When Dragons Die- The Complete Trilogy Box Set

by K. Scott Lewis

  He struggled to rise to his knees and looked up the gentle slope, but the igloo was over a mile away. How had he gotten down here?

  He tried to stand and stumbled. Something heavy on his head weighed him down. The pain of Keruhn’s mark disappeared, but the stabbing of cold assaulted his bones. He fell to the ground and shivered.

  The cold melted away, and he relaxed into warmth. He knew this was his end, the final stages of freezing. He wondered if he had imagined the god. He lay on his back, looking up at the stars.

  Keira… he thought. Oh, Keira… Then: My sons…

  He did not die.

  Orange light filled his vision, and then flames. Fire melted the snow around him and he realized the warmth was not the final moment of freezing to death. It was dragon’s fire.

  Kreen landed beside him. He was young, only twice the length of a horse. Keira sat on his red-orange-scaled back. Her thick, shaggy black fur blew in the breeze as she jumped off of Kreen’s back and took Tiberan in her arms.

  “Oh, Tiberan!” she exclaimed. “What happened to you?”

  He blinked at her, still dazed.

  “Your forehead,” she cried out. There was no fear in her voice, only open amazement.

  He reached up and touched his brow. He slid his fingers, exploring where the pain had lanced. Two great stag antlers sprouted from just in front of his temples, in Keruhn’s likeness.

  His mark. A sign. A physical sign.

  He was filled with the god’s energy, but now that he was no longer in Keruhn’s overpowering presence, he doubted whether it had been the right choice.

  What’s done is done.

  He still did not believe Keruhn had lied to him.

  He stood and took Keira’s furry face in his hands. “Keruhn came to me,” he said. He suddenly laughed in giddiness. “We will have to go back to Artalon,” he told her. “But not yet.”

  “Come home with me.” She pulled at his hands.

  He allowed himself to be led to Kreen’s back, and he held her close as they flew back to the igloo. The dragon let them dismount outside their home and then returned to a nearby cave where he slept with his brothers and sisters, alongside Ghost and Cloudpaw.

  Tiberan ducked through the entrance back into the ice home.

  Keira looked up at him with her blue eyes amid the black-furred wolf face. She shifted back to human form, and the fur receded into the fur coat. He saw adoration. In the last decade she had fully embraced the Glavlunder worship of Keruhn, and the Way of the Hearth.

  “You’ve been touched by the Hunter!” she exclaimed. She opened her coat and let it fall to the ground. He helped her unlace her leathers. He smelled the musk of sexual desire mixed with religious fervor, like perfume rolling from her every pore. Tiberan was still energized by Keruhn’s charge. It washed away the cold and revitalized his flesh. He glanced back into the larger chamber of the home and saw that his boys—their two sons—were fast asleep.

  He took her robe and bundled her loosely, scooping her up into his arms and carrying her to their bed roll, separated from the rest of the igloo by a wall of hanging furs. He laid her down on the thick blankets, excited by her nipples standing firm on tiny breasts. He opened his own furs and undid his pants, freeing himself to the air. The open cold breathed on his flesh, but he didn’t care. The heat of Keruhn beat in his loins, and he lowered himself between her legs. The slick heat inside her body banished all sense of coldness.

  She touched his face as they made love, and he kissed the old burn scars on her fingers and wrists. She reached up and gripped the base of his antlers as his thrusting hips answered her own lusty grinding. Soon, despite the cold, they sweat together as he spent the night in primal passion with his wife.

  19 - The Brood Queen

  Naiadne stood on the rim of the arena, watching the young warriors fight to earn their right to live in society. Troglodyes were not considered kessana, fully accepted warriors, until they killed their first enemy. This could happen two ways. They could fight another brood in open warfare, which was difficult because those that were still choros were not taken on raids. The more common method was to fight in the arena to earn their first kill with the weapons of a warrior. The opponents were usually captured slaves from enemy troglodyte broods, surface dwellers, or other choros that had fallen out of favor. It was usually frowned upon for choros to fight choros, for that meant the numbers of Taer Koorla’s city would be diminished. All her children were precious, at least those who might be capable of fighting for her and one day winning the highest honor of being consumed by the tower in order to produce offspring.

