When Dragons Die- The Complete Trilogy Box Set

by K. Scott Lewis

  Hylda sat on the bench at the long table, comfortably resting on her elbows with a clay mug of brown ale in her hands. The dwarven woman had a perpetually cheerful face and orange hair woven back into two knotted braids. Her husband fussed over the brick oven and lifted a black baking pot off the coals, placing it onto the stone counter.

  Hylda looked up as they came through the door. “Oh good, you’re here,” said the dwarven paladin. “Attaris has been fretting over this all day.”

  “The shepherd’s pie?”

  “No,” she said. “Well, yes. That too.”

  “Not the pie,” the male dwarf interjected. “The beer!” He thumbed over his shoulder towards a medium-sized, corked barrel. “It’s a new brew, ready for tapping. I thought your coming home would be cause for celebration.”

  “Oh, Atty,” Aradma said, “I wasn’t gone that long and I never left Hammerfold.”

  “Three weeks,” Attaris answered. “This is the first time in eight years you’ve left Windbowl. The vampires, they hate your kind especially.”

  “I know,” Aradma responded. After Fernwalker had been born, she had left the running of the world to others, withdrawing to a private life with her daughter. Every time she thought about her daughter’s safety, a phantom pain tingled through the pink scar that lined the left side of her belly.

  Even though she did not go out to the world, the world still seemed to come to her. The other seelie, and some humans as well, sought her out. She taught them druidry. Rajamin came to her for counsel often at first and tried to get her to appear at Church. When it was clear she had no desire to attend his services or be a part of his movement, his requests for advice dwindled.

  Duke Montevin kept her in his counsels, and she came to the city whenever he called upon her for help. She was grateful to him and his people for opening their hearts and lands to the seelie. Now they all fought side by side, defending their common home against a seemingly unending enemy.

  Her students went out into the world, first to explore the wilds, and then to join the war against the vampires. She stayed in Windbowl, unable to trust that Fernwalker would be safe with her friends, even though a vampire had never even made it close to the duchy itself. Nevertheless, her students went to fight and sometimes die alongside the rangers that guarded the borders. Her druids also created an information network, using the mobility of their shapeshifting to serve Hammerfold and the resistance cells as messengers. With each druid that died, however, she felt the growing weight of responsibility to do more than just maintain her spy network. She needed to see for herself how her students fared on the borders. It had been difficult, but she had to learn to trust that Fernwalker would be okay without her lingering over the girl at all times. She had to learn to let go.

  “I’m glad you could take the time to come,” Aradma thanked them. “I know it’s hard these days to break away from your work.” She looked at her daughter and smiled. “And it’s good to be home.”

  “At least the vampires haven’t come as far north as here,” Hylda replied. “Our lines are holding.” Then the dwarven paladin added, “However, word from our Order’s operatives in the south have dwindled. I sent Arda into Astia to investigate.”

  Aradma sat at the table beside Hylda, and Fernwalker squeezed in between the two of them. Attaris served them all bowls of the shepherd’s pie and mugs of the brown ale.

  “I want some, too,” Fernwalker asked.

  “A small cup,” Aradma said.

  Fernwalker tried the brew and crinkled her face in disgust. “I’ll get some water,” she said.

  “Any word back from Arda yet?” Aradma asked.

  “No, not yet,” Hylda replied. “How are things on the front?”

  “The druids and rangers continue to keep the borders guarded in the wild where the roads don’t lead,” Aradma said, “but the vampires seem even more hostile than before, to seelie in particular. It’s as if they can smell us. I’m glad some of the human druids are finally to the point where they can shapeshift. It will be easier for them to scout south.”

  “Aye,” Attaris agreed. “Well, there aren’t many druids, even counting seelie, and fewer yet of those who can shapeshift as you do. Growing your spy network will prove useful. We’ve been cut off from the rest of the world. It would be nice to know how far south the contagion has spread. Hammerfold might stand alone.”

  Hylda frowned. “The mountain halls of Farstkeld remain closed. Sometimes I think my people are no better than the sidhe.”

