When Dragons Die- The Complete Trilogy Box Set

by K. Scott Lewis

  “How much longer?” Fernwalker shouted.

  “They’re just waiting for the signal!” Yinkle yelled back. “Light ’em up!”

  Fernwalker leaned around and sighted through the gnomish scope of her ratling rifle. She saw where the five orc heads huddled behind constructed bunker walls. There was a Surafian with them as well. He held up a wand.

  “Oh no you don’t,” she muttered. Instead of firing, she reached out to the element of Life. She didn’t touch Life the same way her mother and father did. The link to Life within her seemed closer to the element of Light, yet Odoune assured her it was still Life she channeled. He told her once that all Life had come from the stars, and that Life on Ahmbren was a response to the seed of the sun’s warmth. She tapped directly into that stored star energy of the planet, and instead of growing flowers and vines, her power returned the stored life energy to the universe.

  She sent the power of Life through the rifle to where her eyes focused through the scope. A brilliant sparkling popped and fizzled over the orcs’ heads and then released a bright column into the sky.

  The Surafian wizard blinked, startled into interrupting whatever spell he had prepared. The orcs looked up at the light and then bolted to run back into the far building. They were too late. Summoned by her glowing column, a flight of three gyrothopters dove and lit up the space with their lightning cannons.

  “Bridge is clear!” Fernwalker reported.

  “You’re normally happier when you do that,” Yinkle replied. She looked at her friend with worry.

  Fernwalker shrugged. “You know what today is.”

  Yinkle nodded, round pink ears drooping. “I never forget.” She holstered her pistols and rummaged in a pouch affixed to her belt. She took out two cookies and tossed Fernwalker one of them. “Happy nineteenth birthday,” she said.

  Fernwalker sighed and took the cookie. Yinkle was right. The ratling woman never forgot, and she never lost count. This had become a ritual for them, and Fernwalker went along with it. Her birthday was never the same since her mother went missing ten years ago. Yesterday would have been Aradma’s birthday. Her mother would have been twenty herself, but she had come into the world as an adult. No telling what her body’s age was, and they didn’t yet know the natural lifespan of a seelie. Their elven cousins, the sidhe, lived over seven centuries, and they had no reason to believe seelie would be any different.

  When their shift ended, a darkling and a human relieved them. Fernwalker and Yinkle returned inside the tower, eager for a meal.

  They lived in the upper chambers of a tower on the northwest side of the city, only a few rings away from God Spire. The sidhe had taken God Spire shortly after the war started and had never relinquished it, but the rest of the city’s towers had been won and then surrendered as battle lines shifted, advanced, and retreated in the last ten years. High King Donogan and King Leiham formalized the relationship between the States of Hammerfold and Farstkeld, calling it the Northern Alliance. They had taken this particular tower two years ago, and things seemed to stagnate after that. Each faction had now firmly entrenched themselves, and the war continued, but little ground had been gained or lost in the last year.

  Fernwalker sat in the common dining hall beside the hearth, cross-legged on the floor and ignoring the tables and chairs just ten feet away. Men and women sat in sparse clumps at the tables, those who had taken up Oriand’s cause. Some were soldiers, and others civilians in support roles, but they all had something in common—they believed in Oriand’s vision, and they gathered to eat together between shifts for a fellowship they had a difficult time finding among the bulk of an army that still prayed to gods.

  This eating hall was smaller, more intimate than the larger one two levels below that served the bulk of the Northern Alliance troops. The small group of friends from Windbowl, not belonging to any army, had formed bonds of family despite their differences. Oriand drew them together around the banner of Aradma’s memory.

  Fernwalker broke apart her rifle and started to clean the carbon buildup from the day’s fighting. There was something about this ritual that comforted her, the solid metal pieces that cleanly latched into place with each other, their satisfying weight, and the smell of the oil that allowed them to glide into place. Yinkle sat with her, doing the same to her pistol, and it was not long before Captain Cory Piper joined them. He brought a bag of bullets for them.

  “Fresh shipment,” he stated. He had to shout over the noise of the troops.

