by Colt, K. J.
She kept walking until the sun reached its zenith, its heat dispersing the mist. Dapples of light revealed mushrooms, berries, and fallen pine cones. Laira spent a while collecting a meal upon a flat rock. She had not eaten since . . . she couldn’t even remember the last time; it had been at least two days, maybe twice that long. She dared wash her hands and face in a nearby stream, sit down, and eat. The food tasted like the dung. She had hoped the meal would invigorate her, but it only made her belly swirl, and she gagged.
For long moments, she lay on her back, struggling to breathe. She wasn’t sure how many scrapes and cuts covered her. It felt like dozens, some mild—mere scratches from brambles—others deeper, like the cuts along her wrists and ankles. She didn’t mind the pain, but as she lay watching the rustling leaves, she began to worry about infection. The tribe warriors sometimes rubbed their arrowheads with mammoth dung; they claimed that it would spread rot through a wound. After her splash in the mammoth’s waste to conceal her scent, had she doomed herself to slow death by disease? Had she fought, fled, and gone through this pain simply for a lingering demise in the wilderness?
If no more rocs arrive by afternoon, I’ll wash myself in the nearest stream, she decided.
For now she had to keep moving. The farther she walked from the tribe, the safer she’d be. She knew Zerra. Sooner or later, he would spit, curse her name, and give up the chase. He would claim she had died in the wilderness, then keep traveling south with his tribe, not willing to abandon his journey for a mere maggot like her.
“But I won’t die in the wilderness,” she whispered, rising to her feet. “I will find others like me. I will live through this.”
She kept walking, every part of her aching, until the sun dipped into the afternoon. Only three times did she hear rocs, and they were farther away, still hunting her but confused, not sure where to look. Slowly Laira’s fear of them eased, but her fear of infection kept growing, and her dizziness would not leave her. She needed healing herbs but didn’t know the craft. Back at Goldtusk, only the crone Shedah knew healing, and she would share the art with none.
Goldtusk. The very thought of the word made her eyes sting and iciness wash her belly. The tribe had been her only home since she’d been a toddler. Laira had often dreamed of fleeing, of finding others like her, other cursed ones, able to become dragons. Yet now that she had truly fled, the fear would not leave her.
She sucked in breath and tightened her lips.
You can do this, Laira. You are ready. You are strong. You have dreamed of this all your life, and now the day is here.
“Freedom,” she whispered. “A chance for a new, better life. All I must do is live.”
When evening fell, she came upon another stream. She had not heard pursuit since the afternoon, and she deemed the filth covering her a greater danger than rocs. She had been coated in the mammoth dung for two days now; if the rocs didn’t kill her, this poison would.
Wincing, she undressed and stepped into the water. It was so cold it hurt like fire, and Laira cried out in pain. Shivering, she submerged herself and bathed as best she could. Teeth chattering, she then scrubbed her filthy furs between smooth stones to clean out the dried flakes.
She climbed onto the riverbank—trembling, naked, her skin pale blue. After hanging her wet cloak upon a branch, she examined her wounds and grimaced. Brambles had painted her with a network of raw, red scratches. The fall through the canopy had covered her with bruises; some were as large as apples, their blue centers fading into black rings. Cuts surrounded her wrists and ankles, carved by the ropes. The worst wounds were on her feet; the heat had raised welts on her soles and toes, white and swollen.
The sun was sinking rapidly and Laira yawned. It was an action so mundane, so comforting, that it filled her with a little bit of warmth even as she still shivered. Yawning was good. Yawning was healthy. Yawning was normal. Her furs wouldn’t dry until tomorrow, not in this cold weather, but she could curl up under dry leaves. She could sleep, regain some strength, wake up and search for more food, then walk some more.
Tomorrow she would hum a little tune as she walked, she told herself. She would remember all the old jokes her mother had told her. It would be a happy day—a day free from all the old pain. Zerra wouldn’t be around to beat her. Shedah wouldn’t scratch her, spit upon her, or leech her for potions. Laira would live—perhaps for the first time in her life. She would find a new home and this nightmare would be over. She wiped tears from her eyes, allowing herself a shaky smile.
