The Dragon Soul (Vagrant Souls Book 2)

by Samuel E. Green

  "Sentenced to death," Tursn said, "by the queen herself. Punishment in Dragir is neither swift nor just. As entry into Dragir is forbidden, so is leaving the city. You must pray that bringing the dragon soul to the Witch Queen grants you exit." His voice dropped to a whisper in her mind. "But I wouldn't bet your life on such a hope."

  A male draken laid out on a table screamed as ropes stretched. He continued to cry out until his spine snapped, and he silenced. Another draken, her face downcast, approached the table and removed her dead kinsman. With a strength unlike a human, she hauled his carcass over her shoulder, exposing his legs. A golden rope was looped around each ankle. Not tied together in the manner of a binding, but worn like jewelry.

  Fryda examined the other torture victims. Every one of them was wearing golden ropes around their ankles. They couldn't be jewelry. Condemned would have been stripped of such things.

  Nornthread.

  Somehow, that golden rope had prevented the winged man from attacking the elf. She had seen his desire burn behind his eyes, and the frustration at being unable to counter injustice.

  "We mustn't tarry," Naeth said. "The queen awaits our arrival."

  Fryda could face the queen, make her appeal known, and still become like one of these drakens in the plaza. Her death would be slow and torturous. Even worse—she would never find Alfric.

  Could she trust in the goodness of a woman who was willing to enslave and torture drakens? Certainly not. Fryda had to escape from Dragir.

  There would be no appealing to the elves. They wandered about without a care for the suffering or the enslaved.

  A throng of elves, beating drums and waving streamers, entered the plaza. When they passed, four more elves followed carrying poles holding up a draken imprisoned within an iron cage. They let down the cage, and an elf approached, the same elf who had burned the draken with the ladle.

  The wyverns watched as the draken marched out of its cage. The elf uttered a few words in its strange language, and the draken spun in a circle and curtsied. The draken reached into his own mouth. When Fryda realized what the elf had commanded the draken to do through the nornthread, she held her hand over her face and turned away. Something landed on the pavement with a wet slap. She peered through the gaps in her fingers and saw a severed tongue lying on the ground.

  The draken stared at the elf with defiant eyes, though blood stained his hands and drooled down his chin.

  Unable to take anymore, Fryda ran. She thought the wyverns would follow her, but they seemed too captivated by the display of utter brutality. She pushed aside draken and elf alike. They called out after her in that strange language, but none were able to stop her. She kept running in what she thought was the direction of the gate.

  Soon, she found herself lost, the sights and sounds of the foreign city overwhelming her. Someone yelled behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder. An armored elf pointed in her direction and signaled behind him. More elves flooded into the street. As one, they charged toward Fryda.

  Without a second thought, Fryda bolted through the streets, taking one turn after another, until she came to a sheer wall that seemed to stretch to the stars. Fryda glanced around and found a narrow cleft. Thinking to hide there, she ran into it. She rested her back against a dark shadow she thought was a wall. Instead, she stumbled backward, almost losing balance. What she'd thought was a cleft in the wall had been a doorway. The dark shadow opened into a narrow street.

  The rooftops above her held no swaying dragon lanterns. The stars above provided the only light, and even that was swallowed by the hulking buildings on either side of the street. The sounds of the city, too, had disappeared.

  As she continued down the street, she noticed movement in the windows above her. A flicker of lantern light here and a shifting shadow there. A chill prickled her skin, and she hugged her arms. The street ended at a much larger building, square and windowless. It looked like a storehouse. She pressed her ear to it and heard a clapping noise, like the sound of applause. That would be a place best to avoid. But she needed to find a way out of Dragir so that she could find Alfric. Yet it seemed that this street had taken her deeper into the city than ever before. She ran her hands over the storehouse bricks. The mortar had worn away, giving room for ample purchase, should someone need to climb them. Someone did need to climb them.

  Fryda gripped stone by stone and eventually came to the storehouse’s roof. The rooftop was flat and empty, save for a rack of brightly colored cloaks. From this vantage point, she was afforded a view of what lay beyond. More buildings. Hundreds of buildings. Behind her, back the way she came, was the roar of the festival and the many lights. She could either go back the way she had come or trudge into the dark streets, not knowing where she was going or what she might find.

