if that is your nature. But do not prevent others from following their hearts. Let life guide you! Let life guide them!”

  “I will see you unmade,” the Matriarch vowed. “You and all your light elves.”

  A single tear dropped from Aradma’s eyes, mirroring in that moment a single tear from the Matriarch’s. Aradma felt the Matriarch’s pain, and it doubled her own, heightened by her love for the woman. She kissed the Matriarch’s forehead.

  “I will miss you,” she told the troll. “May we meet in happier times, and if not then, may we be reunited as sisters in the afterlife.”

  She left them there, assuming her cat form and moving through the halls invisibly until she came under open sky. Then she flew as the falcon and returned to her companions.

  “You were right,” Aradma told Odoune when she rejoined her companions. “She would not see reason.”

  “She did not come to where she is by reason,” Odoune replied. “Reason alone will not free her from it.”

  “There is no time now, in any case,” Aradma said. “She means to attack Kallanista, and soon. We must warn them.”

  “I will leave you now,” Odoune responded. “My people are not yet ready to fight the Vemnai. We must find ourselves first, and then we will try to heal the rest of the Vemnai. You are on your own for this.”

  Aradma nodded. “I understand. I wish you well with your people.”

  Tiberan interjected, “Odoune, not all are completely under the Matriarch’s sway. Some are ready to turn with the right prodding. Look to Couraime. There, I believe, you may find a friend.”

  Odoune placed his hand on Tiberan’s shoulder. “Thank you, chal. In another life, in another time, you and I could be house-brothers, I think.”

  With that, Odoune became the owl. He spread his wings and flapped, launching himself into the air receding to a small speck in the sky as he flew north.

  “I can get there quickly,” Aradma said, turning to Tiberan and Suleima. “Kallanista needs to be warned so they can prepare. Suleima, do you know the way? Can you guide Tiberan there?”

  Suleima nodded.

  “Go!” Tiberan said. “We will follow you and faster than you think.”

  Aradma nodded. “When you get there, ask for Yinkle or Rajamin. They know me.”

  She turned west and ran two steps before she jumped into the air. Then she was the falcon and flew high over the treetops, leaving her companions behind. She offered a silent prayer to Ahmbren itself—in the absence of trusting any god—that Tiberan make it safely, and they might meet again.

  THRUM!

  Aradma soared higher, hoping to catch a faster wind stream to race her back to the ratling city.

  West.

  THRUM!

  Artalon.

  THRUM!

  21 - The Battle for Kallanista

  Aradma flew to Rajamin’s house, high in the wooden port city, its location still clear in her memory from her previous visit. She alighted on the banister of his front porch.

  The door opened, and Rajamin stepped out, looking curiously at the white falcon.

  She shifted into elven form, and his black rodent eyes widened even more, whiskers twitching. “Oh my!” he exclaimed. “This is altogether unexpected.”

  “The trolls are coming!” Aradma blurted out. “Sound the alarm! They intend to kill you all!”

  “What what?!” he sputtered. “That’s unlikely. Slow down, say that again?”

  “The Matriarch plans to invade Kallanista,” Aradma said again, this time calming her voice. “I don’t know how long it will take before they arrive—a few weeks, maybe. She’s gone mad.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  Aradma knelt so she was eye-level with the old ratling and placed her hands on his shoulders. “Rajamin, I have been in the Matriarch’s inner council. I know her secrets and the way she thinks. Trust me when I tell you she intends to burn Kallanista to the ground. She intends to purge all signs of civilization from Vemnai as her culmination of Rin’s crusade against Athra.”

  Rajamin’s whiskers trembled. “I believe you. You caught me just in time. I was heading to the city council anyway—a few moments later and you would have missed me. Follow me!” He pointed his right finger dramatically to the sky, and then he scurried off.

  * * *

  Rajamin was respected in Kallanista’s council, even though he was a man of faith. He was also a shrewd businessman, and ratlings respected his success in building wealth. So when he appeared before them with the strange light elf and warned that the Matriarch intended to invade, they took him seriously.

  They dispatched fast sailing airships, tiny zeppelins equipped with powerful spyglasses, crewed by three ratlings each. Guided by Aradma, flying ahead of them on feathered wings, the scout ships confirmed the trolls of the Vemnai had mobilized, brandishing rifles not of ratling make.

  When they returned with confirmation, the city transformed. Most trolls fled, but a few remained to defend their homes and friends. The humans and wolven of the city, though few there were, also took up arms wi
th their ratling brothers and sisters.

