The Dread Wyrm (Traitor Son Cycle)

by Miles Cameron

  There were thousands gone, and the dead were all about him, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d begin to think that Nicholas Ganfroy was just at his elbow. Or Cuddy, killed in the last of the fighting with the Galles, or Flarch.

  Gelfred was so badly wounded that even Amicia despaired for him. It was Sauce who took his salute, and Long Paw who rode by his side as he inspected the green banda at the right of the line—Amy’s Hob was dead, and Will Starling was lost and presumed dead. And more, and their losses were not the worst.

  In the white banda the scars showed—a new generation, dead, in a single dragon’s breath. But where Morgon had stood, the company lived—there was Milus, and there George Brewes. And Gonzago D’Avia and young Fitzsimmons. And many men Milus had recruited and he’d never met—Moreans and Occitans, and even some Galles.

  And the red banda—luckier. Still decimated, but only just. Ser Michael sat like a rock on his war horse, Attila, and gave him a crisp salute. Men all along the line were cheering.

  Some were also coughing.

  Gabriel ignored them. He smiled as much as he could, and passed among the men he’d known for five years and more—the ones left alive. Parcival D’Entre Deux Monts. Gavin Hazzart. And there was Wilful Murder, and there, Robin Hasty, and there, still alive, No Head. And beyond, just barely sober, Oak Pew. She coughed hard and spat something in her hand. Daniel Favour. Ser Ranald. Smoke. Adrian Goldsmith. Ser Bescanon. Ser Danved, talking even now, and Ser Bertran, still silent. His squire, Jean, was grinning, and Petite Mouline in a new red arming coat was beaming, brimful of happiness.

  He walked his horse to where Wilful Murder sat. “You, and Cully, Tippit, and No Head and Long Paw. And some knights and squires. I guess we still have a company.”

  Wilful looked at Tippit, a few files away, and a small smile creased his aging face. “We could use some fucking archers,” he said. “Ones not like some awkward sods I could mention.”

  It shouldn’t have mattered.

  But they weren’t all dead.

  He finished his inspection of his own company, aiming for that polite level where every man feels his polishing was not in vain and no one feels he’s dying on parade, and then he moved off to the left, to the Moreans, who were in many ways the heroes of the hour and were cheering like fools. There he saw Janos Turkos, soon to be knighted, and Ser Giorgos Comnenos, who had saved Blanche, with the help of the Ifriquy’an, Ser Pavalo. And Count Zac, back where he belonged at the head of his easterners. Beyond them stood the Royal Guard, which had never felt the breath of the dragon and yet looked as if they had, and all the Occitans and western levies under Prince Tancredo and Lord Gareth, none of whom seemed to have polished anything. The Royal Foresters were not on parade. The Redmede brothers had taken the Jacks and the Foresters into the woods together, pursuing the broken enemy, trying to make sure that the victory had consequence.

  Gabriel began to inspect at a fast trot.

  Just the survivors amounted to nine thousand men.

  At his shoulder, Tom Lachlan waited until he came to the end of the line of men. There, on the other side of the camp, stood a motley horde of other things, led by a magnificent knight on a white stag. By him stood Pavalo Payam, the Ifriquy’an, and Harmodius. They looked bored.

  “You won,” Tom Lachlan said. “Just take it in and let go.”

  “I—”

  “Let go,” Bad Tom said. “Drink hard. Ha’ a tumble wi’ your lass. Make up some lies to paste over what you mislike. It’s fewkin’ war, whether there’s great dragonish Wyrms or just a wee huddle o’ stupid men, tryin’ to steal yer purse. Let it go.”

  Gabriel turned and met Tom’s eye.

  The Faery Knight saluted with a flourish. “Thisss isss the mossst foolisssh of human traditionssss,” he said. “I have no glory in war. Let’sss go sssomewhere, and sssit in the ssshade. And drink. And sssee all your pretty peoplesss.”

  Gabriel frowned. “It’s all to be done again, like a lesson learned wrong.”