  Even though the night was full, the air was filled with an oppressive heat. Fryda removed her sweat-soaked tunic. Her tightly-fitted underclothing wasn't exactly modest, but none of the attire worn in Dragir appeared to be. She held the grimy garment and thought of Jaruman. Had he survived? If he had lived, at least he would be too mad about her leaving Indham to care that she had destroyed his favorite tunic.

  Light blossomed from a trap door as a draken opened it, bringing with it tavern-like sounds. Fryda grabbed a garishly colored cloak from the rack, tossed it around her shoulders, and turned her back. She closed her eyes, hoping that a random figure atop the storehouse roof wasn't a peculiarity.

  "What are you doing up here?" the draken called.

  Fryda cursed under her breath.

  "They're waiting for you, Lopyl. The show's about to begin."

  Before Fryda could say anything, another trap door opened a step away from her. She tried to move away from it, but a hand reached up from the hole in the roof and pulled her into it.

  She was tugged down a rope ladder into a humid room. The cloak's cowl obscured her face as she reached the bottom. All around her were drakens. They wore their sheer togas and held mugs of ale. A handful of elves stood on balconies above. Their gaudy robes seemed out of place in the unadorned storehouse.

  "Representing the drakens tonight is Lopyl," the draken who'd opened the trapdoor said. He wore a broad-brimmed hat and a golden sash. He was the first plump draken Fryda had seen, and his belly drooped over silk pants. “She may be small, but does she have heart."

  There came a round of applause. Someone grabbed the back of Fryda's cloak and pushed her forward, removing her disguise. The crowd gasped. The elves above murmured to one another.

  The draken leaned in to Fryda and scowled. "What do you think you're playing at?" he whispered. "You're not Lopyl."

  "I'm not playing at anything," Fryda said. "Just let me go. I'll leave right away."

  When the crowd applauded again, this time louder and accompanied by a deafening chorus of cheering, the commentator straightened. With a grin, he declared, "A surprise fighter! A human, by the looks of her. Don't ask me where she came from, nor how she entered Dragir, but she's here for your pleasure."

  The commentator leaned into Fryda and said from the side of his mouth, "Grab a weapon. The dragonmail sleeve, too. You need to look the part."

  Fryda did as bidden. She slipped the sleeve onto her right arm. Surprisingly, it fit well. Taking a spear, she balanced the weight in her hands. Not bad. Nothing like the short spears Jaruman had fashioned especially for her, but she could use this one well enough.

  Though she didn't know what manner of foe she was facing, she'd already decided fleeing would be impossible. The rope ladder she'd descended from had disappeared, and the crowd seemed too intent on keeping her there. She would have to stay and fight.

  "Tonight . . ." The commentator paused and whispered to Fryda. "What is your name and where are you from?"

  Fryda considered for just a moment before she said, "My name is Fryda of the North, rider of wyverns and hunter of skinwalkers."

  The commentator repeated Fryda's introduction with the necessary added flair. Th
en his voice dropped an octave. "Fryda of the North will face the most ruthless warrior in all the lands. His rigorous training began when he was but a pup, hundreds of years spent enduring the bloodthirsty ranks of the Urth Mounds trolls. He's been splitting skulls in Dragir ever since Elmyra—praise to her name—sealed the gates. Let out your lungs for Kavyn, the connoisseur of blood and bones!"

  No one cheered. Instead, the crowd hushed.

  Fryda gripped the spear in hand. Behind the iron grate, something dragged across the ground. The grate suddenly shot from its hinges and landed beside Fryda, crumpled and bowed. A lanky figure bent his head and stepped into the arena. Twin tusks curled out from his upper lip. Blue skin covered his lanky frame. In one hand, he held a serrated cleaver as large as a poleax. Palmed in the other hand, the troll gripped a person by the face. He tossed the person at Fryda's feet.

  Kavyn the troll grinned. "A gift for you, pretty. Do you like?" His words were gruff with accent, but she understood his Wallan well enough.