  “I sometimes wonder,” Suleima said, “if they’ve gotten to Kallanista yet. Or the Vemnai.”

  “Everyone has closed their borders,” Aradma replied. “We haven’t seen another Kallanistan zeppelin in years.” She too wondered what had happened to the ratling city. They had enough to worry about with troll religious fanatics wanting to wipe them off their island, let alone vampires.

  “I hope the Vemnai haven’t wiped out Kallanista,” Attaris said. “Unnatural people, trolls.” Then he frowned. “I’m sorry,” he apologized to Suleima. “I shouldn’t’ve said that.”

  Aradma frowned slightly. It was an old conversation. When Attaris and Hylda had learned that the Vemnai religion protected sexual pleasure as a sacred act reserved only between two women, permitting male-female mating solely for the purposes of procreation, they had become somewhat uncomfortable around the troll refugee. That she had fled because of her peoples’ religious beliefs softened their stance over time, and it was something that was no longer discussed.

  Aradma had broken the troll society by teaching their druids that love between men and women was natural, even for trolls, and sharing intimate pleasures was not a sin. Yet Aradma knew that nature was varied, and each person’s heart was different. She had been saddened to learn that her dwarven friends were locked into certain beliefs nearly as firmly as the Vemnai Matriarch had been in hers. Tradition was a powerful force, and dwarves, she had learned, had strong conservative traditions as deep as the roots of their mountain halls.

  Hylda and Attaris were considered downright progressive for living away from the kelds. The dwarves understood Suleima had been convicted for the crime of loving a man and felt sympathy for her. They were decent enough not to inquire as to her past with the other priestesses. Aradma felt no reason to even hint that her own first experience of physical intimacy had been with the cloister’s Matriarch. Even though her natural inclinations were not towards women, living under the same roof with Suleima would have begged too much speculation in her dwarven friends’ eyes, even if there would be no truth to them.

  As far as anyone in Windbowl knew, both Aradma and Suleima still mourned the deaths of the men they loved, and that was for the most part true. Suleima’s lover had been executed by his troll brothers as an honor killing. Aradma’s, the seelie man Tiberan, had been disintegrated by Valkrage’s final act of magic. Neither woman had fallen in love again, but then there hadn’t really been time for romance with the rebuilding of the civilization and the Church of Light, and then defending their new homeland against the vampire contagion.

  Suleima changed the subject. “We’ve established a safe haven for the time being.” She had been a priestess, a runewarden, of Rin in the troll society of the Vemnai. She and Rajamin, the ratling priest of the old Archurionite Church who taught the balanced worship of all the Gods of Light, had followed Aradma here. She was still a priestess of Rin, but now she worshipped the goddess as balanced by the rest of the pantheon.

  “We are self-sufficient and can probably live in relative peace for some generations,” she said. “But that won’t be enough. Vampires are immortal and hunger doesn’t kill them. We need to look to the future. You know we’re going to have to invade to cleanse their lands.”

  “She’s right,” Hylda agreed. “My paladins, your druids, and even the rangers are not enough to secure our future forever. We’re going to need to build an army.”

  Attaris’ face grew grim. He was a runewarden of Modhri
n, the dwarven God of Storms and the Forge. It was said that Modhrin’s hammer built the jewel of the world upon the Anvil of Heaven. He named this jewel Ahmbren and gave it to Daag, the Good God, so that he might woo Nephyr, the Black Goddess of Fate. “We’ve been at war for nearly eight years,” he growled, “and only on the defensive. Hammerfold is under siege. I must return to Farstkeld and convince the dwarves to aid us.”

  “We’ve got to make contact with Kallanista,” Suleima added. “We need to learn how to build a zeppelin fleet.”

  Another old conversation. There were those like them who had been saying this for years, but the political will of the leaders and people of Hammerfold just wasn’t there. They were too scared to take the risk of diverting their attention from border defense. So far, that had proved sufficient.

  There was a soft knocking at the door. Fernwalker leaped up from her seat and opened it. It was still safe in Windbowl.

  “It’s the dead woman,” she said.

