The Dragon Thief (Sorcery and Sin Book 1)

by Justin DePaoli

  He had the unmistakable sensation that he was being followed, but when he turned back, he saw nothing. No faint glow of a torch or an encroaching shadow; just the idle abyss beneath the earth.

  He wanted to leave, to go far away from this place.

  And then it happened, just as it had happened days before when he’d desired to withdraw from the world he knew and go someplace else—somewhere better, happier. He had witnessed a grayness overtake him that day, and there were several men carrying a chest; they walked past him, and then they vanished.

  The grayness had returned. It was a pale gray, an almost colorless illumination that seemed to suffuse outward, slowly overtaking the tomb in its entirety.

  Hallo? Lavery thought.

  No, no—that’s not right. He didn’t think—he said. He said the word. Why didn’t it come out? Why couldn’t he hear it?

  He tried again. And again, his mouth opened and he felt the word on his tongue, then between his lips… but it was never vocalized.

  The floor began to burn. It seethed a hot, boiling anger that stretched across the dirt, riving it open into a thousand tiny gashes.

  Lavery threw himself backward, against a wall that was no longer there. He stood in a field now, and he heard cries. So many cries. And the fire, it crested and crashed like a tumultuous wave.

  There was an ominous whoosh, like the very air had been torn asunder. A heavy, angry whoosh.

  Voices. He heard them. They were muddled, as if he was trapped underwater and they were screaming at him from the surface.

  His lids felt heavy. He couldn’t keep them open any longer.

  Get outta the way! said one of the voices. Out! Point that blade at me, go ahead, but you’ll lose whatever you’re after. I promise you that. He needs my help.

  Lavery wanted nothing more than to sleep. He was so tired. The dreams would take him soon, he knew. And he didn’t mind, even if the dreams felt more like nightmares. He only wanted to sleep.

  He simply wanted to sleep.

  “Not today, you don’t,” boomed a familiar voice.

  Lavery felt the world around him trembling, churning. Fire surrounded him and enormous wings flapped above.

  “Come back to me, Lavery,” Baern roared, as loudly as he could. “Leave that place. Now!”

  Lavery’s eyes snapped open. With a heaving chest, he squinted. “B—Baern?” he whispered.

  The dankness of the Valiosian mausoleum swept over Lavery like a cold sweat. Torchlight showered him in an orange glow.

  “Baern,” he said, trading glances between the Keeper and a handful of unfriendly faces before him, “what’s happening?”

  “You’re being kidnapped,” Baern said. He set his jaw and raised his chin at the company of hooded figures whose swords were drawn.

  Lavery’s lids felt heavy. He couldn’t hold them open any longer. “I… saw… fire, Baern. The whole world was on… I’m so tired.”

  Silence hung in the air for a moment, then a woman with an unfamiliar voice spoke. “We’re not leaving without him.”

  “Then you’re not leaving without me,” Baern said.

  Chapter Four

  Here lay the Spigatoon Mountains. By the crow’s eye, the mountain range looks like the jutting armored spine of some monolithic beast. It rises sharply to one side and the other, and in between exists a narrow gorge.

  Many years ago, five hundred and some—time loses its precision after a while—someone died on this path.

  Right there he died, near a small tree that hadn’t even existed at the time.

  Right there, where the beady eyes of a raven were focused.

  Right there, where the wet mud squirmed and twitched and wriggled as if something beneath the surface had moved. Or rather, was in the process of moving.

  A warm breeze gusted through the ravine. The clouds above swam furiously past, splashing bits and pieces of golden light onto the jagged red rocks. Birds sang, squirrels chirped, and the air smelled clean and refreshing. Frankly, it felt like a day for living.

  Only the raven seemed to notice the peculiarities of this day. It cocked its head as the mud made a sucking sound. It ruffled its feathers, straightened its beak. It had every intention of remaining there on that outcropping of rock. Ravens have reputations to uphold, chief among them stoicism and coolness. But even the black birds of death have their limits, and this raven had reached his.

  It cawed and whooshed itself into the air as a hand white as bone punched up through the mud. Stiff, calcified fingers bent inward to form a fist, then uncoiled. And again.