  The ratling fleet hadn’t exactly joined any side in the fight, at least not in direct combat. The air battles still churned between the sidhe and the gnomish ’thopters, and the ratlings had no desire to engage either side. Instead, they spent most of their time providing airborne supply lines for the Hammerfoldian army. Donogan’s and Leiham’s troops had been cut off from their homelands for some time due to the orcish horde that had taken Roenti, but they were dug-in, and Cory Piper’s fleet of air ships sustained them. He also harried the Surafian sea navy when he could, but by now that was more for sport. The orcs were firmly entrenched in the land.

  Despite the fact that the zeppelin fleet spent most of its time running the lines of communication back to Hammerfold and Kallanista, that didn’t mean that ratlings didn’t help on the front lines. Donogan’s, Leiham’s, and Piper’s troops all engaged Thorkhan’s and Seonna’s orcs on both the ground and on the bridges between the towers. The Matriarch’s trolls fought for Hammerfold—when they fought at all. They were unreliable at best, for everything had to be done in a proper way, at a proper time, with no discernible rhyme or reason. Nevertheless, when they helped, the divine healing magic of their runewardens—their women—was welcome.

  Anuit entered the hall.

  “What’s she doing here?” Fernwalker asked. Her voice turned with venom. It had been ten years, but she had never forgiven that bitch or her darkling whore for abandoning her mother. After the war broke out, of the circle of friends from Windbowl only Anuit had been pushed to the side. Fernwalker hated her, and the truth was no one else trusted her sorcery. Even Attaris and Suleima were forgiven their rune magic, but there was no getting around Anuit’s demonic power. Demons were evil—some of the gods were still considered good, even if they needed the healing that only Artalon could provide. Where Anuit went, Arda followed, and the two of them spent most of their time with Kristafrost and Eszhira, doing Fernwalker didn’t know what.

  Their eyes met from across the hall, and Anuit looked away. The sorceress headed towards Oriand’s apartments.

  Fernwalker lay down her weapon and stood. Normally Anuit didn’t intrude into this place that had become the young seelie’s home. Anuit and Oriand usually met elsewhere, given people’s distrust of the sorceress. Fernwalker strode over and stood in front of Anuit, her fists planted on her hips, blocking her way. “You’re not welcome here,” she stated.

  Anuit’s eyes flashed, but her face remained cool. “I won’t be long,” she replied. “Once my business with Oriand is concluded, I won’t bother you.”

  Fernwalker gestured emphatically towards the door. “Take it somewhere else.”

  The people around had stopped their chatter to watch the scene play out. Her feelings towards the dark-skinned woman were no secret.

  Anuit’s lips pressed together firmly. “Have a care, child,” she warned. “I know you don’t like me, and out of respect for your mother I try to stay out of your way, but honestly! Is this how you honor your mother’s memory, by throwing a tantrum like a little girl? Stand aside.”

  Fernwalker’s shoulders heaved as she breathed in rapid anger. She knew Anuit wouldn’t hurt her, and she knew she herself wouldn’t do anything foolish towards the sorceress. Well, nothing more foolish than what she was already doing. Anuit had a way of provoking Fernwalker into making a scene, and Fernwalker hated her for it. The elf’s sage green cheeks flushed darker in shame as blood rushed to them. How dare Anuit invoke her mother!

  She spun on h
er heels and walked away, returning to the ratlings and the weapon on the floor.

  “Was that worth it?” Yinkle asked with a disapproving cluck of her teeth.

  “I wish she would wither and die,” Fernwalker sulked as she watched Anuit enter Oriand’s office. The young elf returned to her cross-legged position and took the mug of stew, continuing to glare at the sorceress who no longer cared to look her way.

  Yinkle put her knobby hand on Fernwalker’s crossed knee. “Life’s too short to spend your time angry.”

  Fernwalker looked down at the ratling woman. Yinkle’s clear black eyes glittered in that gray-furred face.

  Fernwalker’s face relaxed from simmering anger to sadness. “I know,” she said softly. “I just can’t let it go. They claim to honor Aradma’s memory, but they were the ones who abandoned her.”

