When Dragons Die- The Complete Trilogy Box Set

by K. Scott Lewis

  Judging from the surrounding landscape, Traversham supported an inn and a small community of farmers. The rain quickened. She was thankful her hat and shoulder mantle kept most of the wet off of her. She urged Dart forward, descending on the muddy road into the village.

  She was sure that under sunlight the town would have been more appealing. Its buildings would have been brighter, with brown wooden walls and darker roof shingles warm and inviting. Instead, everything dissolved to a dull gray beneath the clouds and their dreary drip drip of rain. Even the main street was unpaved, and the mud went all the way up to the inn doors.

  A few people sat or stood under covered porches. The rest must have been inside. Even with the weather, however, such a town should have had more activity in its streets. There was always work to be done. Instead, there were few signs of life, which had become common in the infested lands.

  She left Dart at the hitching post, but did not tie the horse down. He was well trained and as much a companion as he was a mount. He would wait for her. She entered the saloon.

  A gaunt woman stood listlessly behind the bar, absently wiping the wooden surface in front of her with a stained rag. Two older, fat men sat in the corner of the common room, drinking beer and staring dully into space.

  Arda came and sat on one of the stools, placing her elbows on the bar and leaning forward. The woman did not look up from her task at first. Her greasy blond hair seemed ready at any moment to fall free from her loosely tied ponytail. Her pale skin was almost translucent, showing blue veins underneath. Black circles lined under her eyes, and her cheeks were shadowed. She leaned her head slightly to the side as she cleaned, revealing two tiny circular wounds on her neck.

  “What is your name?” Arda softly asked.

  The woman looked up with a slight start of surprise. “Oh!” she softly exclaimed. “I thought… I thought you were one of us.”

  “What is your name?” Arda asked again, keeping her voice gentle.

  “Mary.”

  “How long have they been here, Mary?”

  Mary shook her head. “A year,” she answered. “Maybe a little more.” She shifted to her other foot.

  A year? “You’ve survived this long?”

  “It’s not so bad,” the woman said. “They’re not so bad.” Hope must have left her eyes long ago. Her voice betrayed only resignation. “They don’t kill us. They need us.”

  “Didn’t you try to fight?”

  The woman’s eyes darted to Arda’s sharply for a moment, and then fell away. “We wanted to live.”

  “Can you tell me how many there are?”

  “No,” she answered.

  “Do you know where they are?”

  “I won’t,” she said.

  Arda stared at her for a moment, slightly taken aback. “I can help you!”

  “No,” Mary shrunk back. “They protect us.”

  Arda frowned. This was not like what she had encountered in Roenti. When it started, entire towns had been turned, and then the undead ran out of prey. They were forced to move to other towns, and those who had been fed upon rose in turn to feed. The only thing that slowed the outbreak were people fighting for every town, every street, exploiting every weakness they could find. But this was different. This woman defended them. She must have been terrified. But if the townsfolk here in Traversham weren’t all dead, that meant the vampires had learned to control their hunger.

  They aren’t killing when they feed.

  That raised new concerns.

  “I can show you where they are.” One of the men in the corner stood and approached the bar. He reeked of beer and sweat. His eyes stared at her through an unfocused haze, and the stench of his breath assaulted her nose such that she stood from the bar and backed away from him.

  “Your pardon, missis,” he said. “But there’s not much reason to clean meself up no mores. I can take you to their nest.”

  “Karl!” Mary protested. “You mustn’t! They’ll kill you!”

  “No, Mary,” Karl argued. His voice was gravelly with phlegm. “Not if she kills them first. Don’t you see what she is? She’s a paladin, she is!”

  “If you take me to where they sleep,” Arda promised, “I can free you from them.”

  “No,” protested Mary. “One of them’s my husband—”

  Karl snapped, “Shut up, Mary!”

  Arda turned to the woman in pity. “Your husband is dead, Mary,” she said. “His body is nothing more than a creature of evil. Let me put his soul to rest.”

  “It’s up the hill outside of town, missis,” he said. “Here, come with me.”