  Naiadne watched her favored troglodyte youth, a promising warrior she thought particularly cruel, intelligent, and ruthless, face off against an adult enemy warrior. His opponent had won ninety-eight battles. If the slave killed one hundred of Taer Koorla’s brood, then by troglodyte honor he would win his freedom and be returned to his own brood to mate with his mother. That was the highest honor and the greatest end, to die so that one’s seed might be consumed by the tower and produce hosts of offspring. For this reason, some troglodytes surrendered themselves to other broods freely in order to earn the right to progeny.

  Naiadne swelled with pride as she watched her favored heft a spear in his hands. The young choros was still lean and lithe, though he had grown tall. In time, he would fill out with the massive, rounded muscles of an adult. The older gladiator held a two-handed morning star, fashioned out of stone, resin, and chitin. The ball had been shaped from the drying fluids of cave worm trails and was as hard as any metal.

  Athaym sat at her side, stroking her cyan hair, which fell in a bowl cut over her round face. He reclined back and said nothing as he watched her watch the fight.

  The gladiator planted his feet, and the Koorlian choros charged. The younger troglodyte thrust his spear in a controlled line, but the older fighter stepped out of the way with rapid grace. Then, with explosive speed, the fighter swung his mace high, turning his weight down into the handle to bring the heavy spiked ball slamming down in a tight arc. The Koorlian barely sidestepped.

  For a moment she thought her favored had the upper hand. While the older one was seemingly off balance, the younger raised his spear for the killing blow.

  With that same explosive speed, the veteran fighter reached up with his left hand and grabbed the youth’s throat. The Koorlian dropped his spear in surprise, and the larger troglodyte lifted him, swiveled him in the air, and brought him down hard upon his knee. He bit into his challenger’s throat with his jaws, ripping his head away to tear open his flesh. Black-red blood spilled over the ground. The gladiator roared his victory, shouting, “You are a stain beneath my feet! I honor your brood mother by removing your weakness from her line!”

  The Koorlian crowd cheered. This fighter had become a favorite, and he was now only one victory away from earning his freedom. He would return home to spawn more fighters that would test the mettle of Koorla. Troglodytes worshipped conflict as the driving force of constant evolution.

  Naiadne felt a moment of profound disappointment. She had misjudged the youth. She would not make that mistake again.

  “It is time, Father,” the ten-year-old girl said. “I will fight and be tested. And I will win. I will remember your words. Death is mercy to the weak.”

  “Go,” he told her.

  She was young, but she had something none of the other troglodyte spawn had. She had the Dark.

  She lightly hopped over the ledge and into the arena grounds. She walked towards the gladiator with nothing other than the black-scale skin-suit she had earned when rising above the station of choros-nalcht.

  She knew what was at stake. It was more than just surviving to become an accepted part of Taer Koorla’s brood. She, Naiadne, would be special to Taer Koorla herself. The tower would use her to court the demon Lords of Dis. She would be the key that bound and delivered both the armies of the Underworld and the hosts of Dis to Athaym’s command. Through her,
her father would take and cleanse the surface realms and rid the world of gods.

  When she emerged from this test, she would become kessana, fully accepted with the right to own other choros like her stupid mother, who tended the birthing pits in the heart of Taer Koorla. Aradma would never be kessana. All she cared about was tending to the young spawn. Naiadne hoped she never became weak like her mother. Once she bonded with the tower, Aradma wouldn’t even be her mother any more. Taer Koorla would.

  She looked down for a moment at the vacant eyes of the dead Koorlian choros. She felt a wave of disgust, casting aside any earlier admiration she had felt. Battle had shown the truth of his nature. He was useless.

  The old fighter had turned away, thinking there would be no more eager challengers today. He stopped and regarded the girl. He looked for a moment up at the Koorlian chieftain and then at Athaym. When they didn’t respond, he snorted.

