by Alex Raizman
It was Ossman’s turn to smile, and he stepped back from the door.
“What happened then?” Aldreida asked, her voice sounding more certain although still confused.
Ossman answered for him. “The mad bastard threw open the door and charged at the Alohym soldiers, throwing overcharged arccells at them.” Ossman gave Armin a sideways glance. “We doing that again?”
“Like I said, don’t ask me how. I have no flathing clue.” Stepping forward towards the aged door, hinges so darkened by rust stealth never would have been an option, Armin shoved them with all his might. “Just follow me and I’ll figure it out at the last second.”
To punctuate those boldly stupid words, the door swung open with a dying man’s groan, revealing the darkness where death chanted his otherworldly rituals.
Light spilled sullenly into the room that had once housed the hoard of the dread necromantic dragon. The power within was so great, it slowed the spread of radiance to a crawl, as if the light itself was molasses spilling across the floor. Yet where it touched, it found more surfaces to amplify its glow. Piles of golden and silver coins from empires that had died generations before Armin’s great grandsires’ own great grandsires had been birthed were strewn across the floor. The long-dead kings and queens and emperors and princesses emblazoned on the metal stared mutely at the sudden intrusion of light, and at the edges where radiance flickered against darkness, Armin could almost imagine those rulers of dust trying to blink to clear their eyes of the luminosity.
The chanting continued unfalteringly in those inky depths, the speaker unfazed by the intrusion into his work. For a moment Armin dared hope that somehow he hadn’t heard their entrance, but the voice began to move closer to where they were, a gentle jingle of coins heralding each step. Armin raised his arcwand as his companions similarly readied their weapons, Aldreda moving with greater haste than the sluggish light and vanishing into the darkness.
A shape moved in the shadows at the edge of the expanding ring of light, and Armin set his sights on it. The chanting was rising from that throat, from the speaker here, and Armin pulled the trigger in the hopes of ending it before it could complete whatever its dread purpose was.
The arclight beam streamed from his weapon with the unerring accuracy he’d become known for, yet it was swallowed by the darkness before it could hit its mark. The chanting voice hit a final word and then stopped. Armin knew that word, Loruyah. In the tongue of the Alohym, it meant “halt,” and an unlight lumcaster that wove it into their ritual could resume it at a later point without their magic disrupted. Another advantage they have over us, Armin thought with a scowl.
“Don’t fire again,” said the voice. Now that it was speaking a language Armin knew, he could hear how twisted with unlight mutations it was. Familiar words turned alien on those lips, with letters clicking as if forced through mandibles. “We should speak, before you decide if you will slay me or not.”
Armin’s mind was made up, but he still hesitated. Now that they weren’t speaking the Alohym’s language, he could tell it was not Theognis. That man’s voice had not been so far gone as this, and Unlight mutations were like those of the Light in one regard – they warped a man slowly over time. If he had been wrong about that, he might be wrong about other things. “Then step forward and speak, and we will decide.”
The shadow moved, an arm extending to point into the darkness. Armin could see its outline and his stomach lurched as he realized it was bifurcated like the Alohym’s, split at the elbow. Even though just an outline, he could tell the two hands at the end were those of a human. “Call your skulker back from the shadows, and I will. They do not hide you from me.”
“Come, Aldreda,” Armin said, and the silent swordswoman appeared a moment later. Armin gave her a faint nod and half grin, hoping she would take it to mean he had a plan. He didn’t, but right now their lives might hinge on that belief. If nothing else, this talk would buy him time to figure out what his desperate gambit would be. “I’ve done as you bid. Now show yourself.”
The figure stepped into the light, and Guiart retched beside Armin at the sight. Armin could scarce blame him for the reaction. This figure was undeniably that of a human – it stood on two legs covered with pale flesh, it had eyes that were gold and twinkled in the light, and its hair was long and thickly braided. Yet it was also undeniably something else. The face was rent in twain, a mouth that opened both on the horizontal and the vertical. Its arms were both split in the unnatural way of the Alohym, and beneath the silk tunic it wore, Armin could tell its abdomen pinched so inhumanly tight there was no room for the entrails that humans relied upon for life. Of its sex, the inhuman form gave no sign – too far into the alien to even be considered androgynous.
“What are you?” Armin asked, unable to keep the horror from his voice.
“A failure,” the figure said in that voice that cracked like breaking flesh. “You may call me Synit. That is what the told me my first mother named me. My second mother gave me a new name, but I rejected it as she rejected her daughter.”
“Synit,” Armin said. It was a name common to the empire of Xhaod – or at least it had been before the Alohym had annihilated that empire with every other human kingdom. “What…happened to you?”
“That is a fairer question, and one with a more interesting answer. Yet one that seems to be lacking in manners. Courtesy would dictate some pleasantries before such things questions are answered. Such as your names.”
