When Dragons Die- The Complete Trilogy Box Set

by K. Scott Lewis

  The mist gathered around from the front, circling towards them.

  Aradma carried Fernwalker in the back door, dropping her inside. “Stay here!” she shouted. “Suleima! Guard my daughter!”

  The troll runewarden was there in an instant from the front kitchen. She held her runic beads in hand, each glowing. “I will keep her safe,” she promised.

  Aradma returned to the back door. Fernwalker stood by the window and watched. The vampires had solidified again, standing on the porch.

  An owl landed behind them, shifting into the form of a mighty bear. He roared. Ghost joined him. The two animals leaped, rending vampire flesh beneath their claws. The bear’s jaws descended on one of the undead’s skulls, flinging him away.

  Aradma jumped back outside, becoming the leopard once more. Every time she pounced, she landed on a vampire, who would fall to the ground. A sharp root would then shoot up from the earth and stab him through the chest.

  When she was done, all five vampires were paralyzed on large thorns and wooden spikes. Aradma shifted back into elven form, rising from her knees and breathing heavily. Fernwalker thought her mom looked heroic, with her flashing green eyes and body illuminated by the moonlight, which matched her skin.

  The bear shifted into Odoune, and he and Ghost joined Aradma.

  The seelie woman spared a glance at the vampires paralyzed by the wooden lances. “Let’s leave them for the dawn,” she said. “It will be less messy.”

  Odoune chuckled.

  “Suleima’s stew smells good,” Aradma said with the first sign of interest in something other than patrolling. “I’m hungry.”

  Despite her mother’s brave appearance, Fernwalker notice her touch the pink scar on her belly, which never seemed to quite heal.

  * * *

  The next morning, the five vampires burst into flame and disintegrated to ash when the sun’s light hit them. Aradma cleared away the overgrown thicket, returning its vegetation to the soil.

  “We can’t stay here,” Suleima told her. “I know you want to punish yourself, but there will be more attacks like this.”

  Aradma frowned. The scar across her belly throbbed. Suleima was right. “Let’s go back to Yinkle’s house,” Aradma agreed. “I guess we can’t live here anymore.”

  “Not while the contagion threatens,” Suleima said.

  “I can’t see how we’re going to be rid of it,” Aradma replied. “It’s too widespread.” She felt defeat weighing in on her. “I can’t see how we’re going to beat this.”

  “The world is not yet lost,” Odoune comforted her. “But for now, let us get our daughter to Windbowl. And we need to warn the others that this valley is no longer safe.”

  Aradma nodded.

  They all packed, and then made their way to the city. She took Fernwalker back to Yinkle’s house, and then made her way to the castle to see Aiella.

  At the news Windbowl had finally seen the presence of vampires, the newly crowned queen of Windbowl issued curfew orders. Any incursions were to be reported, and a plan to begin random daylight checks of households to search for sleepers was implemented.

  “Like Kriegsholm,” Attaris stated. “How long before we too submit to the Covenant?”

  “We’ve been complacent,” Aradma replied. “We’ve lost the night. We keep losing. We need some wins, or we’ll lose the day as well.”

  31 - Reconciliation

  A knock rapped loudly on the front door of Yinkle’s house in the city. Aradma slept in her room, just having gotten to bed after yet another night in an endless string of nights patrolling with Odoune, fighting vampires when they found them. Fernwalker had already awakened, ate something, and then come back to bed to nestle in with her mother’s warmth beneath the blankets. Ghost lay beside the bed on the floor, sleeping soundly.

  Aradma ignored the knocking and buried herself deeper under the covers. She felt like she hadn’t slept in months. Shifting was becoming difficult, if only for the fact that she was so damned tired. Pulling up energy from Ahmbren’s life force wasn’t helping anymore either. There was only so long one could continue on magical healing before the body needed actual, physical rest.

  The knocking stopped. Aradma was vaguely aware of muffled voices downstairs. Yinkle must have answered the door. Then she heard Yinkle’s ratling toes scratch the steps as she came up the stairwell.

  No, go away… please… I just want to sleep.

  The door slowly creaked open. Aradma opened an eye.

  “Mom’s sleeping!” Fernwalker whispered loudly. Ghost snorted. His tail flicked once.

