When Dragons Die- The Complete Trilogy Box Set

by K. Scott Lewis

  The air grew cooler with the arrival of October. By the end of the month the rains had come, and it went from cool to downright chilly. By now Aradma wore the thicker cloaks and gowns of Artalon to keep herself warm, having abandoned the jungle garb of the Vemnai. She found walking and moving awkward with her grown belly. Every time the little life within her moved or kicked, her heart surged with a tiny thrill.

  She and Eszhira walked side by side through the evening streets. A cold misting of rain fell, moistening their cheeks, and the air was chill enough that their breathing formed into little puffs as they talked. By now, the streets were safe. The crime guilds had receded into the background, and order had been restored to the city. Under Rajamin and Suleima’s leadership, and the stability that Pavlin’s forces provided, people had even started to re-inhabit the towers, cleaning them level by level.

  Aradma did not involve herself in the affairs of Artalon’s people. She left that to Rajamin and the former Templars to oversee recovery and rebuilding of their society. Her main focus was her own people. As long as they were allowed to live in peace, she was satisfied.

  “How are you doing?” Aradma asked Eszhira. She could sense the notes in her soul well enough, but connections and friendships were maintained by conversing, not by keeping silent. “Your arrival in Ahmbren was more traumatic than most.”

  Eszhira smiled. “Thanks to Kristafrost, I’m well. Kristafrost—and you. All our people owe you a debt of gratitude.”

  Aradma shook her head, uncomfortable with the praise. “It’s nothing,” she said. “I just offer what I can.”

  “It’s not just your healing,” Eszhira said. “It’s your leadership. You’ve taken the time to know each of us. You care.”

  “Well, thank you,” Aradma accepted the compliment.

  “I’m glad that we were able to find Jorey’s son,” Eszhira reflected.

  “There has been too much loss. I’m happy for them as well.” She cradled her belly in her hands.

  Eszhira noticed. “How are you doing?”

  “I sick up every now and again, but that’s not so bad anymore. She’s moving a lot now.”

  “That’s wonderful!”

  Aradma stopped for a moment. “You know, I’m not sure where we are now. We seem to have wandered.”

  “Yes, I suppose we have. Back this way, I think.”

  “You know what would make this city look better?”

  “What?”

  “Trees. Maybe I—”

  Something hit Eszhira in the head, and she fell to the ground. Aradma started, but a projectile also thunked her in the back of her skull, knocking her unconscious.

  Aradma awoke with a splitting headache. The first thought was for her baby, but she couldn’t reach her belly. Her wrists were bound in chains, holding her arms high above her head. They bled from under the biting iron edges of tightly locked manacles. Her ankles were similarly bound. She hung suspended from her limbs between ceiling and floor, just high enough that her toes touched the ground. She panicked for a moment, but then relaxed somewhat when she felt the baby kick.

  “Naughty little whore,” she heard a man mutter, and then a grunt of pain in response. Eszhira.

  Aradma craned her head and saw Eszhira similarly bound and bleeding. A muscular, bald-headed man kicked her. He didn’t want them dead, Aradma realized. The knife at his belt was sheathed.

  “Did you really think you could get away?” he asked, kicking her again. Eszhira hung limply forward, her body weight pulling her wrists into the sharp manacles. Faintly luminescent green blood trickled down her arms.

  “You must be Skole,” Aradma calmly said. “Do not touch her again.”

  The man whirled. “Stupid cunt,” he growled. “You’re in no position to make demands.”

  He left Eszhira as she hung by her chains and came to stand in front of Aradma. He looked up at her.

  “I know what you two need,” he grinned.

  Then he left.

  “Oh, Aradma, I’m so sorry,” Eszhira trembled in despair.

  “Do not give up hope,” Aradma told her. “Where are we?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a stone room. I don’t recognize it.”

  There were no windows. Two torches burned in sconces beside an iron-reinforced door.

  “A dungeon,” Aradma said. “Below ground.”

  “Then we’re not in Artalon, I don’t think. You can’t dig too far in the city. Valkrage told me there was metal beneath the streets.”

  “Indeed.”

  The door opened again, and he returned with a small leather wineskin.