“I will be all r—“
A roc cried above. Laira froze.
Stars, oh stars, I had just washed off the stench, and they’re back.
She clenched her fists.
There is only one above, she told herself. I can fight one. I can shift into a dragon and burn it. I—
More shrieks answered. Three rocs, maybe four—no more than a dozen. Laira’s head throbbed. She was too weary, too hurt to fight that many, even in dragon form.
The shrieks sounded again, and she took a shuddering breath. The rocs were still far—a mark away, maybe farther. They could not smell her from that distance. She only had to remain silent, to remain hidden, to—
A growl sounded in the shadows behind her.
Laira spun around.
Yellow eyes gleamed in the brush.
The growl rose again in the darkness.
Behind her, the sun vanished behind the trees.
A shadow slunk forward, and in the dying light, Laira saw the creature, and she felt the blood drain from her face.
The saber-toothed cat bristled, muscular and hulking, several times Laira’s size. Its fangs shone, large and sharp as swords. The beast took another step toward her and growled again.
Laira gasped and took a step back.
In the distance, the rocs cried; they were moving closer.
Shift into a dragon! Laira told herself. Become a dragon and burn it!
Yet how could she? If she flew or blew fire, the rocs would see her. Even just shifting would rattle the trees like a mammoth stampede, raise a ruckus of clattering scales, and reveal her location.
The saber-toothed cat growled louder and crouched, ready to pounce.
Never removing her eyes from its gaze, Laira knelt and grabbed a stone.
With a roar, the great cat leaped.
Laira tossed her stone, hurtling it forward with all her might. The projectile crashed into the cat’s forehead, and Laira leaped aside.
The cat stumbled backward into a tree trunk, shook its head wildly, and faced her again. It padded forward, a bleeding gash on its forehead.
Couched in the dry leaves, Laira grabbed a fallen branch. She snapped it across her knee, then waved the sharp end at the cat.
“Be gone!” She bared her own teeth—pathetically small compared to its fangs. “Go! Go!”
If she ran, it would chase. If she showed weakness, it would pounce again. She waved the stick and hopped around, trying to seem as menacing as possible. Naked, scrawny, and wounded, she doubted she appeared like much of a threat.
Her suspicions were confirmed when the cat leaped again.
Laira thrust her stick.
The cat brushed it aside with its paw and slammed into her, knocking her down.
Laira grimaced. The saber teeth shone and drove down.
I have no choice.
With a hiss, Laira summoned her magic.
Scales rose across her. The cat’s fangs slammed against them and bounced back.
As her body began to grow, Laira shoved the beast off. She swiped her own paw, lashing her sprouting claws against the animal. The saber-toothed cat whimpered and fell.
The rocs shrieked above, and her body was still growing. A tail sprouted behind her, her neck kept lengthening, and the trees shook as she banged against them. Laira growled, baring her fangs, still only half-dragon.
The saber-toothed cat growled back, then whimpered, turned tail, and fled into the shadows.
An instant before cracking the trunks around her in a ruckus, Laira released her magic.
She shrank back into human form and lay shivering.
The cries of rocs moved farther away, and the last light faded.
Laira lay, enveloped in blackness, shivering in the cold, naked and wounded. Around her in the forest, she heard things stir and move, and a growl rose somewhere to her left, and paws padded to her right.
She hugged herself, unable to stop shaking.
“Please, stars of the dragon, please,” she prayed. “Look after me. Don’t let me die this night.”
She dared not light a fire, not in case the rocs returned. So weak she could barely move, she felt around for her stick and used it to dig a little burrow. She curled up inside and pulled dry leaves over her, hugging her knees for warmth. She had never felt so cold, lost, and afraid.
“I won’t die this night, Mother,” she whispered between chattering teeth. “I will live. I will live.”
She lay trembling and awake, staring into the darkness as growls, snorts, and glowing eyes filled the forest around her.