  The troll's gift stared up at Fryda—a dead draken, his neck snapped, along with every limb broken and twisted so that white bone jutted from the skin. His wings had been torn away.

  "Kavyn has presented a gift for his foe," the commentator shouted. "He's shown a softer side tonight, but don't get too comfortable—a contestant will die tonight. Now, let the fight begin!"

  20

  Edoma

  An eerie silence filled the ruins outside Lady's Lake. The lake was once home to water sprites and their enchantress, the Lady Sioni. That particular legend had existed since before the God Wars. Edoma recalled reading of it in a tome from the temple library.

  History became an interest of hers after magic ceased to be interesting, or rather, after she no longer wished to involve herself with an art that would use the innocent as fuel.

  Yet she had reneged on that vow when she slaughtered the innocent dragon inside Indham's gates. The dragon's hot blood had warmed her fingers, and its heart had pulsed a final time in her hands.

  Such thoughts had accompanied her during the daylong journey to Lady's Lake. She didn't like that she'd have to spend an evening outside the safety of Indham's walls. It wasn't like she could refuse Peoh's request. No, it wasn't a request. The way the messenger had worded things, it was more a summons without room for refusal.

  Peoh had taken her son.

  She ought to have been eager to see the man she'd loved in Mundos. Instead, all she could feel was anger. For what he had done to Aern. For what he had done to Saega. For taking Hiroc away.

  But most of all, anger brewed within her because he was still alive. The wraith had taken him. He ought not to have returned. That was a part of her past she'd sealed off, never to think about again.

  The shattering of Aern's orb had brought it all back, causing her to use blood magic again after the atrocities she'd witnessed in Mundos.

  Edoma dismounted and took the staff of power from the saddle pack. Her face glowed with protection wards. Still, someone of Peoh's power could easily dispel such wards and disarm her of the staff. And if he'd somehow convinced Hiroc that she was an enemy, he might be the greatest threat of all.

  Peoh stepped out from the ruined building in front of her. He'd always been light-footed, but it almost seemed like he'd appeared from thin air. Hiroc bumbled along beside him, hanging his head. Good to see he was ashamed for his actions.

  "I see you got my message," Peoh said. Seeing him in the other-realm had been nothing like seeing him in this world. Tattooed wards covered his entire body. He wore the robes of a Toshi mage, with prayer beads hanging around his neck. Wherever he'd been all these years, it wasn't just the Scorched Lands. Why had he never returned to her?

  "Why else would I be here?" She forced herself to breathe. Here was the man, the one she'd loved as a young woman, standing before her after she'd seen him become a skinwalker. He leaned on Saega's staff, Agnerod's Touch. The more she looked at it, the angrier she became. "Did you kill Aern?"

  "You waste no time." He smiled, though there was no happiness to it. "How about a 'where have you been?'"

  "Don't be coy with me," Edoma said. Tears threatened to overwhelm her, held back only by strength of will. "I saw Saega. He was nearly dead. Only the First Priest's Elixir saved him."

  "So he lived? A pity."

  "You made my son a murderer."

  Peoh looked at Hiroc. "I thought he seemed familiar. Not as handsome as the fruit of our love would have been, but he has your eyes."

  Edoma scowled. "Do not embroil my son in whatever it is you're planning."

  "I am here of my own volition," Hiroc said, lifting his head, showing his warded face. At least Peoh had had enough sense to ward him.

  "Do you know what Peoh intends to do?" she asked Hiroc. "He has been dead for twenty years. You cannot trust him."

  "You don't wish him to participate in Aernheim's salvation?" Peoh shrugged. "You can ask him what he wishes to do, but being your son, I suspect he will choose to go with me."

  "What are you talking about? Aernheim cannot be saved. We are merely delaying the inevitable."

  "Not so. Another god will bring salvation."

  Edoma shook her head. It sounded like nonsense to her.

  "Edoma," Peoh said, his tone causing gooseflesh to ripple across her arms. It was the same way he had spoken to her all those years ago, the same tone that sometimes spoke in her dreams. "I did not kill Aern. The man responsible sits within the spire, watching the chaos and destruction, loving every moment of it."