  “Aradma,” Yinkle whispered. “I’m sorry, but… I think you’ll want to come for this.”

  Aradma opened both eyes and yawned. “I hate you,” she murmured. She didn’t mean it, and she knew Yinkle understood that.

  “Where’s Suleima?”

  Yinkle entered the room and crouched at the head of the bed, mindful not to step on Ghost’s ears. “She’s at the church with Rajamin,” Yinkle said. “They don’t know about this.”

  “About what?” Aradma pushed herself up. The cold air of the room rushed beneath her quilts. “Damn it,” she muttered. She gathered them around herself, trying to restore the cocoon of warmth. It was the first week of March, but the mornings were still chill. “Fernwalker, go get dressed,” she said. Her daughter made a face, but did as she was told.

  “About what?” Aradma asked again.

  “Arda’s here, downstairs,” the ratling answered. “She wants you to come with her to your house in the forest.”

  “Oh!” Aradma exclaimed loudly.

  “Shh!” Yinkle said.

  Aradma pulled off her cotton nightgown and summoned plant-weave and flowers from the air, creating a verdant gown. Her connection to Life had grown such that she no longer needed to bring plant life from earth or rock—with a little more effort she could manifest it directly.

  She hurried downstairs. When Fernwalker followed, Ghost finally rose to his feet and lazily sauntered after them.

  Arda stood waiting for her. She wore robes and a thick cloak. Her usual paladin armor, duster, and tricorne hat were gone.

  “He’s here,” Arda whispered. “Kaldor. At your house. There’s something… we don’t want the queen or the reverend to know yet. So far, he’s avoided people of power.”

  Aradma felt a thrill run through her heart, and an inexplicable grin conquered her face. Kaldor was Archurion. She nodded in understanding at Arda’s words. Rajamin and Aiella wouldn’t be able to help but calculate how to use him when he finally revealed himself.

  The four of them rode out on horses at a brisk trot. Fernwalker sat in front of Aradma. Aradma bundled her cloak around her daughter, and Ghost followed at their side. Yinkle sat behind Arda. They made a somewhat amusing sight, with Arda’s darkling tail hanging down the left side of the horse’s chestnut rump, and Yinkle’s pink rat tail hanging down the right.

  An hour and a half later, they came into Aradma’s front garden. The druid dismounted and helped Fernwalker down. As she was tying her horse to the hitch, the front door to Aradma’s house opened.

  “I’ll take care of the horses,” Arda said as she dismounted.

  Aradma turned.

  He stood in the doorway. A black man unlike any human she had seen before. His heritage was not from anywhere near Windbowl. His head was shaven clean, and the lines of his face placed him somewhere in his early fifties. His eyes, however, were penetrating through his spectacles and held a youthful glow fueled by kindness. His face remained expressionless, but a smile shaped his eyes.

  “You must be Aradma,” he said. His voice was sonorous and grainy. It carried notes of compassion, which matched the truth in his eyes.

  Aradma opened herself to hear the music in his soul. An overwhelming radiance of light and glory echoed as notes in her mind.

  “Archurion,” she said. The Dragon within her remembered him. Graelyn had been Archurion’s mate. A powerful wave of love overcame
her and her knees buckled.

  He stepped forward and caught her. “No, not any more,” he said. “Just Kaldor now, Heart of My Dragon.”

  A thrill raced through her heart, and her skin flushed hot. She heard the music in his soul, both of the man and the echoes of the Gold Dragon. For the first time in nine years, she did not think of Tiberan.

  Aradma followed him inside. A hearth fire had already been lit. She held Fernwalker’s hand.

  Kaldor stepped out of her way, and Aradma found herself looking into a face she had never again expected to see. She instinctively pulled her daughter close.

  “Matriarch!” Aradma exclaimed. She stood there, unsure of what to do or say. “Matriarch!” she said again.

  The Matriarch’s blue face was as beautiful as Aradma remembered. The troll’s eyes watered. “I am Matriarch no longer. I was exiled after our defeat by the ratlings of Kallanista. My name is Oriand.”

  Aradma stood dumbfounded.

  The troll woman walked forward. She came to face the seelie and opened her arms. Her eyes shown imploringly.