ANGEL
THE VOICES SCREAMED INSIDE HER, shrill, deep, twisting, hoarse, rising and shattering like glass.
We don’t want to die!
Feed us entrails!
Attack, fight, bite, eat, feed, tear, rip!
Pain. Pain. Pain! This must end. Stop! Mercy!
Angel sneered, smoke rising from between her teeth, and clutched her head. The voices would forever fill her, she knew. Even here. Even risen from the Abyss. Even upon the soil of Eteer, this kingdom aboveground, the cries echoed.
They hurt.
They hurt us!
Hate! Bite! Tear! Punish!
A thousand voices, all her own. A child in shadows. A child chained, whipped, broken, deformed. A creature risen to domination, to rule upon a land of darkness, to govern minions of flayed skin, of rotted flesh, creatures twisting and begging and laughing.
“I have suffered, King Raem,” she said, staring at the mortal. “I have suffered like you cannot imagine. A thousand times I died and rose from death. A thousand hurts coil inside me. A thousand voices of my own scream inside my skull of stone.” She unfurled her wings until they banged against the walls of his bedchamber. Her flaming hair crackled, and her saliva dripped from her maw to burn holes into the rug. “Let me grow. Let me become the queen I am destined to be.”
Raem stood by the window, staring out upon the city. The towers, domes, and walls of Eteer spread below the azure sky. All over the city, the cackle of demons and screams of mortals rose in a song.
“I know what you would ask of me,” the king said. “And I refuse.”
Angel hissed, leaped toward him, and grabbed his shoulders. She spun him around until he faced her. She bared her fangs, blasting smoke against his face.
“Feed us.” She tossed back her head and roared. She dug her claws into his shoulders, and his blood seeped. “Feed us the flesh of mortals. Not weredragons.” She spat. “Weredragons taste like the piss of gods. We crave the sweeter meat.” She licked her chops, already imagining it. “Feed us the pure mortals of your kingdom, the blessed forms of Taal, untainted with the reptile disease. The silver god of purity is vain. For ten thousand years, he laughed as I screamed in my prison. I would feast upon his sons and daughters.”
Raem stared at her, and only the slightest sneer found his lips. “No. You will not feed upon my kingdom. You may eat weredragons, and you may eat the flesh of animals. But the people of Eteer are blessed with Taal’s form. I will not allow a horde of diseased, impure creatures to consume my pure people.”
Angel sneered, the hunger for human flesh twisting in her belly. She needed his blessing. She was still bound to him, still his prisoner, even here in the sunlight. Even here the ancient laws bound her.
“Feed us!” she screamed. She lashed her arm, knocked over a stone vase, and shattered it. Sparks flew from her flaming hair. “Feed us the flesh of Eteer. Feed us and we will grow. Your demons are still small, King of Mortals. We have shrunk in our prison. We have grown weak. Feed us pure man-flesh and we will become larger than dragons. How can we fight dragons unless we grow to their size?”
Raem snorted. “The weredragons cower. They hide in cellars and sewers. You are more than capable of flushing them out, even with your smaller forms. You will obey me, Angel. If I discover one drop of pure human blood consumed, I will hold you accountable.”
Angel snickered. Fast as a striking asp, she thrust a claw, scratching Raem’s cheek. Blood spilled. Angel brought the claw to her lips. She licked Raem’s blood and a shiver ran through her. The cracks on her body of stone widened, spewing droplets of lava.
“You taste of reptile.” She spat. “The weredragon disease flows in your blood. Did you think I could not smell it? I knew of your shame my first day here. You—“
He slammed his sword against her cheek.
Her stone face cracked, spilling smoke, and she laughed.
“You forget your boundaries,” Raem said, glaring at her.
Lava dripped from her shattered cheek as Angel cackled. “You do not like me speaking of your secret, do you? Perhaps I will trumpet the news from the city walls. Perhaps all shall know that Raem, King of Eteer, is a filthy were—“
“By the light of Taal!” he shouted, interrupting her. “Angel, Queen of Demons, harken to me. As King of Eteer, I hereby banish you back to the Aby—“
She shrieked.