  Captain Cory Piper, a ratling tactician of some renown, took command of the regular reserves, and they took their posts within the bridgework, with guns and watchmen trained on the trails.

  By the time Tiberan arrived a week later, riding atop a tyrannosaur with a troll woman behind him holding onto his waist and a tiger following behind, a thousand guns pointed down upon the unlikely party.

  The tyrannosaur eyed the ratlings with worry, but it came to a stop and made no fuss. Yinkle ran out the front gates waving her arms, squeaking at the top of her high-pitched voice, “DON’T SHOOT, DON’T SHOOT!”

  She skidded to a stop in front of the tyrannosaur, as if suddenly realizing what it was she ran towards and noticing the very interested gleam in the great predator’s eyes as this little morsel ran straight up to it.

  Instead, the tyrannosaur stooped low to the ground, allowing Tiberan and Suleima to slide off. The dinosaur then turned and departed back into the jungle, but not before passing another interested look at all the little ratlings so close and a subsequent stern look from Tiberan.

  “Welcome to our city!” Yinkle flourished, bowing low. “A place of wonder and excitement and an army of cornered rats!”

  * * *

  It was evening, and the companions gathered for dinner after a long day of preparations. Rajamin had found and hung hammocks for all of them to stay at his house. After the meal, Suleima lay in her hammock near the table, staring up into space.

  Aradma sat across from Tiberan. She still heard the great thrumming noise from time to time, and she was sure he must as well. She couldn’t help but look at him when he spoke. He was so commanding, untamed and controlled at the same time. She wanted nothing more than to run her fingers through his beard and hair. She forced herself to look away, tossing her bangs with her fingers and trying to hide a blush that brought her cheeks from silver to light lavender.

  Aradma turned to Rajamin. “What do you know of Rin?” she asked.

  Rajamin eyed her curiously. “I suppose you ask because I am a priest.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “My creed is Old Archurionite,” he said. “Before the Shadowlord corrupted the Church into what it is today—the monotheistic cult of Karanos.”

  When she didn’t add anything, he continued, “The gods work because all the gods are worshipped. They balance each other. At least, the good ones do.”

  “Is Rin good?”

  “Good might be a stretch, but she is certainly not evil,” he said. “The balance between her and Athra might be tenuous at times. Rivals, yes. Enemies, no.”

  “But the Matriarch—”

  “The Matriarch is steeped in backwater superstition,” he snorted. “Tell me. How does one test a god?”

  “I—I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I mean, if a god appeared before you in a flash of light commanding might and glory, how do you know that being is the god he or she claims to be?”

  “ …I don’t know.”

  “Exactly. Nor would you think to challenge it. If there’s enough flashy awesomeness, then you’re going to sit and listen to them. Probably even worship. Especially when that god tells you what you want to hear. When that god approves of your beliefs.”

  “Huh.”

  “And maybe that’s the test,” Rajamin said. “When a god doesn’t challenge you to be better than you are. When the god validates how you already want to think of yourself and the world around you, maybe that’s when it’s not a god.”

  “If not a god, then what?”

  “Demon.”

  A sharp intake of breath came from Suleima.

  Rajamin turned to her. “I’m sorry, lady. This must be difficult for you to hear. I’m not saying your Rin is a demon. I’m saying I don’t know. But the Rin I do know is part of the balance, one among the Pantheon of the Light—not this mad personage your people worship.”

  Suleima sat up in her hammock, putting her legs over the side. “It is hard to hear,” she acknowledged, “but I remind myself—I left that life behind. But all my life, it’s how I’ve seen the world—through Rin’s teachings.”

  “Through the Matriarch’s teachings,” Yinkle chimed in. “And not just this Matriarch, but the line going back to the first. Maybe in the fullness of the pantheon, Rin is not how she teaches, but holds a place alongside the rest of the gods.”

  Suleima nodded. “I would like to learn of all the gods,” she said.

  Rajamin smiled. “I can help you find the Rin of balance.”

  “So wait,” Aradma said. “Rajamin, if I’m hearing you correctly, you’re saying we have to be skeptical of the gods, even your gods?” She liked this refreshing change from the Matriarch’s zeal.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Rajamin said. “Not the gods themselves—I have faith in them. But in all manner of manifestations and apparitions. I worship the ideals that the myth cycles of the gods teach us—the moral code for us to live in honor and righteousness. Such worship grants me power. But I’m suspicious of anyone who’s claimed to see the gods or anything that claims to be a god. There are just too many alternatives.”

  “Attaris was a runewarden,” Aradma mused. “To the Storm Lord.”