  The truth was, Yinkle was the only person that Fernwalker completely trusted. With the others, it was complicated. Fernwalker considered Odoune, Suleima, Oriand, Attaris, and Yinkle to be her family, even though only Odoune was tied to her by blood. When the war started, Yinkle had been in Windbowl with Oriand and Suleima. It had been only five years ago that they had all come to Artalon on one of the ratling supply runs. No town was unaffected by the war, and Odoune and Oriand wanted to center their attention on the ancient city. Fernwalker came with them, and Odoune had raised her in the druidic arts.

  Before coming to Artalon, Oriand had spent those five years learning to read and consuming every book that Queen Aiella would lend her from the Academy. Since arriving, the former Matriarch had continued her hunt for whatever books she could get her hands on. Most of these were provided by the gnomes of Cloudmoore, which now floated on the sea after it had been crippled by Tindron’s magic ten years prior. Sometimes, however, they were able to raid an old office or library that had belonged to Artalonian sidhe administrators during Aaron’s reign. Of all five of them, Oriand was the only one who accepted Anuit for who she was. They seemed to have a special understanding between them, which Fernwalker attributed to Oriand’s love for Aradma and Anuit’s love for Arda. Fernwalker didn’t care, and of all the things Oriand had done for her since the war began, she still wished the troll woman would cut ties with the sorceress. Nevertheless, Fernwalker forgave her for it.

  Oriand’s studying had completely transformed her. She devoured books on history and philosophy from ages past. She had expressed on multiple occasions that she wished the Library of Astiana had never been burned, or that Athra’s Jewel, which had been imprinted by Valkrage with the contents of the same library, had never been possessed by Athra.

  Oriand spent much time with Odoune going over his teachings and the conversations he and Aradma had during their time together. She was especially interested in what Odoune could remember that Aradma had told him. She also wrote down Arda’s telling of the Kaldorite code and its ten core philosophical values of the Light. Something changed in the former Matriarch, and she became obsessed with piercing superstition and myth. The fragments of Aradma’s discussions with Odoune crystalized into a dedication to truth at any cost.

  The image of Oriand sitting behind her desk, reading a book with delicate wire-framed gnomish spectacles on her nose and listening to Hammerfoldian visitors, had become something of an icon. Those visitors were the ones who had rejected the very idea of worshipping gods. They were uncertain, afraid to live in a world governed by their own moralities without divine authority. Despite the evil that the gods had caused, most people still clung to their faith in the Gods of Light as a whole. The pantheon was fractured, but most had lived with faith of one sort or another all their lives, whether it had been the worship of Aaron as Karanos’ incarnation, or later in one of the Gods of Light. Furthermore, even though the secret of the Kairantheum had been revealed, most simply did not believe it. The priests taught that the gods were eternal and existed long before the Kairantheum, and only used its magical energy as a convenient medium through which to communicate with their worshippers. They believed Artalon could help balance the understanding between gods and mortals, and restore the Pantheon of Light to harmony, but very few accepted that the gods were created by mortals and not the other way around.

  So, Oriand’s small group formed, sharing a common pledge: they would live a god-free life to the best of their abilities. They each held the memory of Aradma as a symbol of this way of life, and Oriand had started referring to them all as Aradma’s Legacy.

  Even Suleima had abandoned her faith and taken this pledge. She had once hated Oriand, but that was long ago. Suleima now assisted her former Matriarch in organizing and cataloguing historical and philosophical knowledge. Attaris had become an advisor to King Leiham, and although he still put his faith in the Storm God, he was welcomed by Aradma’s Legacy when he could break away from his duties.

  “They do honor her,” Yinkle said, referring to Anuit and Arda. “And none were happy about the choice they had to make. We all miss your mother.”

  Fernwalker nodded, looking down at her open palms lying in her lap. She frowned and broke down her rifle again, even though it didn’t need another cleaning.

  * * *

  Oriand sat behind her desk, gold-wired spectacles resting daintily on her nose. Her face had started to show the lines of age, and hints of gray ran through her black hair. She looked up from the middle of a thick book when a soft knock came at her door.