  And again.

  A second hand stabbed through moments later. Palms and fingers and knuckles and wrists all worked experimentally to paw away the thick soup of earth and detritus. As they did, knees whiter than pearls worked themselves free, feet too.

  A harrowing gasp spilled out across the gorge, and the skeleton in its entirety sat up, slathering away mud from its empty eye sockets. Gouges and lacerations that marred its body were slowly filled in with what looked like liquefied bone. And from there, flesh gradually expanded across its cadaverous frame.

  Hair, thick and black, covered its skull, cascading down the back of its neck. At this point, one could safely assume that it was a man. A dead man, it seemed, but a man nonetheless.

  He looked to the sky with newly-fitted eyes, and he looked to the face of the mountain. He looked at his toes and fingers, touched his chin and his cheek. Felt his nose, ran a hand through his hair.

  “Can I speak?” he said. He lifted his brows, as if impressed. “Mm.” He bent forward, wrapped a hand around the thin tree trunk, and hauled himself to his feet.

  Curious, he inspected his grave. On his knees, he fished around in the mud till he produced a violet gem as big as his palm. He clutched it tightly.

  Footprints caught his eye. He counted them until they vanished beyond the twisting, turning path.

  Chapter Five

  They called him the Keeper. Why they called him that, Elaya didn’t know, and she didn’t care. She just wished he’d take five minutes to shut his bloody mouth.

  “Many years ago,” he said, “this creek would eat you if you rested at its shores. Well, the alligators would have, anyhow. But it’s amazing what the advent of iron-tipped arrows can do to those pesky predators.”

  A historian, Elaya thought. That’s obviously what he was. She hadn’t met a quiet historian in all her life. They prattled like old men telling you what life was like in their time.

  The Eyes of Aleer had escaped Valios as quietly as they’d entered it. They’d planned on a grand heist—or rather, kidnapping—but as it turned out, no one had bothered to assign protection to the new king, so it was simply a matter of observing his daily behavior and pouncing on the times he found himself far away from the public eye.

  “Three hours,” she announced. “Then we move on. Ekman and Laela, you’re on first watch. Rotate at one hour.” She shouldered off a mostly empty satchel and set it beside the other mostly empty satchels. “See if you can’t fish something out of this creek while you’re at it.”

  “Crawdaddies,” Baern said. “Ought to be plenty here.”

  Ekman, who by his own admission was less cultured than a cave bat, cocked his head. “The hell is a crawdaddy?”

  Baern made pinching gestures with both his hands.

  Ekman blinked.

  They live in creeks,” Baern said, “beneath rocks and such, and boy, lemme tell you they are tasty. Only problem is they’ll try separating your finger from your knuckle when you try and catch ’em. All bluster, really—the most they’ll actually do is nip off a bit of skin.” He ruminated on this for a moment, then said, “’Less you catch a big’un, then that’s an entirely different story.”

  Ekman rubbed his roly-poly fingers together. “Er, how big do they get?”

  Baern shrugged. “I seen ’em big as your palm, and you got yourself a helluva palm, so…”

  The large, blubbery mercenary meande
red over to Laela, who was kneeling beside the creek, washing her face. The ensuing conversation consisted of Ekman attempting to convince Laela that they should try catching possums or, failing that, field mice.

  Twenty feet away, Elaya checked on Lavery Opsillian. They had carried him out of the tombs in a granary sack—one of those big bastards used to haul around forty pounds of potatoes.

  He was sleeping. Sweat glistened on his forehead.

  “He’ll be just fine,” Baern said, sitting on a bed of leaves. “Give him some time.”

  Crouching, Elaya felt Lavery’s cheeks. They were hot. She turned to Baern. “What happened in those tombs?”

  Baern pulled his bony knees up to his chest. “Hot flash?” he suggested with a shrug.

  A black strand of hair fell in front of her eye. “He vanished. I saw it, you saw it.” She nodded her chin at her mercenaries, who were already snoring and jittering in their sleep. “We all saw it. And then you came running in a panic from”—she shook her head—“the gods know where, and began screaming so loudly I thought my brains would burst out of my ears. And then… he returned, lying on the floor. I’ve seen my fair share of occult things in this world, but that”—she wagged a finger—“that was new to me.”