  The Faery Knight shrugged. “I have a few sssenturiesss on you, little captain. It isss alwaysss to be done again.”

  But he didn’t leave then and there, and they all bowed to the great duchess, Mogon, who stood with the Queen.

  The Queen was frowning, the rarest of expressions on her face.

  “Your grace?” Gabriel called.

  She nodded. “What are they all shouting?” she asked. “My Archaic is not that good.”

  Gabriel had been deaf to the cheers—they oppressed him. And there was Blanche, smiling at him, and he blew her a kiss, to the delight of a thousand farmers and camp followers. There was Lady Mary Montroy, and there was Lady Rebecca Almspend, and the Earl of Towbray whispering in the Queen’s ear.

  The cries—the cheers—grew more coordinated, and Ataelus showed his distaste for the noise, turning a curvet and nipping at Tom’s horse.

  Bad Tom looked back at Ser Gavin. By him, Ser Alcaeus was smug. The Morean grinned.

  “They’re shouting ‘Ave, Imperator,’” Ser Alcaeus said with intense satisfaction.

  extras

  meet the author

  MILES CAMERON is a full-time writer who lives in Canada with his family. He also writes historical fiction under another name. The Traitor Son Cycle series is his fantasy debut.

  introducing

  If you enjoyed

  THE DREAD WYRM

  look out for

  SNAKEWOOD

  by Adrian Selby

  Once they were a band of mercenaries who shook the pillars of the world through cunning, alchemical brews, and cold steel. Whoever met their price won.

  Now, their glory days behind them, scattered to the wind, and their genius leader in hiding, they are being hunted down and eliminated one by one.

  A lifetime of enemies has its own price.

  Introductory Notes by Scholar Goran

  I never knew my father. Not until the end.

  It was my patron that brought him home to our tribe, mortally wounded and ready to die.

  All of what follows is for him, Gant, and his last wish that a record be kept of what became of the greatest mercenary crew ever to take a purse. Kailen’s Twenty.

  The stories of them in their prime are few and far between all these winters later. I spent almost a year tracking down those who fought with or against them, but their downfall is, for me, the most compelling and tragic story, one I’ve been given the mandate to record by my patron, out of respect for his beloved wife, my father and all those who were killed by him failing them. I have put all these documents together in a way that I hope makes sense of the fate of the Twenty in these last few years and also includes accounts of them in their prime, when, arguably, they saved the Old Kingdoms at Tharos Falls, when twenty-one men held the line and the line could not be crossed.

  To tell this story I was given also the letters of the princess who has now returned to her throne, as well as those of the man whose loyalty to her was the beginning of the end for the Twenty. The man betrayed at Snakewood.

  In the moments of his dying, my father asked us a simple question, and from the papers that follow, it is clear he did not ask the question of himself.

  “Who ever got what they deserved?”

  CHAPTER 1

  Gant

  My name’s Gant and I’m sorry for my poor writing. I was a mercenary soldier who never took to it till Kailen taught us. It’s for him and all the boys that I wanted to put this down, a telling of what became of Kailen’s Twenty.

  Seems right to begin it the day me and Shale got sold out, at the heart of the summer just gone, down in the Red Hills Confederacy.

  It was the day I began dying.

  It was a job with a crew to ambush a supply caravan. It went badly for us and I took an arrow, the poison from which will shortly kill me.

  I woke up sodden with dew and rain like the boys, soaked all over from the trees above us, but my mouth was dusty like sand. Rivers couldn’t wet it. The compound I use to eas
e my bones leeches my spit. I speak soft.

  I could hardly crack a whistle at the boys wrapped like a nest of slugs in their oilskins against the winds of the plains these woods were edged against. I’m old. I just kicked them up before getting my bow out of the sack I put it in to keep rain off the string. It was a beauty what I called Juletta and I had her for most of my life.

  The boys were slow to get going, blowing and fussing as the freezing air got to work in that bit of dawn. They were quiet, and grim like ghosts in this light, pairing up to strap their leathers and get the swords pasted with poison.