  “You’ll remember this,” he said, and walked directly back to Eszhira.

  “NO!” she screamed.

  He clasped his hand over her nose and squirted a milky white fluid into her mouth until she couldn’t help but swallow. Then she sobbed, “No, no, no, no.”

  He stood back and waited expectantly. Eszhira’s look of venom melted away into a contented smile, and she started to giggle. “Oooooh,” she sighed. Her body markings disappeared from her gray skin.

  “There,” he gloated smugly. He turned to Aradma. “And now I’ll have two whores.”

  He approached her and did the same, forcing the white fluid down her throat.

  Aradma’s eyes widened in fear after she swallowed, but only for a moment. She smiled. And then laughed.

  At first Skole regarded her with arrogant delight. Then his eyes narrowed in a frown. She wasn’t giggling like Eszhira, nor did she laugh in pleasure.

  She laughed at him.

  This poison was from a plant. A flower, specifically. Ahmbren’s flora was Aradma’s domain. She felt the fluid in her mind, knowing its essence. She concentrated, and the inner alchemy of her Dragon soul transformed the fluid into harmless fruit sugar, protecting both her and her unborn child within her from its poison.

  “You fool,” she said when she could breathe again. “You think to bind me with the power of nature?”

  He stared at her for a moment and then scowled. “There are other ways to subdue you,” he stepped forward and touched her belly, “if you value what grows inside you.” He balled his fist and punched her belly.

  Aradma convulsed, belly clenching as she tried to curl up unsuccessfully against the chains, grunting in pain. She went cold inside. “You are a dead man,” she said.

  “What, you think you can break your chains and kill me?” he laughed. “I hold the power here!”

  “No, you are mistaken,” she answered calmly. “First, she will kill you, and then I will break my bonds.”

  He whirled to look at Eszhira, but the dark-haired woman was still bound.

  “You’re mad!” he laughed, nervously this time. Then without warning he unsheathed his knife and slashed a deep line horizontally across the right side of Aradma’s belly. “For Malahkma!”

  Aradma screamed the savage growl of a cat. She saw the strange gold matrix of light glimmer on his blade and from her wound. She thrashed in the chains, flailing against her bonds and cutting her wrists and ankles on the iron manacles. Skole stepped back in uncertainty at the inhuman screech of anger and terror that uttered forth from her throat.

  Arrogant fool! So proud and certain of yourself you are, and yet with a flick of a blade you would be powerless to save your child’s life! It is not your power that saved your child, but a mere accident of his own miscalculation that he didn’t cut deeper. She didn’t know whether the voice in her head was Fae, Dragon, or her own. It felt like all three.

  Aradma’s eyes flashed brightly, the green light overshadowing her irises and pupils. She stretched her legs and her toes touched the floor. Grass sprouted from around the rock flagstones and spread in a soft green carpet. Thick tree roots broke through the stone walls and floors, spilling earth across the room. Thorny vines snaked around Skole, constricting his limbs and biting into his skin. They lifted him off the ground.

  “Bitch!” he screamed. He struggled, and the first set of v
ines broke. He fell to the floor with murder in his eyes, but Aradma was nowhere near finished.

  Another set of vines grew up, thicker this time, and bound him again. He sputtered in rage. Tendrils of wood grew through her chains and thickened, breaking their links. She fell to the grassy floor. She could not shift into the leopard, but she stood before him, strengthening the bonds holding him. She held a rigid grass rope in her hands and thought to plunge it into his throat.

  But she calmed herself, remembering her promise to him. She turned her attention to Eszhira. Vines grew around her friend, snaking in between the chain links. The wood grew thick until the chains snapped free. The dark-haired elf fell to the floor on a soft bed of thick grass and moss.

  Aradma reflected on the essence of the poisonous Malahkma’s Milk that she had consumed. From knowing it, she understood its opposite. A large flower grew in front of her with great pink and red petals. The petals closed, darkened into green leaves, and then opened to reveal a round red fruit.

  “Eszhira,” Aradma said. “Eat of this fruit. It will set you free.”