  “Come in,” Oriand said.

  Anuit entered and shut the door behind her. She seemed flushed. “Fernwalker…” she muttered.

  “I know,” Oriand replied. “She’ll settle in time.”

  “Or she won’t.”

  “Or she won’t,” Oriand agreed. “You don’t often come see me here. Is something wrong?”

  Anuit handed her a small leather book. “We found this for you.”

  Oriand took it and felt its thickness. She placed her fingers briefly on the soft leather cover of the old book, feeling its grain with something akin to a caress. She then removed her spectacles and folded them, placing them on the desk. She rose and came around the desk, and for a brief moment they hugged.

  “Is everything well?” Oriand asked again. She spent most of her time in the office, moving only when shifting battle lines in the city made it necessary. She hoped she wouldn’t have to move again. They had been here for two years, and she had accumulated… stuff. All things considered, she was relatively safe here from the immediate risks of the war, unlike Anuit.

  Anuit and Arda had joined forces with Kristafrost and Eszhira. The four of them performed special tasks for the two kings behind enemy lines when soldiers or agents couldn’t get the job done. But their real reason for becoming a team was to try to penetrate Artalon’s secrets within sidhe controlled territory. They weren’t part of Aradma’s Legacy, but they kept in close contact with Oriand, Odoune, and Suleima on any discoveries they made.

  “As well as can be,” Anuit said. “Arda sends her regards. She’s tied up right now.”

  “What did you find?” Oriand asked, glancing at the book. Now that she knew everyone was safe, she wanted to get to business.

  “I think we’ve found out why Valkrage could never locate the Stag Throne.”

  Oriand raised an eyebrow. They had discovered enough by now to know the Stag Throne was the focal point of Artalon’s power, and that it had remained hidden since the Second Age. The golden-antler throne that Aaron had sat upon was only a symbol, nothing more. One might even consider it a decoy.

  Anuit continued. “I’ve just come from God Spire. We’ve spent some time listening to the sidhe, as you know.”

  Oriand nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes, what did you learn?”

  “I can’t say for sure,” Anuit cocked her head, “but if I understand them correctly, Time’s fabric around the tower has been torn.”

  Oriand stared at her. Her eyes narrowed, and she shrugged her shoulders. “And? Valkrage lived there for a thousand years; surely that’s to be expected—”r />
  “No, that’s not what I mean,” Anuit interjected. “As I understand magic, you can’t travel back in Time.”

  “Yes,” Oriand acknowledged. “I have read this. Only forward.” In truth, it wasn’t a matter of traveling forward. It was more like skipping Time’s flow as it passed you by.

  Anuit shook her head. “That’s not quite right. Think of Time like a river—”

  “—and it takes us forward. Yes. So?”

  “No,” Anuit replied. “Time is a river, and it flows backwards. Think of us as immovable objects in the river of Time, looking upstream. It flows around us, and is shaped by our actions. We change and leave imprints that it takes downstream behind us. We can’t travel forward… against Time’s flow. But we can step outside of it, take our influence out of its streaming, and then step back in.”

  Oriand said nothing. How did Anuit know this? She was no wizard, and to Oriand’s knowledge, sorcery did not grant her access to the powers of Time. Maybe one of her demons knew, however. Anuit’s imp was good at ferreting out information.

  “But there’s something else,” Anuit said. “Time leaves an impression. One way to look at it is to think of yourself as turning around in Time’s river. You don’t go back, so to speak, but you can look back. You can see the imprints that were left in the flow. The more powerful you are, the further back you can look.”

  “Temporal records!” Oriand exclaimed, suddenly excited. With such a thing, they could see history as it truly was, not as they were told to believe it was.

  “Yes, that’s one way to look at it,” Anuit said. “Imprints in Time. If you can look back far enough—”

  “—then we could see Artalon being built!” Oriand finished. “We could see the original Stag Throne before it was hidden. We could hear the words of the gnomes who built it, and look at the drawings that have been lost—”