She lashed all four arms, cracking his armor, shattering the room around her. A clay urn shattered, spilling wine across the floor. She leaped, swiped her claws, and knocked down a limestone statue of an ancient, bearded king. Her arms spun, tearing down the room, digging ruts into the walls and floor. Clay tablets bearing cuneiform writings—epic tales of ancient heroes—fell off shelves, shattering into a heap of shards. Her flames blasted out, and tapestries burned.
Raem stood as she raged, calm, staring.
“Speak your treasonous words again,” the king said, “and I will complete the banishment.”
“Then send me hunting outside your borders.” Angel panted, tongue lolling. “Send me to the deserts of Tiranor in the west. Send me to the barbarous lands north of the sea. Send me to the city-states in the south, your old enemies. I will find mortal flesh elsewhere.”
Raem shook his head. “You are not to leave this city, Angel. The walls of Eteer are your boundaries. I have given you more freedom than you’ve known in ten thousand years, but you are still my slave. You will remain here until you’ve captured all the weredragons.”
She howled. “Your weredragons do not satisfy the hunger in our bellies. Your flesh stinks of starlight.”
“Once they are all dead, I will send you hunting beyond my borders. Not until then.” Raem leaned down and lifted a small, obsidian statuette of a winged bull. He placed it back on a shelf. “More remain in this city. Still your demons unearth one every day. Your servitude will continue.” He turned back toward the window. “I have errands in the north. I seek a particular weredragon across the sea—a weredragon that betrayed me, a weredragon I will hurt. A weredragon named Laira.” He turned back toward Angel, and his fists clenched, and his eyes hardened. “While I am away, you are not to leave this city, nor are you to touch my people. My daughter Issari will sit upon the throne until I return. You are to obey her, even as the hunger eats through your belly.”
You will break!
You are broken!
You will never rise!
Help, mercy, stop, take it back!
Yes, Angel hungered. Forever hunger lived inside her. Hunger for an end to those voices. Hunger for blood, for flesh, for power, for freedom. Hunger for a child.
She placed her hand against her belly, aching for spawn, for the rustle of unholy life within her. The ravenous lust blazed through her loins with dark fire.
She grabbed Raem’s shoulders again.
“I hunger for you. Take me.”
The fire consumed her.
For a precious few moments, the voices fell silent.
For now her craving was sated, but as he took her, Angel swore: I will slay all his weredragons, and I will feast upon the flesh of his people, and when he has placed a child within my womb, I will feast upon Raem too.
She welcomed his seed into her, and she smiled.
TANIN
WHENEVER TANIN SLEPT, HE REMEMBERED.
Even here in the forest, his sister sleeping beside him, he thrashed, half-awake, the memories clawing at him, dragging him down to that dark place eleven years ago.
“We have to run,” Jeid had said, bursting into the smithy with wild hair and flushed cheeks. “We have to fly.”
Tanin had stood at the forge that day, fourteen years old, an apprentice to his father. The brick walls of the smithy rose around him. Upon hooks hung hammers, tongs, pokers, and all the other tools of the trade. A cauldron of bronze bubbled beside Tanin, drenching him with heat, and sweat dampened his hair. He had the mold ready—a sickle for Farmer Gam who grew rye outside the town—and was just about the pour the liquid metal.
“What do you mean?” he asked his father.
He had never seen the old man look like this. Jeid Blacksmith—Grizzly to his children—was always a little disheveled, what with his shaggy hair, wild beard, and rough cloak of fur and leather. But today, for the first time, Tanin saw his father look scared. Tanin had seen Grizzly knock out malevolent drunkards, fight an invasion of a roaming tribe, and even battle a saber-toothed cat with only a simple dagger. But Jeid had never looked scared, and that fear now seeped into Tanin.
“They saw me fly,” Jeid said, voice low. “They know. We have to run.”
Tanin froze, unable to breathe. He grabbed his hammer.
They know.
From outside rose the townsfolk’s cries. “Weredragons! The curse has come to Oldforge. Burn the Blacksmiths!”