  Eszhira giggled and reached for it, plucking it off the vine. She bit into it and sucked its juices. The meat inside was bright pink. Clear fluid dribbled around her fingers and off her chin. She consumed the antidote and cast away the pit. It worked its magic, neutralizing the poison in Eszhira’s veins, restoring the damage to her cells done by the milk. Eszhira’s funny grin vanished and the giggling stopped. The dark whorls of her body markings returned to their balanced shapes.

  She stood, eyeing Skole with deadly malice.

  “No, no!” Skole pleaded, realizing that his life now hung in the hands of these two women. “Please, let me go.”

  Eszhira stood before him.

  Aradma summoned another vine. It grew up beside Eszhira and formed a long, bladed thorn at its tip. It presented itself to her.

  Eszhira took the thorn at its base and easily snapped it from the stem.

  “No, no,” Skole cried out again. “I’ll go far away from here!” His voice rose to a frantic scream. “I promise! I swear!”

  Aradma watched in satisfaction as Eszhira plunged the dagger-like thorn into the man’s stomach, ripping upwards so that his innards spilled on the floor before the point found his heart.

  He gurgled a hissing, sputtering sound as his body relaxed. “Malahkma’s curse be upon you all,” he whispered with his last breath. His eyelids grew limp, and his head lagged and fell to his shoulder as he died.

  Eszhira retrieved a key from Skole’s pocket to unbind their manacles. Aradma took Eszhira’s hands in hers, healing her friend’s cuts and bruises by the power of the green light. She then turned its healing energies upon herself. The wounds on her wrists and ankles vanished, but the slice on her belly would not close. A glimmer of gold light still sparkled at the torn edges of her flesh, as if fighting the green healing energy.

  The door opened, and two of Malahkma’s guards rushed in. An instant later they were pinned to the walls, impaled on sharp vines.

  Aradma felt weak in the knees. Eszhira took Skole’s dagger and cut off a swath of cloth, creating a makeshift bandage to cover and staunch the blood flowing from Aradma’s stomach.

  “The cut is not deep,” Aradma said. “It’s worse than it looks. I don’t know why I can’t heal it.”

  “We have to leave,” Eszhira said. “We can’t rest here.”

  Aradma nodded. The anger had left her, and now she just felt fear. Her eyes watered from the stress of emotion.

  They made their way out of the tunnels and climbed up through the basement of a house, stepping out onto the dusty streets of Artalon’s suburbs. They were challenged only twice more by Malahkma’s guards, but each time Aradma focused and crushed them with vines. The remaining guild members fled when word got out that Skole was dead.

  It was late at night, the roads were empty, and they made it to the Rusty Gear well after midnight, Aradma walking slowly through each painful mile. At the city’s edge, Tiberan found them. His eyes flashed with anger and concern when he saw the dark green of the blood-soaked front of her gown.

  He ran to her. “You didn’t come home. I was worried. You’re alive, oh thank the gods, you’re alive!”

  “It’s over,” she said, leaning forward into his arms. He held her head to his chest.

  “I’ll kill them,” he told her, softly this time. “Who did this?”

  “It’s over,” she repeated. “It was Skole. He is dead now.” She held him close. “Oh Tiberan! The baby!”

  He touched her belly with his hands and pressed his face to her womb. “The child’s life feels strong,” he assured her.

  She breathed in relief, and her eyes watered once more. Tiberan lifted her in his arms and carried her back to the Rusty Gear. Jorey opened the door and gasped when he saw them.

  “I found her,” Tiberan said.

  “The others are still out searching,” Jorey answered.

  “Go find Rajamin,” Eszhira told Jorey. “Maybe his healing will help where hers did not.”

  “And have Keira bring me some fresh water!” Tiberan shouted as he carried Aradma to the back halls and upstairs to their bedroom. He gently laid her on the mattress and grabbed all the pillows in the room to place behind her.

  “It doesn’t hurt too bad,” she assured him. He seemed even more worked up than she was. She saw a feral light in his eyes. “I’m tired…”

  He tore open the fabric of her gown, pulling it away from the wound. Keira entered with a bucket of water and a fresh swath of cotton towels. He gently pulled away the soaked bandage and washed the wound. Its edges glimmered that faint gold light she knew he could not see, the blood seeping slowly now. The slash filled with dark green fluid that crept over the surface of her skin. He wiped it clean once more and then held a fresh cloth to it. She hissed sharply as the cloth stung her.