  Aradma arose from the table and went to the front door. Seredith stood in the shadows, waiting patiently in the dark. Aradma stepped out and left the door open behind her. Fernwalker stood at her side with her arms around her mother’s waist.

  Fernwalker was correct to call her dead. She was no vampire, but she was undead, a revenant. Seredith was a casualty of her mother Marta’s sorcerous bid to possess her body. Marta had tried to use the Green Dragon’s essence locked in Aradma’s blood to facilitate the transfer. Marta’s other student, Anuit, had interrupted the rite to save her friend, but Seredith’s soul could not fully reenter her body, nor could it move on to the afterlife.

  The body, already transformed by the life force of the Green Dragon and robbed of its essence, rose as an undead revenant. Her eyes were clouded over with a milky white film obscuring her irises and pupils. Her blond hair had faded to a dull yellow-gray. Her skin was stretched thin, gray, and dry over her joints, and her lips were cold and white. Her body held the air of the impending decay of a stale corpse, always on the verge of rot.

  Seredith had been a victim of black magic gone wrong, but this had not changed who she was or made her evil. She was a prisoner to her situation, and although the Senior Wizard of Windbowl argued for her destruction, Duke Montevin had the wisdom to see her plight and the compassion not to destroy her. He knew what it was to live with a curse, for he was wolven, which he had kept secret all his life—until the events surrounding Aradma’s lightfall in 1013 revealed it. The duke too was a wizard, and he took Seredith as his apprentice under the condition that she forsook the practice of sorcery and demonic magic.

  Aradma held out her hands in greeting. Seredith extended her cold fingers, and the seelie took them and squeezed them briefly. They had a strange bond, for it was the magic in Aradma’s blood that had enabled Seredith’s curse. Seredith never held it against her, however. She knew it was her mother who had betrayed her, and not the elf. Aradma liked Seredith, and her heart broke every time she saw the dark void in the depths of her soul where no life force could flow. Seredith had displayed deep-seated compassion and commitment to the people of Windbowl, but more than that, Seredith was one of the few people who did not look at Aradma with adoration and worship in her eyes.

  “The king’s messenger arrived this evening from Hearthholm,” Seredith said, her face expressionless. Her voice was dry and cracked, as always. “He’s asked for a private audience with the duke and Rajamin. Duke Montevin wants Hylda present as well, but I think you’ll want to be there.” Seredith looked past Aradma into the home.

  “Damn it,” Attaris muttered from behind her. “So much for a quiet meal. Go on, we’ll follow on horseback.”

  “I’ll watch Fernwalker,” Suleima said.

  Seredith disappeared, transported by magic back to the city. Aradma shapeshifted and took to the skies.

  Aradma saw Rajamin hurrying up the stairs to the castle’s main keep. The ratling priest scurried over the human-sized steps, but he did not seem slowed by them in the least. She dropped from the skies, spreading her feathers to slow herself so that she alighted beside him, and shifted back to her elven form as she fell into step.

  Rajamin looked up at her with adoring eyes, but did not slow his pace. “I’m surprised to see you,” he said. “You normally don’t like to involve yourself. How did you know?”

  “Do you know what this is about?” she asked, ignoring his question.

  “No,” he replied. “I had just nodded off to sleep. It must be important if you’re here.”

  “Hylda’s on her way, too. She should be here within the half-hour.”

  The duke’s servants led them up to a small audience chamber. Duke Montevin was already there with the duchess, Senior Wizard Aiella.

  “Aradma!” Aiella remarked. “We didn’t know you were back. How did you know to come?” A confused look that had grown common in the past few years whenever Aradma entered the room fell across her and Duke Montevin’s faces. She offset their unconscious sense of protocol, and they weren’t sure who outranked whom in the room. Rajamin’s Church of Light made it difficult for people to feel natural with Aradma, which in turn made it difficult for her to feel natural with most people. Druids didn’t like feeling unnatural, and so she spent most of her time away in the wilds with her daughter or living in the secluded mountain cabin. She rarely came to town anymore.

  “Hylda’s on her way,” Aradma answered.