  A mango-colored leaf fluttered down from the tree onto Baern’s hand. He regarded it thoughtfully for a moment, then began dissecting it piece by piece. “What are your intentions, hmm? Kidnapping a king… well, that’s not the sort of business your average ne’er-do-well conducts.”

  “I’m not working for anyone except myself, if that’s what you’re insinuating. We need money.”

  Baern lifted his chin sagely. “Ah. Yes, money. And we, of course. Would you mind sharing who we are?”

  Elaya pursed her lips. Then, after a moment of silence, she said, “We’re called the Eyes of Aleer.”

  “Aleer… hmm. Now there’s a goddess you don’t hear brought up very often. Assassins, mercenaries, swords for hire—that’s what you are.”

  Elaya said nothing.

  “Yet,” Baern said, sticking a finger in the air, “you claim not to work for anyone. Well, maybe so, but there are easier ways of making money than kidnapping a king. Raiding villages, stealing, plundering, that sort of thing.”

  “We have morals.”

  Baern chuckled. “Assassins with morals? That’s rich. What’s your end plan, hmm? Ransom?”

  “I’ve talked enough,” Elaya said. “It’s time for you to answer a few questions. Who are you?”

  “What’s your end plan?” Baern asked again.

  Elaya circled back around and went for another go. “Who are you?”

  “What’s your end plan?”

  She tongued her cheek, realizing this was not a battle of wills she’d win. “Yes, ransom.”

  Baern clapped his hands. “Well, I’m afraid I cannot abide that.” He glanced at Lavery. “He—we—won’t be going back to Valios. So it appears you’ll need to find another way to get your money. Might I suggest swindling? Quite profitable if you know where to look and who to run a game on.”

  Elaya hated what she was about to do. It seemed so needlessly pretentious. But when you’ve got to remind someone whose rules they’re playing by, what other choice do you have? She unsheathed her dagger and held it close to her face for inspection.

  “I wasn’t aware that you had a choice in the matter.”

  Baern seemed unaffected by this showing. “Assassins with morals, you say, yet here you are threatening an eleven-year-old boy and an old man. Lots o’ morals you have, there.” He sighed. “Look, you’re in over your head. You’ve gone too far.”

  Elaya acknowledged that inwardly, but not outwardly. She’d learned long ago that if you show weakness, people feed on it like piranhas on a hunk of meat. Truthfully, she figured the Eyes of Aleer would be unsuccessful in their gambit to kidnap Lavery, and there, in the kingdom of Valios, they’d meet their end. She’d prepared herself for her final day on this world; she’d grown tired of existing on the fringe. As luck would have it, kidnapping a king hadn’t been very difficult, and now she had migrated from the fringe to center stage. And she felt more alive—and scared—than she could ever recall.

  “We’ll write a letter to Valios,” she said, “noting our demands. If they are met—when they are met—he returns. You, on the other hand, can do whatever you wish. I’m still not sure why you forced yourself upon us.”

  “Bloody hells,” Baern grumbled. “Look”—he glanced around, and in a hushed voice repeated himself—“look, if this boy was only a king, I wouldn’t bother. But he’s not just a king. You want to know where he ventured off to, why he vanished in the tomb? He went to the future. And the future was burning.”

  Elaya felt her nostrils flare, and she felt her throat swallow without any input from her conscious mind. She stared at Lavery, at his sweaty face, at the rise and fall of his chest. “A Wraith Walker?”

  She knew plenty about Wraith Walkers, mostly because it was her “destiny” to kill every last one—a destiny she had fled long ago.

  Wraith Walkers, she’d been told from a young age, were perverts of magic. They could shift into the past or—rarely—the future, witnessing events as they had unfolded or as they would unfold.

  And that’s more or less the truth, but the details are in the nuances. The visions that Wraith Walkers experience are not definitive and undeniably true. A future vision of death and disease and famine, for example, does not mean those maladies will befall the world over. It could suggest that one tiny village will suffer, or it could be symbolic, not literal.