  “It’s not deep,” he said.

  “It won’t heal,” she replied.

  He frowned.

  Rajamin burst into the room. “Here, let me see it!” he exclaimed. “Stand aside, stand aside, man!”

  Tiberan stepped away from her and let the ratling examine the wound. Aradma saw the old rat’s eyes and brow furrow in concern.

  “This is an evil wound,” he said. “Who did this?”

  “Skole,” she answered.

  “The leader of Malahkma?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see,” the ratling stated. “I think I can help this.”

  He touched the runes around his neck and prayed to Keruhn. He touched the skin of her belly around her wound, invoking the healer’s name. She saw the gold light flow through him from the runes and interact with the gold dusty glimmerings in the wound.

  “Oww…” she grimaced. The stinging increased to a deep burn, and she closed her eyes sharply, expunging tears out over her cheek. Then the pain subsided.

  “That’s the best I can do,” the ratling priest said. “I’m sorry I can’t do more, but both you and your child will be fine.”

  She looked down at her stomach. Where the open wound had been, there now rose an unnaturally pink scar across the left side of her belly, standing in sharp contrast to the smooth silver skin underneath. It tingled in the memory of pain. Its edges itched.

  She traced her fingers over its surface. The scarred flesh was sensitive, so acutely ticklish she quickly withdrew her hand. It pulsed slightly with her heartbeat, mocking her as it lay there, inches above her unborn daughter. It would forever remind her of what she might have lost, no matter how powerful she thought she was.

  Late the next morning, Eszhira sat with Aradma and Kristafrost over breakfast. Rajamin and Suleima had already left for their ministerial work, and Jorey and his family had gone with them. Aradma slept later than normal, and between her own healing and Rajamin’s intercession with Keruhn the Consoler, she felt refreshed. Only the raw scar beneath her fresh gown reminded her that all was not back to normal.

  Fresh fr
uit had begun to flow into Artalon again. Word spread through Roenti about the return of the old faith and the life the Artalonians were rebuilding. Trade routes were moving again, relying on horses and carts rather than the rune-powered air skiffs they had used in the past. It was slower, but at least things were on the mend.

  Aradma bit into a fresh apple imported from one of the neighboring townships. She stared at it thoughtfully for a moment as she chewed. Despite the scar, things really had ended for the best. Skole was dead, her people had been welcomed by the city, and Arlen and his family had been reunited. They had endured the worst.

  “You know,” she said, “things really will be okay.”

  Tiberan came up behind her and put his arms around her waist. He kissed the crown of her head.

  Kristafrost sipped at a mug of hot tea. “Maybe, but don’t say it.”

  Aradma smiled. “We’re building a good life here. Besides, since when were you superstitious?”

  BOOM!THwaaaaat!

  They all jumped in shock as an earsplitting sound assaulted them from outside, like a trumpet call with a horridly ribbed edge. The sound reverberated through the walls and ground, and then a blinding flash of light illuminated the windows. Then came another loud boom accompanied by the sound of shattering glass. A shockwave flashed through the inn, and Aradma was thrown to the floor, shielding her belly with her arms and legs as pieces of the roof fell down upon them.

  36 - The Cleansing of Artalon

  “What in the name of the Dragon was that?” Aradma shouted. She lay on her side on the floor of the inn. Dust filled the air, stinging her eyes.

  “I don’t know,” Kristafrost said. “Let me look outside.”

  Kristafrost opened the front door and stopped in the doorway. “Gods!”

  BOOM!THwaaaaat! Another reverberating trumpet sound filled the air, and a second shockwave hit somewhere in the city, this time farther away.

  Aradma forced herself to her feet. She limped over to Kristafrost’s side and looked out. Only the copper framework remained of the tower under which their inn was built. All the glass had shattered. Millions of shards lay on the ground, and bloody corpses lined the streets, some of whom she recognized as those having moved in to reclaim that tower.