  They left the inn behind, and Arda followed Karl on horseback up away from their town along a small hillside path. He led her to an old stone watchtower, its upper levels lost to ruin but its round base seemed intact.

  “There’s a cellar inside,” he said. “They sleep there.”

  Arda dismounted and approached on foot. Karl followed behind her. “Do you think we have a chance, missis?” he asked.

  “Shh,” Arda whispered. The front doorway had no door, its wood having dried and splintered years ago. “There is always hope. You’re doing a good thing.”

  She stood in the portal looking down into the darkness. She let a moment pass for her darkling eyes to adjust, and then she could see down into its shadows. The floor past the door had long since caved in, and it was a twenty-foot drop to the bottom of the open cellar. She looked down into it but only saw dirt and rock. There were no coffins, sleeping bodies, or other signs of it being a vampire nest.

  She heard the click of a gun cocking but it was too late. Before she could turn, the loud crack of a firearm sounded, and an impact slammed into her back, throwing her forward into open space in front of her.

  She dropped her sword and the light winked out. Stunned from the impact of the shot, she couldn’t crouch and roll, and she slammed face first into the stone floor below.

  As she lay on her stomach unable to move, she blearily looked back over her shoulder at the silhouette of the man against the afternoon sky.

  “You’ll ruin it all,” he hissed. He extended a thick double-barreled pistol at her and shot her once more in the back.

  2 - The Sorceress’s Illusions

  The town of Rille lay one hundred miles north of Astiana, the capital city of Astia. Rille sat in the foothills a few miles from the main road that connected Astiana to Kriegsholm far to the north. Nestled on gentle grass slopes of the southern range of the Eigaro Mountains, it served as home for both miners and vintners. The gently flowing Eigaro River paralleled the road to Astiana, making trade with the capital city easy. After the rune-powered air skiffs had lost their ability to fly when the God-King died, the city had returned to the old ways of moving trade goods on cargo barges until the vampire infestation had spread to Astia.

  It was late October in the year 1022. Although Artalon had fallen, the world had not reverted back to the old calendar, continuing to count the years by Aaron’s reign out of habit. The dusk-skinned seamstress bent over her workbench, head cocked to the side to prevent her long hair from touching her work as she guided wool-spun thread through the seams of a green cloak. Black hair was not uncommon here, but her light-brown skin was. She had not thought so much of it growing up in Windbowl, but since leaving, she had learned that brown skin was unusual north of Aradheim. Her parents had died in a house fire when she was a child, and she’d never learned how they had come to live in Windbowl to begin with.

  She used to be a master at her craft—she still was—but now she spent her time mending common clothes instead of making socialites who weren’t wearing one of her gowns or suits green with envy. Those days were over. Silk and thread were hard, if not impossible, to come by. Getting them in the first place had been difficult after Darkfall—the day the God-King’s runes failed—and only after years did trade become regular enough to acquire a steady supply of Abraxian silk. Those supply chains had dried up once more. The few remaini
ng clean cities of the Empire didn’t want to trade with vampire-infested lands. She couldn’t blame them.

  “Oh good, Anuit, you’re here,” a woman said as she pushed the door to the tailor shop open. It was Myla Borogia, owner of Borogia’s Barrel, the town’s general trade-store. The middle-aged woman wore a no-nonsense gray wool skirt, white blouse, and pulled her charcoal hair back into an equally no-nonsense bun that matched the skirt’s color. She held a stack of clothes in her arms and plopped them down on the counter.

  “More fixing,” Anuit sighed. This was beneath her. She could not only tailor appealing finery but also weave magic into the threads themselves, keeping the wearer comfortable or enhancing their air of charm, among other things. This was a talent she kept hidden from the people of Rille. No need to call attention to herself.

  In the corner, a third woman whom Myla had not yet noticed arched her eyes at Anuit in amusement. She had dark brown hair pulled straight into a tight bun with dangling spiral curls. Her rich green eyes, other than glittering at Anuit’s annoyance, held an air of boredom.

  “Yes,” Myla said. “Sorry.”