  Baern told Elaya this, but he also cautioned that he had never seen the gift in someone as young as Lavery. He also didn’t know why Lavery possessed such sorcery; neither his father nor his mother were Walkers. His supposed mother, at least.

  “There aren’t many Wraith Walkers left,” he said. He seemed to let the words linger before Elaya, as if he knew her dark little secret—her unmentionable past. “But some are still kicking around, hidden. And I happen to know where they are.”

  “Because you’re one of them as well,” Elaya asserted. “You’re a Wraith Walker.”

  “Never said I wasn’t.”

  “Nor did you say you were. A lie by omission is still a lie.”

  Baern interlocked his fingers atop his knees. “You don’t seem to trust me.”

  “I’ve only just met you,” Elaya said. “You’re a Valiosian; for all I know you could be feeding me misinformation to gain my trust and use that trust as a means for betrayal.”

  The old man smiled, a mouthful of crooked teeth various shades of yellow. “Politics don’t fancy me. Never been one for furtive plots and secret deals.” He shoved a finger toward Lavery and said, “He needs to be with his own. He’s been unwittingly Walking into the past for a while now, talking with the men who had built the tombs. Recently he’s begun Walking deeper, longer. With a bit of training, he’ll learn how to safely wade through time, control his emotions, understand his visions.

  “Look, I’d do it for him if I could. I’d teach him. But I’m not a Wraith Walker, despite your intuition. I’m old, might even got some wisdom still up there”—he rapped a finger against his skull—“but the gods didn’t bless me with the breadth of talents little Lavery here has. He needs able instructors.”

  The creek rippled on by and the leaves crinkled beneath a tossing and turning Lavery. Elaya’s eyes were affixed to the boy, but she didn’t see him. She’d retreated into her own mind, which was a place she rarely enjoyed visiting. Allowing Baern and Lavery to depart… it’d be the end of the Eyes of Aleer. Her mercenaries had risked their lives kidnapping a king; for her to let him leave without compensation… hell, she might have a mutiny on her hands.

  Baern reached out and touched her leg. “Look here, if it’s riches you want, I know a guy. Lots of guys, actually. And ladies. They’re all dead now, but those aren’t the important bits. The important bit is I can lead you to buried treasur
e.”

  With a flippant snap of her head, Elaya said, “Buried treasure? Really?”

  Baern made some gestures with his hands. “Well, in some cases. Mostly just chests full of coins stuffed in abandoned cottages or in cellars. Doomsday vaults, they called ’em. Doomsday never came around, and the people who had them kicked the bucket long ago, so money’s free for the taking.”

  “And you know this… how?”

  “Been around for a while,” Baern said. “A long, long while.”

  Elaya wrapped a few strands of hair around her finger. “You’ll take us there the day after tomorrow.”

  “I can take you there now.”

  “No. We need to resupply. Craw’s Hold is only a half day’s ride away. We’ll rest and resupply there, then you’ll lead us to this buried treasure.”

  “Fantastic,” Baern said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. “Ah, but one minor impediment. I need your promise to release Lavery and me after you fill your coffers. After all, your word is all that you have in this world, isn’t it?”

  It disturbed Elaya that the old man had managed to judge her character so accurately in such limited time. It was her fault, mostly. Throwing out words like morals and tossing out allusions that the Eyes of Aleer were ethical, at least as far as mercenaries go. She noted she’d have to tread more carefully around strangers in the future, keep them off-balance, fill their heads with uncertainties as to who she truly was and what she truly desired.

  Coincidentally, her approach had worked in her favor this time around. She gave Baern the promise he wanted. Up until precisely right now, her word had been the only worthwhile possession to her name. But sometimes when the person you’ve been for the better part of your life fails to produce results, you have to change. You have to adapt.

  She waited for Baern to fall asleep, then rummaged through one of her satchels. She produced a parchment, an ink tray, and a pen. And she wrote a succinct letter, rolled it up, tied it closed with some frayed string, and stuffed it back in the satchel.