  “We’ll wait,” said the duke. “I want us all to hear the king’s message together. He’s being fed and refreshed while he waits. How are the borders?”

  “As expected,” Aradma said, “the rangers keep the countryside secure, and the growing number of druids are joining them.”

  Hylda entered the room not too long after. She no longer had to live with the undercover pretense she was the duke’s secretary and could now freely sit on his inner council as the Kaldorite commander in Windbowl.

  “Send in the messenger,” the duke said and gestured to the butler. He sat upon the ducal seat, and everyone else took their places on chairs arranged in a semicircle around the intimate room.

  A few moments later, the messenger entered. He was a man in his early forties with light brown hair and a reddish short-trimmed beard. His icy blue eyes swept the room and stopped on Aradma.

  Upon seeing him, the duke rose from his seat and kneeled. “My king!” he exclaimed. “Had I known it was you, I would not have kept you waiting!”

  The rest of the room rose to their feet and knelt except Rajamin, who remained standing. The ratling frowned when Aradma knelt, and then he followed her example. Aradma always made it a point to show deference to the sovereign law of the land, since this land had allowed her and her people to make it their home, too.

  “Rise, my friend,” King Donogan replied. “I preferred secrecy to protocol, so I take no offense.”

  He walked over to Aradma. “Do not kneel before me,” he took her hands and invited her to stand. “If I’m to trust what my priests tell me, it is I who should kneel before you, White Lady.”

  Aradma frowned at Rajamin. “I told you to stop them from saying that.”

  Rajamin shrugged. “It doesn’t matter that you don’t like the truth,” he said. “Of all your people, Graelyn’s spirit is strongest in you, and she was a goddess.”

  “You are Graelyn, are you not?” the king asked.

  Aradma shook her head. “I am not my mother.”

  “Nevertheless, your mother lives in you,” Donogan said. “I came here hoping to meet you. All of you, please be seated. May I have a chair as well?”

  The duke signaled to his butler, who indicated he would personally make the arrangements. Servants were sent away and ordered to secrecy.

  The duke offered Donogan his own chair, but the king declined. “I am your guest,” he said. They shifted the seats so that the chair the butler brought in was to the right of the duke’s. They sat, and each was brought a glass chalice of port. They silently waited for the king to be
gin.

  The king took a long sip from the port before speaking. “We received two messages within a short time recently. I don’t know if they’re related, but both were significant enough on their own to want to consult you in secrecy. The first was an emissary from Queen Iristine in Astiana.”

  “From the infected lands!” Duke Montevin exclaimed. “She’s still alive?”

  “Apparently. The queen wants to sue for peace. She proposes a meeting in the border town of Kriegsholm. She intends to send her father, Count Markus.”

  “But we’re not at war with the people of Astia,” Duchess Aiella said. “Just the infected.”

  “That’s the thing,” Donogan replied. “Her father, the count, is infected. She admits this freely in her message. She claims they have found a way to coexist with the vampires who are able to control their hunger, and that they have helped cleanse their country from the ones who can’t.”

  “Respectfully, Your Majesty,” Hylda said, “I sent an operative into Astia not too long ago. My informants stopped sending me messages, and I wanted her to investigate. Something there is different, to be sure, but we could wait for her to confirm the situation. What the queen seems to say sounds far-fetched to me.”

  “I agree,” Donogan said. “But we also all know something is different in Astia than in Roenti. This would explain it.”

  “So she wants you to agree to meet a vampire,” Rajamin said. The ratling stroked his whiskers. “That’s risky, my king.”

  “Sire, send me,” Montevin offered. “If the queen herself isn’t coming, protocol does not demand you attend. The chance for peace is too great not to at least hear what they have to say. Besides, I’m not completely unarmed against a vampire.” The duke spoke the truth. He was both a wizard and a wolven.

  “Send Seredith,” Aradma said.

  Aiella’s mouth twisted into a sour sneer. “The revenant? Surely you jest.”

  “It is a little unorthodox,” Donogan remarked. He fixed his intense blue gaze on Aradma.