  “It’s no bother,” Anuit answered. She shot the third woman a look, nodding to her. “Bryona will take care of these. She loves helping out.”

  “Oh, goodness me!” Myla exclaimed. She turned to the other woman. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there. Good afternoon!”

  Bryona frowned but said nothing.

  “Well, thank you then,” Myla said. “I need to get back to my shop. I’ll return tomorrow. Will I see you at the Mug tonight?”

  Anuit nodded. “Every night.”

  Myla snorted. “Well, I suppose it is, at that.” She left.

  After the door shut, Bryona glared at Anuit. She crossed her arms over her chest and pouted. The illusionary guise she had held faded, and her curved horns, tail, and wings revealed themselves.

  “You don’t need to look so upset,” Anuit chided the succubus.

  “Menial labor. I can seduce any man and even turn the hearts of women if you’d let me, and you have me doing this.”

  The sorceress arched an eyebrow at her demonic servitor. “You forget yourself.” Another secret she kept from the town.

  Bryona hung her head. “Yes, mistress. I will, as always, do as you require.” She pouted, sticking her bottom lip forward.

  Anuit laughed and shook her head, resettling the black hair on her shoulders. “Oh, Bryona, don’t be so dramatic. You can’t fool me. You’re just happy I let you stay manifest and have a life here.”

  Bryona grinned playfully. “You’re right. Even sewing is better than being unsummoned. It’s soooo boring in the void. Besides,” she thoughtfully added, “I like fucking your man. Are you sure you don’t want to take my place tonight? I mean, what’s the point of being a lord’s mistress if you don’t actually get to, you know, be his mistress.”

  Anuit rolled her eyes. “You know I’ve no interest in sex.”

  “So you say. You know, we could get him drunk and you could join in. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind having two of you.”

  “Just wear my image like you always do.”

  “So he’s coming to visit tonight?”

  “I’m sure. Lady Sandovos is a cold fish.”

  “Really?” the demon remarked. She held up two of her fingers and wiggled them in the air. “I could get her hot and wet. Maybe if she got a little cunt she wouldn’t be such a cunt.”

  Anuit’s eyes flashed with real irritation. Bryona shut up, but it was too late. She had crossed the line. Anuit unsummoned her minion, and the succubus disappeared in a wisp of smoke. Boredom was the only way to punish a demon who got off on pain.

  Anuit looked back at the stack of Myla’s clothes on the countertop, mocking her with its height. The sorceress sighed. Apparently, she would be mending these after all.

  It was an hour before dusk when Anuit locked the door to her seamstress shop. She wore one of her favorite evening gowns, made of sage green fabric, with a fitted top, and a long but loose skirt cinched at the waist. She had woven magic into its cloth so that it kept her comfortable and dry no matter the weather outside. She made her way to Borogia’s Mug. Lord Sandovos would expect to see her there. Well, it’s all part of it, she told herself. It’s not that she didn’t enjoy his company, nor did she really care about his loyalty to his wife, but the routine got somewhat old. The routine keeps me alive and the town safe.

  Two years ago the vampire contagion had spread to the surrounding lands of Astia, making its way to Astiana itself despite the best efforts of paladin resistance to stop it. There were just too many infected. Yet even now, deep within the infested lands, Rille kept a quiet, peaceful life. The city believed it was because their guards kept vigilant watch at night. Anuit let them go on thinking that. If Lady Sandovos found out she was a sorceress, the stupid woman would try to execute their only real source of safety.

  Nine years ago, she had left Windbowl with only her three demonic servitors as company. For the first months, she struggled to control her newly bound minions. She left Windbowl thinking she had mastered them, confident in her growing sorcerous abilities. Within the first month, she had let Belham, her imp, persuade her to steal food and gold from a country farmer. Out of necessity, he had said. Anuit had been caught by the farmer’s wife, and when Belham told her to kill the woman, she ran instead. In the commotion of the escape, she called upon her hellhound, intending only to scare the guards from the road. That worked just fine. The guards ran to save their skins from the gaping maw of teeth that was Khiighun. However, Belham distracted her and she lost control. The hellhound devoured a herd of sheep before she reined him in.