“Courtesy?” Ossman said, bristling. Armin could almost hear his tendons as they closed around the grip of his axe. “You set the undead to guard your path. They nearly slew us, and you dare speak of courtesy?”
Synit sighed, a rasping sound that ground against his ears like a whetstone. Her form – at least, Armin thought that was the correct way to refer to her, given her talk about being a daughter – was monstrous, but Armin focused on her eyes. They were human, and there he would have a hope of reading her true intention. Just like Tythel, Armin thought. Although the princess was far less inhuman than this creature, the eyes would give answer to her true intention. “I did not set them upon you. Had I known adversaries of the Alohym followed me, I would have instructed them more carefully.”
Armin couldn’t stop the hoarse laugh that escaped his lips. “You would have us believe that you are a foe to the Alohym? You are half one of them to look upon, and you set yourself against them?”
“There are those who are humans in truth who make common cause with them,” Synit said. She reached up to tuck her hair behind the twin antenna that sprouted from her head in place of ears. “Is it so hard to believe that it could go both ways?”
“Yes,” Armin spat. “As hard to believe we just happened upon you in the depths of a dragon’s lair.”
“I’ve been waiting,” Synit answered. “I was certain someone would come here. There are only two dragon lairs left unspoiled, and only a fool would dare approach Karjon’s lair. The Alohym will have it guarded heavily, awaiting the dragon princesses return to her father’s grave. It made sense that she one send someone here. Dragons are as much creatures of instinct as they are of reason.”
“Pretend for a moment I believe you,” Armin said. He wasn’t certain how much or little faith he might have in the words that were spilling from between those twisted mandibles, but he could see no lie in Synit’s eyes. What he saw there was hatred, a hatred that flared every time she spoke the word ‘Alohym.’ While that boded well, what did not was the clear madness of her plan. Armin and the others had only come here out of desperation for gold and translation for Theognis’ notes, not as part of some plan to recover a draconic horde for Tythel. How long would she have waited? Armin wondered. How long chanting in the darkness, hoping that Tythel would send someone here? Armin wanted to ask her what she was doing here in this tomb but feared provoking a fight too soon. Synit was not operating on logic Armin could follow, and he had to tread carefully. “Why were you waiting?”
“Because I wished to make a gift for this dragon princess. She righted a great wrong, and although she did not do it for me, I still owe her a debt. One that I had hoped to repay.”
“What debt is that?” Ossman asked, his voice still thick with loathing.
“She slew my second mother, and in doing so freed me. I wish to repay her for that death. If naught else, I wish to thank her.”
A quiet dread began to creep up Armin’s spine. “And who was that second mother?”
“You knew her,” Synit said, affixing her eyes on Armin’s. Here was that hatred again, a well so deep that Armin could see himself drowning in it. “She was known by a different name, but human tongues can’t form the word properly, so she took on a new name, one stolen from your gods of Light.”
“Name her,” Armin said. The point of his arcwand began to tremble with shock before she even spoke the words and confirmed his deepest fears.
“You knew her as Rephylon,” Synit said.
The death of Rephylon had been a chaotic time. Armin hadn’t even been present in the fight itself – he’d been helping with the evacuation and re-armament of the former prisoners, frantically watching for some sign that Theognis had returned. He’d known Tythel had stood against Rephylon…and had expected that he’d come back to her body.
Afterwards, she’d told them about what had happened. Rephylon’s terrifying speed and strength, Tythel’s realization of how she could channel ghostflame, and the things Rephylon had said to taunt her. One of those had been that the Alohym had been raising humans. “She said that humans are good at imprinting, and they were able to raise humans directly. Her exact words were…” Tythel had trailed off here, scratching at her milky eye. Armin had been pushing her to accept an eye-patch, but she’d been resistant. “It was ‘Your species is unusually fragile in infancy, there was an adjustment period. But I can say we are quite pleased with the results.’
Armin had a terrible feeling that Synit was what Rephylon had meant by an “adjustment period.” The end result of an attempt to fuse the Alohym’s organic suits with human flesh. Now that he was looking at her with less animosity, he could see that every motion Synit made was slow and deliberate, her limbs trembling with pain at every action. “Rephylon raised you?” He asked. It was a stupid question, one she’d already answered, but sometimes a question needed to be asked because the truth was so unbelievable that it bore repeating.
“Yes. Almost as long as I can remember.” There was a melancholy that underlined her every word. It wasn’t completely obscured by the unnatural sounds her throat and mouth made as she spoke, although they did mask it well. “I have the faintest memories of my first mother. A laugh, a song in the dark, and the tears as they ripped me from her arms. I remember that all too well. Rephylon thought I would bond with her in spite of those memories.”