  I patted heads and squeezed shoulders and gave words as I moved through the crew so they knew I was about and watching.

  “Paste it thick,” I said as they put on the mittens and rubbed their blades with the soaked rags from the pot Remy had opened.

  I looked around the boys I shared skins and pipes with under the moon those last few weeks. Good crew.

  There was Remy, looking up at me from his mixing, face all scarred like a milky walnut and speaking lispy from razor fights and rackets he ran with before joining up for a pardon. He had a poison of his own he made, less refined than my own mix, less quick, more agony.

  Yasthin was crouched next to him. He was still having to shake the cramp off his leg that took a mace a month before. Saved his money for his brother, told me he was investing it. The boys said his brother gambled it and laughed him up.

  Dolly was next to Yasthin, chewing some bacon rinds. Told me how her da chased her soak of a mother through the streets, had done since she was young. Kids followed her da too, singing with him but staying clear of his knives. She joined so’s she could help her da keep her younger brother.

  All of them got sorrows that led them to the likes of me and a fat purse for a crossroads job, which I mean to say is a do-or-die.

  Soon enough they’re lined up and waiting for the Honour, Kailen’s Honour, the best fightbrew Kigan ever mixed, so, the best fightbrew ever mixed, even all these years later. The boys had been talking up this brew since I took command, makes you feel like you could punch holes in mountains when you’ve risen on it.

  Yasthin was first in line for a measure. I had to stand on my toes to pour it in, lots of the boys taller than me. Then a kiss. The lips are the raw end of your terror and love. No steel can toughen lips, they betray more than the eyes when you’re looking for intent and the kiss is for telling them there’s always some way to die.

  Little Booey was the tenth and last of the crew to get the measure. I took a slug myself and Rirgwil fixed my leathers. I waited for our teeth to chatter like aristos, then went over the plan again.

  “In the trees north, beyond those fields, is Trukhar’s supply caravan,” I said. “Find it, kill who you can, but burn the wagons, supplies, and then go for the craftsmen. Shale’s leadin’ his crew in from east an’ we got them pincered when we meet, red bands left arm so as you know. It’s a do-or-die purse, you’re there ’til the job is done or you’re dead anyway.”

  It was getting real for them now I could see, a couple were starting shakes with their first full measure of the brew, despite all the prep the previous few days.

  “I taught you how to focus what’s happening to you boys. This brew can win wars and it’ll deliver this purse if you can keep tight. Now move out.”

  No more words, it was hand signs now to the forest.

  Jonah front, Yasthin, Booey and Henny with me. Remy group northeast at tree line.

  We ran through the silver grass, chests shuddering with the crackle of our blood as the brew stretched our veins and filled our bones with iron and fire. The song of the earth was filling my ears.

  Ahead of us was the wall of trees and within, the camp of the Blackhands. Remy’s boys split from us and moved away.

  Slow, I signed.

  Juletta was warm in my hands, the arrow in my fingers humming to fly. Then, the brew fierce in my eyes, I saw it, the red glow of a pipe some seventy yards ahead at the tree line.

  Two men. On mark.

  I moved forward to take the shot and stepped into a nest of eggs. The bird, a big grey Weger, screeched at me and flapped madly into the air inches from my face, its cry filling the sky. One of the boys shouted out, in his prime on the brew, and the two men saw us. We were dead. My boys’ arrows followed mine, the two men were hit, only half a pip of a horn escaping for warning, but it was surely enough.

  Run.

  I had killed us all. We went in anyway, that was the purse, and these boys primed like this weren’t leaving without bloodshed.

  As we hit the trees we spread out.

  Enemy left, signed Jonah.

  Three were nearing through the trunks, draining their own brew as they came to from some half-eyed slumber. They were a clear shot so I led again, arrows hitting and a muffled crack of bones. All down.

  In my brewed-up ears I could hear then the crack of bowstrings pulling at some way off, but it was all around us. The whistle of arrows proved us flanked as we dropped to the ground.