  Shortly after, feeling guilty—she still had their food and gold—and alone, she let her guard down around the succubus. Bryona comforted her. It seemed innocent enough at first, but somehow a shoulder to cry on ended with Anuit on her back and Bryona’s head underneath her dress, tongue lapping sweetly between her legs. Afterwards, she unsummoned the three of them and held herself alone through the night, trembling in shame and fury. Even now the memory angered her. She felt dirty thinking about it.

  It had been many months before she called them back to her presence, and then only out of need. Bryona had been the first. Anuit summoned her in order to help start a new life. The succubus posed as Anuit’s friend, and with her powers of charm—now kept in strict check—Anuit secured a life first in Astiana, and then later in Rille. Khiighun was only brought back years later when vampires started wandering the night. He could eat damn well near anything. It was even longer before she trusted herself to see through Belham’s oily words, but even he was back in her good graces. They were tools, useful in their rightful place.

  By then she no longer held a grudge against her demons, but she now understood how important it was she remain in control. She was a sorceress, and she wasn’t going to let a failure stop her on her path to mastery. They had only been acting within their nature. They loved her—they were her servitors, they had no choice but to love her—but the only way they knew to show it was twisted by their own natures. Khiighun would devour anything for her. He might even devour her if he thought it was in her best interest.

  Bryona was the same. She would charm and seduce to help Anuit achieve her ends, and she would seduce Anuit if she thought the sorceress would be better for it. Anuit had never allowed a repeat of that one night. She knew better than to seek comfort from a demon.

  Belham was a master of information, and like it or not, he was her only mentor now, her only key to unlocking the dark arts. He would bring her what she needed to know, but she always had to remember that he only said what he thought she needed to hear. Now that she was armed with a full appreciation of the risks, she could use them without being used herself.

  She opened the door to Borogia’s Mug. The evening crowd had already begun to gather, comprised of those who were not on guard duty. The patrols watched the town borders and streets from dusk to dawn
. That was good. Let the people believe they were responsible for their own safety. It might be a lie, but as long as Anuit kept them safe, it was a lie that let them go on living with real hopes and real joys, a lie that protected their sense of community.

  Myla Borogia’s sister Denira owned the inn, which also served as the tavern. The dining room was filled with the bustle of chatter and the smell of cooking fat. Few people stayed home in the early hours of the evening, wanting the warmth of music, food, and companionship. They had held out for two years against the night; the guards made it safe to walk the streets after dark, and the villagers refused to cower in their homes.

  Anuit could tell what Quint was cooking for tonight’s meal by the smells meandering through the air. Guinea fowl soup with noodles, and lamb goulash with salt gravy—and noodles. The local farmers had managed to keep producing food for the community, although the variety was not what it once was. At least they had a flour mill and vineyards. Noodles and white wine they would always have, but what Anuit wouldn’t give for some fresh fish from Astiana.

  Lord Sandovos already sat alone in his customary corner table. The empty chair was for her. Lady Sandovos never came to the tavern. She spent all her time at home or at the church praying to Karanos with those who still clung to faith that the God-King would return to save the righteous from the vampire scourge. Lord Sandovos’ affair with Anuit was no secret. Years ago it would have been frowned upon, but by now everyone had done something, compromised their values in some way, in their struggle for survival. People became more forgiving of each other’s indulgences as they learned to cope with the new norm. Just because the streets felt safe night at night didn’t mean there hadn’t been losses through the years. Four months ago three guardsmen had fallen before a couple of vampires that wandered in from the wilds. Anuit had been unable to save them that day. The town didn’t know that the remaining five guardsmen on patrol owed their lives to her.

  Lord Sandovos stood and pulled the chair out for her. She smiled and sat gracefully. Jarri, a short blond barmaid with full, plump hips brought her customary glass of wine. “The usual?” she asked. Anuit nodded. Guinea fowl soup, light on the noodles and heavy on the soup. The lamb goulash was just too salty.