  “Aradma, I’ve waited so long to see you again. Once, I wished you dead, though I never stopped loving you. Now, I see what you tried to show me so long ago, and I owe it to Kaldor. I beg your forgiveness. I wish I could have heard you then. Please. I cannot bear to think of you hating me.”

  Aradma looked into the woman’s eyes. Those red-ringed eyes on that dark blue face. Her hair was different now. Before, it had been braided and half her head shaved. Now it grew full and unbound, falling over her shoulders. She was even more beautiful, if that were possible.

  Aradma embraced the woman. “Oh, Oriand,” she said, tasting the name for the first time. “I never hated you.”

  Anuit sat at the thick oak table. Arda sat down beside her.

  Yinkle stared at Oriand and frowned but said nothing. She silently watched the others.

  Before they sat, Aradma stepped close to the wizard. She placed her hands on his shoulders and stared deeply into his eyes.

  “I must ask,” she said. “How are you not… Valkrage lost himself in the end. He lost himself to madness. How are you… you?”

  Kaldor smiled. Aradma wanted to bask in his smile. He made her forget everything. He took her hands from his shoulders and held them.

  “I assure you, I am not mad,” he said. “It grieved me to learn of Valkrage’s fate. To answer your question, each Archdragon’s dreamwalker made itself known to us—their vessels—in different ways. In the end, Eldrikura had to force herself on him. She dominated—and in a sense, destroyed—his psyche. Archurion never sought to supplant my own sense of self. He integrated himself within me and supported who I am. He lent me his wisdom but did not conquer my will. So when he died, I still remained me.”

  “You mean to say,” Aradma said, “that you’re the same person who surrendered your power to Aaron, who watched this Empire grow, and who founded the Kaldorite Order?”

  “The same,” he gleamed at her and resettled his spectacles on his nose.

  “Why didn’t you come back before now?” she asked. “We needed you. We need you now.”

  “I was trapped outside of time by Valkrage,” he explained. “I only recently returned… and only even more recently learned what I needed to know and found friends to bring me here. Now that I’ve found what Valkrage left for me, I can help you. The world needs healing, and before that, however, I believe you have something of a vampire problem.”

  The way he said it. So simple, so matter of fact. His eyes twinkled, and Aradma felt hope for the first time. She felt good about life, despite all they had lost.

  “Something of a vampire problem!” She threw her head back and laughed. “That’s one way to put it.”

  “Let us sit,” he said. “We have a lot to talk about.”

  “Why isn’t Odoune here?” Aradma asked as she took her seat beside Kaldor.

  “Because if he came, so would Suleima,” Arda said. “She’s a runewarden.”

  Aradma suddenly felt cold.

  “Odoune and Suleima are here in Windbowl?” Oriand asked.

  Aradma nodded.

  “If you’re Archurion,” Yinkle said slowly, “I would think you would want the heads of your Church.”

  Kaldor regarded her. “Arda tells me I can trust you, Yinkle,” he said.

  Yinkle’s nose twitched. “More than you can trust her,” she pointed towards Oriand. “She tried to wipe out my city and my people.”

  Oriand looked down at the table. “I’m sorry,” she said, softly. “I was wrong. I cannot undo what I did.”

  Yinkle’s ears flattened for a moment, and then straightened again. Her whiskers twitched a few more times, and then she turned back to Kaldor. “Your Church,” she prompted.

  “No, Yinkle, I would not want the Church leaders. It is no longer ‘my’ Church, if indeed it ever was. The people in this room are here because we all have one thing in common—a fundamental distrust for gods.”

  Aradma’s eyes shot to Oriand.

  “Yes,” the former Matriarch confirmed. “Even me.”

  The golden light that Aradma now carried in her soul, given to her by Rajamin, tingled unpleasantly.

  “Before Valkrage died,” Aradma stated, “he said there was some unfinished business. He wanted me to complete some task, but in his madness he had forgotten what it was.”