  "No," Edoma said. "Saega wouldn't do that. He foreswore his oath."

  "Think what you will. Saega does not have Indham's best interests at heart. It would have been better had Hiroc's fire killed him."

  "You wish death upon another mage?"

  "Edoma, my love." The words churned Edoma's stomach. "Hiroc told me he fought a giant atop Tyme's Hill. Did you know giants were created through Sulith's magic? No, of course you don't. You would know this had you continued your study of magical lore."

  "What does this have to do with what happened at Tyme's Hill?" She wanted to tell Peoh that she'd sworn off magic after what the mages in Mundos had done to make their protection wards. She wanted to tell him that studying magic might have drawn the attention of King Beorhtel's inquisitors. But she mentioned neither. Doing so would only make her appear like she'd gone against everything he'd loved her for.

  "Someone who wields the power of Sulith so adeptly can themselves become giants."

  "Saega," Edoma whispered involuntarily. She immediately regretted it. She had just spoken confirmation of Peoh's theory. "He couldn't have."

  "Unlike you, I believe Saega continued to practice magic. Ask him of it when you return to Indham. Though I predict that question might earn you his ire. Be careful, Edoma. You might not like what you discover hidden within Saega's heart."

  Disgruntled, Edoma turned to face the lake. Its clear waters reflected the moonlight, and she thought of another who'd ventured out from Indham's gates. "Where is Jaruman?" she asked without turning. "I saw him with you when you left Indham."

  "Ah, so you have been learning more of the arcane arts," Peoh said. "Of course, the wards were your doing. Sufficient, if a little hastily empowered."

  Edoma whirled around to face him. "How did you convinced Jaruman of your schemes?"

  "He has nothing to do with any schemes, mine or anyone else's. He's gone to find his daughter."

  "Not his daughter," Hiroc muttered under his breath.

  "Fryda?" Edoma said.

  "Yes," Hiroc said. "She went on a foolish quest to find Alfric. Jaruman followed after her. They are all fools. Alfric is dead."

  "How are you certain? Had you seen what I saw within the scrying crystal, you would have—"

  "Alfric is dead," Hiroc said.

  Edoma wanted to hold him to her breast, to whisper apologies and how things might have been different. Except she dared not lay a finger on him. She could see that under
neath the cold and calm exterior was a fire waiting to get out—Enlil's fire. She would be no match for that. Seeing Hiroc so broken made her all the angrier at Peoh. "What have you done to my son?"

  "Me? I did nothing."

  Hiroc walked away, kicking at stones so they plopped into the lake.

  "You have put ideas into his head. Where exactly are you taking him? If you didn't shatter Aern's orb, then why are you fleeing from Indham? Why did you force Hiroc to slaughter those warriors?"

  "Because they would have killed us otherwise. Tell me, had I marched into the Council Hall while you were all sentencing an innocent man to death, would you have believed me? Or would my head have rolled along with his?"

  "Idmaer was not innocent." With each passing day, she doubted it more and more. But if she ever admitted that Idmaer had been innocent, that would be the last day she lived in this world. The guilt would cause her to flee the realm of the living. Indham's people needed her too much to do that. What came next was more to convince herself than Peoh. "He stole the grimoire from the First Priest's tomb. The same grimoire used to shatter Aern's orb. He had Wulfnoth burn it. He spoke blasphemy against the Guardians."

  "A difference of beliefs is no reason to condemn a man to death. Trust me, much of what I held dear in Mundos I no longer believe."

  Edoma looked at her feet. She could see that Peoh had changed. Though he'd called her my love earlier, he had no love for her anymore. Wherever he'd been in the last twenty years, and however he'd rid himself of the wraith's control, had changed him completely.

  "I'm returning to Indham." She turned from Peoh and called out to Hiroc. "Will you not come with me, Hiroc?"

  He glanced up at her. "Goodbye, Edoma." He resumed kicking at pebbles.

  That he'd called her Edoma broke something inside her. She had hoped, against all reason, that he might call her "mother." She couldn't begrudge him his choice of words. She had failed in her duties as mother. And now, the man who might have been father to her children under different circumstances was taking her son away.