  “Attaris?” Yinkle asked.

  “A friend. The dwarf who found me.”

  “Ah.”

  “Within the borders of Artalon?” Rajamin queried. “I thought they were all rooted out.”

  “In Windbowl,” Aradma said. “Artalon never conquered it. Why, I don’t know.”

  Rajamin’s eyes twinkled. “That was the Shadowlord’s homeland. Maybe he couldn’t bring himself to inflict the fate of the Empire on his own home?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “This is all very interesting,” Tiberan interrupted. Aradma thought what he meant to add was—which means, not interesting at all. Instead, he changed the subject. “But we have more pressing matters. A troll army descends upon us, and we need to get off of Vemnai.”

  How to answer Artalon’s call. Yes, that was the unspoken question, Aradma thought. The nagging urge to travel west was still with her, reinforced every time they heard the call again, and she imagined it itched at Tiberan as well. To go there would take them through the heart of the Empire, which, by all accounts, would be even more dangerous than the Vemnai. From one fanatical monotheism to another, and the worship of the God-King dwarfed the zeal of the Vemnai a million times over.

  “After the battle we can worry about that,” Rajamin said. “Right now, we need all our strength here to defend our city. All our craft are committed. There are no ways off of Vemnai without us, so you’re stuck here for now.”

  Tiberan nodded.

  “I suggest we get sleep,” Aradma said, “while there is still opportunity for it. Those on watch will alert the city should our enemy approach.”

  One by one they retired to their hammocks, sleeping to a silence filled only by the ticking of Rajamin’s wall clock.

  A quarter before four in the morning they were awakened by the ringing clangor of bells and ratlings shouting, “To arms! To arms! The enemy is here!”

  They quickly gathered their weapons and left the house, making their way to the outer walls and bridges. Torchlight spread through the jungle in waves, all descending on the city. Trolls carrying guns gathered at the edge of the forest, under the protection of the trees.

  Captain Piper kept moving back and forth atop the overwatch to the main gate, anxiously awaiting the troll commander who would parlay. But none came.

  The Kallanistan fleet hovered overhead, awaiting orders.

  “This is madness,” Yinkle muttered. “Even if they win, at what cost to their own people?”

  “The heart of the Vemnai has been steeped in madness for thousands of years,” Aradma answered. “Today it will prove their undoing.”

  Yinkle frowned. “Maybe. Our city is no fortress. We can’t withdraw behind walls that don’t burn.”

 
Aradma looked again at the city and saw Yinkle was right. Lines of ratlings had gathered on bridges and in towers. The towers provided some cover, and the platforms had intermittent walls that had been built for other purposes. Most of the gunmen on the bridges were exposed. The ground had a short wall around it, only two stories in height—and it was wood, not stone. They could slow down an onslaught of enemy forces, but fire would ultimately prevail against them. Despite their lack of siege engines, the trolls were not limited to rifles and spears—they had fire and magic. The people of Kallanista could not afford to hunker down for a long siege.

  The lines of ratlings formed on the walls and bridges. They did not wear armor, favoring the harnesses they wore every day. They relied on pure skill with sabers and firearms, both pistols and rifles.

  Echoing Aradma’s thoughts, Yinkle said, “It will be a race to see if we can exhaust their willingness to pay in blood before they burn the city.”

  Captain Piper stood on a bridge expanse in front of and beneath where Aradma and her companions stood, continuing to give orders to his men, moving excesses from the bridges to the ground behind the gates.

  A whizzing sound zinged sharply past Aradma’s ear, and a ratling to her left fell off the bridge, dead before he hit the ground. Other ratlings started falling as well.

  “Keep your head down,” Tiberan said, pulling Aradma to her knees behind the wall, such as it was. “They are accomplished marksmen.”

  “Give them hell!” Captain Piper shouted, and the ratlings returned fire.

  The gunships descended, aiming their cannons into the foliage. They fired volley after indiscriminate volley into the leaves, carpeting the place with heavy steel. Troll gunfire stopped as they scrambled to escape the death from above.

  “Now!” Captain Piper squeaked, and a ratling to his left sounded the bugle. He had drawn the same conclusions as Yinkle. “We will not sit here like rats in a barrel, waiting to be roasted!” The gates opened, and squads poured out, mostly comprised of ratlings with rifles, but a few humans, orcs, and trolls manned the ranks as well. The enemy picked the trolls off first and then moved to the humans and orcs as easier targets. Through it all, the swarm of armed rats reached the jungle, the enemy’s initial wave having been decimated by cannon fire.