  “The Kairantheum,” Kaldor said. “He wants to restore balance to the Kairantheum. Everything you know about the gods is a lie. The gods themselves are lies, created by the prayers and beliefs of the faithful and given form through the Kairantheum. It is sidhe magic from the ancients that made it so. They built it to capture Ahmbren’s hopes and dreams and use our magic as a shield against alien spirits. But our hopes and dreams took form, and what was meant to serve us now rules us. Every crisis, every problem we’ve had, has been because of the gods. Klrain fell to evil in his rebellion against the Kairantheum, refusing to bow his head to a lie. His rage consumed him, for the gods were too strong. Valkrage used the Kairantheum to make Aaron a god by turning people’s faith towards him through the Church—all so Aaron could defeat Klrain. Now vampires walk the land as the gods return, and our kingdoms are split by the Church because of the magical conflict between Athra and Malahkma. The cycle has to end. Artalon was built by gnomes to solve the problem posed by the Kairantheum, and we need to unlock the true Stag Throne.”

  Understanding arose within Aradma, sparked by her own pieces of Graelyn’s memory. “The Dragons created the Otherworld,” she said. “This was the beginning. The Otherworld reflected the real world, being shaped by the dreams of the living. Mortals achieved consciousness, and the Otherworld begat faeries. The Fae who came to Ahmbren and became the sidhe perfected the idea of the Otherworld, making the Kairantheum. It was more focused, more potent… more specific in its purpose. It was less organic. Through the Kairantheum, mortals created the gods. The sidhe lost control.”

  “The gods aren’t living,” Oriand said flatly. “They are nothing more than constructs, only made with magic and not gears.”

  “Oh, they live,” Aradma said. “Whatever their beginnings, they are conscious. At least, I believe they are—for the Fae in the Otherworld were alive, too. In both, magic gave rise to living minds.”

  Kaldor nodded. “Aradma is right. Nevertheless, their existence and their rulership are based on lies. This is a problem I intend to solve. All that remains is to unlock the mystery of Artalon.”

  “How did you come to know this?” Aradma asked. “How did Valkrage reveal this to you when he himself was dead?”

  “He left the message in a gnomish construct,” he explained. “He called her Athra’s Jewel. Something of a joke. We have her hidden in the cellar here.”

  Aradma pondered the words. “Athra’s Jewel,” she said softly. The gold light in her tingled.

  Kaldor continued. “She bears the recorded archives of civilization, preserving all that was lost in the burning o
f the Library of Astiana. In essence, the sum of human civilization before Artalon’s return.”

  The light in Aradma’s heart grew.

  “She is a mechanical construct,” Kaldor continued. “She is why I didn’t want runewardens here. The knowledge of the Kairantheum must be kept secret from the gods, lest they try to impose their will on us. This is why Valkrage chose a medium without a soul, without a conscious mind. The Kairantheum could impart a soul if it were to become aware of her. As the receptacle of civilization’s knowledge, she would make the perfect vessel for Athra. The magical constructs—the gods—achieved consciousness. The physical construct might also achieve consciousness in the presence of a runewarden attuned to Athra. She is in the cellar if you want to see her.”

  “No!” Aradma stated emphatically. “I’m glad you told me before taking me down there!”

  “Why?” the wizard asked. His eyes narrowed. “Oh. I see it in you. The light of the gods. I should have noticed it sooner.”

  “You can see it, too?” she asked. “The golden light?”

  He nodded. “It is the light of the Kairantheum. What happened to you?”

  Yinkle gave Aradma a sad look. “My foolish uncle,” she muttered.

  “Rajamin made me a priestess of Athra. I bear her seal within me.”

  The tingling in her heart grew stronger.

  “I would never have done so, but that was his price. We broke up the sovereign borders of the realm to slow the spread of the contagion. He asked me to dissolve Donogan’s kingship and gave me Athra’s authority to do it.”

  “Then you must not venture down those steps,” Kaldor said.

  “Why do we not just destroy her?” Oriand asked. “She is a thing, not a person. A machine. She has fulfilled Valkrage’s purpose by imparting his message.”

  “Because,” Arda said, “She is the lost knowledge of civilization before the Shadowlord plunged the world into darkness. She is the seed of the Realms’ rebirth. She must be preserved until we have wrested control of the Kairantheum away from the gods.”

  “She must be kept hidden,” Aradma added. “No one can learn of her before we’re ready. The temptation would be too great. We need to find a place more secret than my wine cellar!”