  “What is this?” he shouted. “You insult me. Surely you cannot think to send a surface girl to be my hundredth victory. This will not grant me enough honor to return to my brood mother.”

  A hush fell over the crowd. The Koorlian kessana were unsure how to act. They too wanted a glorious battle, but they knew she was Athaym’s favorite. She allowed herself an amused grin, imagining their thoughts. Should they join in the protest and risk insulting his confidence in her, or should they encourage her and risk her dying underneath the fearsome morning star?

  “Death is mercy to the weak,” she told him.

  His reptilian brow furrowed into a frown. “Bah!” he declared. “I will wipe my feet on the stain of your blood. But I demand a true Koorlian choros upon her death! I do not consider myself freed with one so easy.” Despite the bravado, he stared at her with a confused glimmer in his eyes. His reptilian mind was obviously challenged by the incongruity of such a small surface-dwelling child standing unafraid before him.

  The troglodyte warrior swung his weapon wide and slow compared to how he had attacked the one upon whom she now no longer spared a thought. It was a foolish blow, without effort. He made the error of judging his opponent without testing her.

  She tumbled and rolled between his legs and came up behind him.

  “And for the weak, there can be only death,” she said. She touched her fingers to his calf, and a thick needle of darkness impaled his leg. He fell to his knee with a grunt as she dodged and retreated from his reach.

  He regarded her with narrow eyes. Blood spilled from his leg, but it was clear he looked at her with new wariness, discarding his previous bravado. He breathed deeply, rhythmically, not revealing any pain from the stab wound. His nostrils opened and flared, and his iron jaws locked tightly together. His forked serpentine tongue flicked out once, and he stood. Only the slightest of grunts betrayed any pain from putting weight on his leg.

  Naiadne had much to learn of the Dark. This she knew. She was not yet strong enough to shadowjump or summon the threads of shadow that would leech life away from living tissue. But Athaym had been her mentor and had given her the Dark powers himself. She knew who Athaym had been. The Black Dragon. The greatest living being this world had ever seen. Her father.

  From years of his guidance, reaching out to the Dark was as natural as breathing. She bent the shadows around her, and when the troglodyte struck again, more focused and deliberate this time, a thin black shell solidified to deflect the weapon’s blow. The spiked ball of the morning star thudded against the hardened darkness, sticking for a moment in space, then slowly slid down to the ground.

  Naiadne rushed at him. Her father had trained her not only to use the darkness but her body as well. He never let her rest, making sure she tested the extent of her elven nimbleness, which had saved her life more than once in the violent troglodyte city. The larger gladiator tried to bring his weapon around, but she moved too close for it to be effective. He dropped his weapon to try to grasp her with his hands, but she deftly stepped to the side.

  She brought her hands up under the inside of his arm and channeled the Dark once more. A black piece of shadow thrust from her palm in a wide triangular point. It entered and then emerged from the opposite side of his arm, opening a wide gash.

  He howled as more of his blood spurted over the ground. She whirled as he tried to catch her with his good arm, even while his iron jaws opened and snapped through the air where her head had been only a moment before.

  She stepped on the base of his thick crocodilian tail and jumped, landing on his shoulders, legs wrapped around his neck. Before he could reach up, she pressed the flats of her palms on either side of his head. With a quick inhalation, she made the Dark move by feeling it. She pulled it from her left hand and received the shadowy flow in her right. As it passed between her palms, it split a hole through the troglodyte’s brain.

  The warrior fell, and she jumped away, flipping forward in the air and landing in a crouch with one hand planted on the ground.

  She stood and walked back over to the fallen warrior. “You are a stain beneath my feet,” she declared, repeating the words she had heard in the arena so many times before. “I honor your brood mother by removing your weakness from her line.”

  The Koorlian spectators nodded in approval. She had won the right of kessana.

  Naiadne used the power of the Dark to tear open the fallen troglodyte’s chest. His blood pooled in his open ribs. She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. She held out her hands and looked at her arms. His body’s dark scales glittered in the ever present blue light of the underground fungus. Her own scale-suit, made of those tiny interlocking mollusks, was equally beautiful. Her pink hands, however… pink was a weak color.