“It appears she was mistaken,” Ossman said. He still had his axe drawn, was still standing protectively in front of Clarcia, but the tension had left his grip. He was no longer a wolf waiting to spring, but a hound trying to decide if it was looking at an intruder or a guest. Ready to bite if needed, but not certain of the need.
“She was.” Synit spat the words.
Armin had bought himself time to think, but it had proved to be of little benefit. He still was adrift at how to respond. “How long have you been free?” he finally managed, uncertain if it was the right question to ask this madwoman.
Synit tapped her mandibles together, an expression Armin couldn’t read. It was even harder than understanding Tythel’s expressions. The princess could speak volumes with a tilt of her head or the blink of an eye, but at least she had the same anatomy as a human. Synit was only partially that, and the alien structures made reading her a challenge Armin didn’t think he’d be overcoming anytime soon. The eyes. Focus on the eyes.
Before he could, or Synit could respond, or one of his companions could chime in with a more sensible question, the slowly expanding ring of light finally reached the walls, dispelling the last of the darkness to slink into the shadows where it lay, coiled like a serpent. The moment it touched the edges of the room, it was reflected back. No darkness impeded its path this time, and in an instant the light’s intensity doubled. The walls were covered in gold and gems, and shone so brightly it gave the room the luster of daylight.
Everyone – even Synit – gaped at the sight. This was not a king’s ransom in gold. This was a kingdom’s ransom. Gold and silver and platinum, studded with gems from across the world.
“Since Rephylon died,” Synit said, breaking the silent awe. Armin had to fight back a sudden, irrational surge of resentment. “Her death plunged a great deal into chaos. I came here as quickly as I could. I…hadn’t shone light here yet. Light and Shadow, I had no idea what to expect.”
“We’ll need to come back,” Aldreda said, her voice almost hoarse in its hushed reverence. “We can’t hope to carry enough.”
“Carry enough?” Synit asked. Her mandibles parted, and Armin wondered if that was a frown, or if it was some other expression.
“We came here for this,” Armin said, gesturing towards the treasure that surround them.
Synit’s eyes narrowed. “You came here…to remove treasure from a dragon’s horde?”
“Is that a problem?” Armin asked, tension creeping back into his shoulders.
“Surprising,” Synit responded. “I was under the impression that dragons viewed such things as anathema. Perhaps the scrolls were inaccurate.”
Her eyes were narrowed, and she still radiated tension. Armin took a deep, careful breath to buy himself time to think. Choose your next words carefully, Armin. If you make a misstep here, you could start a fight, and you still don’t know what she can do. “So Rephylon was your mother? I can only imagine how bizarre that was.” Brilliant.
“I do not hear a refutation in that statement,” Synit said. Her antennas started to twitch in…excitement? Anger?
“I don’t know,” Armin admitted. “Only that the princess told us we would find treasure here. And…well, our coffers run near empty. And-”
“Silence!” Synit said, the word coming out as a cold hiss. “Someone has entered the upper chamber.”
“Who?” Ossman asked, tightening his hands around the handle of his axe again.
“My corpses were destroyed somehow,” Synit said, glaring at Clarcia. “I do not have sentries anymore. I have no way to know. But there are many of them.”
“Is there another way out of here?” Armin asked, unslinging his arcwand.
“Not that I’ve discovered in the weeks I’ve been here.”
“We’re trapped?” Guiart asked, his voice high with sudden terror.
Armin felt that same fear racing through his veins.
Chapter 38
The common room of the Inn was as quiet as a grave. At this hour, it was too early for even the innkeeper to be up and going about his duties, too late for the most drunken lout to still be snoring into a pile of vomit on the tables. The only living thing down here was a mouse, and it twitched its nose as Tythel, Eupheme, and Tellias slipped into the room. It seemed unconcerned for a moment, certain these huge, lumbering oafs would pose no threat to it – then it turned those tiny little eyes towards Tythel.
All living things on Aelith that could smell knew the scent of dragon, and even the beasts that had no fear of humans knew to fear the smell of the greatest hunters that had ever roamed the world.
Tythel wondered if that would change in time. If over the centuries and millennia to come, creatures would lose their fear of that smell. There would be no more dragons roving the sky, and their hunts would be forgotten by men and beast and even Alohym. Dragons would become only legends they would tell their children, a reason for a tingle in the spine at a passing shadow, and then would be forgotten.
No. Tythel thought, tightening her face with resolve. Dragons wouldn’t be forgotten. She would learn Heartflame. One day she would have a daughter or a son her
self, the heir to the kingdom…and to Karjon’s legacy. She would teach them the Three Flames, and they would do the same for their children. They would carry the legacy of the dragon throughout history, and although some would forget that dragons truly existed as her father had, it would be part of her family legacy.