  The boys opened up, moving as we practiced, aiming to surprise any flanks and split them off so a group of us could move in directly to the caravan. It was shooting practice for Trukhar’s soldiers.

  I never saw Henny or Jonah again, just heard some laughing and screaming and the sound of blades at work before it died off.

  I stayed put, watching for the enemy’s movements. I was in the outroots of a tree, unspotted. You feel eyes on you with this brew. Then I saw two scouts moving right, following Booey and Datschke’s run.

  I took a sporebag and popped it on the end of an arrow. I stood up and sent it at the ground ahead of them.

  From my belt I got me some white oak sap which I took for my eyes to see safe in the spore cloud. I put on a mask covered with the same stuff for breathing.

  The spores were quick to get in them and they wheezed and clutched their throats as I finished them off.

  I was hoping I could have saved my boys but I needed to be in some guts and get the job done with Shale’s crew.

  Horns were going up now, so the fighting was on. I saw a few coming at me from the trees ahead. I got behind a trunk but I knew I was spotted. They slowed up and the hemp creaked as they drew for shots. There were four of them, from their breathing, and I could hear their commander whispering for a flanking.

  I opened up a satchel of rice paper bags, each with quicklime and oiled feathers. I needed smoke. I doused a few bags with my flask and threw them out.

  “Masks!” came the shout. As the paper soaked, the lime caught and the feathers put out a fierce smoke.

  My eyes were still smeared good. I took a couple more arrowbags out, but these were agave powders for blistering the eyes and skin.

  Two shots to tree trunks spread the powders in the air around their position and I moved out from the tree to them as they screeched and staggered about blind. The Honour gave me the senses enough to read where they were without my eyes, better to shut them with smoke and powders in the air, and their brews weren’t the Honour’s equal. They moved like they were running through honey and were easy to pick off.

  It was then I took the arrow that’ll do for me. I’d got maybe fifty yards further on when I heard the bow draw, but with the noise ahead I couldn’t place it that fraction quicker to save myself. The arrow went in at my hip, into my guts. Some things give in there, and the poison’s gone right in, black mustard oil for sure from the vapours burning in my nose, probably some of their venom too.

  I was on my knees trying to grab the arrow when I saw them approach, two of them. The one who killed me was dropping his bow and they both closed with the hate of their own fightbrew, their eyes crimson, skin an angry red and all the noisies.

  They think I’m done. They’re fucking right, to a point. In my belt was the treated guaia bark for the mix they were known to use. No time to rip out the arrow and push the bark in.

  They moved in together, one in front, the other flanking. One’s a
heavy in his mail coat and broadsword, a boy’s weapon in a forest, too big. Older one had leathers and a long knife. Him first. My sight was going, the world going flat like a drawing, so I had to get rid of the wiser one while I could still see him, while I still had the Honour’s edge.

  Knife in hand I lunged sudden, the leap bigger than they reckoned. The older one reacted, a sidestep. The slash I made wasn’t for hitting him though. It flicked out a spray of paste from the blade and sure enough some bit of it caught him in the face. I spun about, brought my blade up and parried the boy’s desperate swing as he closed behind me, the blow forcing me down again as it hit my knife, sending a smack through my guts as the arrow broke in me. He took sight of his mate holding his smoking face, scratching at his cheeks and bleeding. He glanced at the brown treacle running over my blade and legged it. He had the spunk to know he was beaten. I put the knife in the old man’s throat to quiet my noisies, the blood’s smell as sweet as fresh bread to me.

  I picked up my Juletta and moved on. The trees were filling with Blackhands now. I didn’t have the time to be taking off my wamba and sorting myself out a cure for the arrow, much less tugging at it now it was into me. I cussed at myself, for this was likely where I was going to die if I didn’t get something to fix me. I was slowing up. I took a hit of the Honour to keep me fresh. It was going to make a fierce claim on the other side, but I would gladly take that if I could get some treatment.