  She touched her cheeks, also uncovered by the black skin-suit. Pink like the soft underbelly of yolisk larva. She hated her elven skin. It was weak, like her mother. She raised her head and looked at the black skin of her father’s face beneath his snowy white hair.

  Naiadne plunged her hands in the troglodyte’s chest, burying them in his black blood. She smeared her palms over her face and ears, wiping away the hated pink with the dark, sticky fluid. She pressed little black globules of gore into her cyan hair, but she didn’t care. She wanted to be like her father.

  Athaym stepped into the arena and walked over to her. He placed his hand on her shoulder, and she looked up at him with adoration.

  “You have pleased me today,” he told her. He didn’t smile. He never smiled with one of his own. She would have been insulted if he had. Smiles were for outsiders, for those who needed to be deceived. Smiles were lies, and there were no lies between the two of them.

  “Come,” he said. “Let us return to Taer Koorla and present you as kessana.” With that, he placed his hand on her shoulder, and she felt the velvety coolness of the Void as they shadowjumped to the tower.

  Later that evening, Naiadne found her mother down in the birthing chambers, where the druid spent most of her time. She wasn’t alone in her ministrations. Other choros, some of them unseelie but most of them young troglodytes, served the tower. She had once been called Aradma, but that name seemed forgotten to both her and Athaym. Naiadne’s father called her Graelyn.

  The truth was, Naiadne liked it here as well, though maybe not for the same reasons as her mother. When she saw the eggs, she saw potential. She saw warriors. She saw the promise of a future when they would serve her as she brought both the armies of Dis and the armies of the Underworld together in one glorious swarm to cleanse the surface of its people and the gods they worshipped.

  She had heard her mother once remark that the room was shaped like the inside of a garlic bulb, with sectioned chambers that sloped to a single point at the top. Strands of cilia with small luminescent bubbles at their tips hung from the sloping, curved ceiling. The walls and floor were soft, moist flesh. They were almost slippery, and the slime that slithered between Naiadne’s toes tickled her feet.

  Graelyn didn’t see her immediately. She stood focused on the vulva that quivered within the fleshy recess
es of one of the chamber’s segments. The sections of the rooms were divided by thin ribs of skin, separating the walls into concave segments. Within each was a birthing mouth like the one at which Graelyn stood.

  Naiadne watched the choros in silence for a moment. Imps accompanied her, hovering behind her shoulders. They were gifts of Dis, from her father. In time, she knew she would learn to command all orders of demon, not just the imps who served as her playmates.

  The folds of the fleshy wall quivered once more, and a small round surface, smooth and pearl-white, emerged. Graelyn reached for it, withdrawing the egg. More ova followed, and each time another choros took the egg in hand. They carried the eggs out to the center of the room and rested them on its warm surface. The floor there secreted jelly, the result of feeding the tower in other chambers by other choros. Now, the choros that served this chamber would spend time gathering up the secretions and spreading them over the tops of the eggs, making sure all parts of the shells could absorb the nutrients.

  Graelyn placed the egg on the rough tissue on the chamber’s center ground and looked up and met her daughter’s eyes. The green striations in her deep brown irises flashed brightly upon seeing her. Naiadne caught her breath for a moment, and an uncomfortable, unfamiliar emotion tugged at her chest before it was gone. Whatever it was, she didn’t like it. It made her feel weak.

  Graelyn regarded her with pity. “Blood will not hide you from yourself forever,” she remarked.

  “Don’t be stupid, Mother,” Naiadne replied. She wondered for a moment how she had gotten that pink skin. Her father’s features were dark gray, nearly jet-black, and her mother’s skin was silver like the glinting slime of a cave worm’s trail. There was no reddish hue to either of them.

  A troglodyte warrior entered the room. He stood naked, not even clothed in the skin-suit that matched the color of his scales. Four choros escorted him.

  Graelyn turned away from her daughter to face the troglodyte.