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  HESHAYOL

  THE BLOOD OF DRAGONS

  BOOK 2

  THRICE NINE LEGENDS

  Joshua Robertson

  &

  J.C. Boyd

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 BY Joshua Robertson & J.C. Boyd

  Published by Crimson Edge Press, LLC

  www.robertsonwrites.com

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2018

  ISBN-10: 1-945397-98-5

  ISBN-13: 978-1-945397-98-1

  Cover art by Shen Fei.

  Acknowledgement

  For those who struggle with their demons.

  There once was a time when the gods were gods without question. When men were men without example. When heroes were only the frivolous dreams of lurid mortality. It was a time when truths and untruths were indistinguishable, hatred and love were equally excusable, and life and death regaled all of humanity in the same breath. Myths of old were realized and legends were born from the very dust man was formed of, to be told and retold until the grace of time altered them beyond knowing or forgot them completely. Still, some tales were preserved deep within the hearts of mankind, for reasons that could not be fathomed. Perhaps bearing the fruit of some profound truth or kept alive merely by the strength of the men who lived them. Some tales would never be forgotten.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Epilogue

  Thrice Nine Legends Saga

  The Blood of Dragons by Joshua Robertson & J.C. Boyd

  ANAERFELL*

  HESHAYOL*

  The Kaelandur Series by Joshua Robertson

  MELKORKA*

  DYNDAER*

  MAHARIA*

  Other Thrice Nine Legends Saga by Joshua Robertson & J.C. Boyd

  STRONG ARMED*

  WHEN BLOOD FALLS*

  THE NAME OF DEATH*

  WARDEN OF THE ASH TREE*

  THE HIGHBORN LONGWALKER*

  DEATH AT DUSK**

  Additional Works

  Legacy Series by Joshua Robertson & J.C. Boyd

  BLOOD AND BILE*

  THE HAWKHURST SAGA*

  GRIMSDALR*

  THE PRINCE’S PARISH*

  JACK SPRATT*

  *Published by Crimson Edge

  **Forthcoming by Crimson Edge

  HESHAYOL

  THRICE NINE LEGENDS

  Month of Harvest

  Fourth of Warmth

  1352 CE

  Prologue

  The rusted iron manacle clasping Drast Kaligula’s wrist against the mountainside creaked as he tried to shield his eyes with one hand from the torrent of wind. With a snort, he lifted his eyes to see the white dragon descending through the open ceiling of the ruined temple called Anaerfell. The beast’s wings propelled the warm gust to wisp the silvery hair fringing Drast’s balding, splotched scalp, and pressed the feathery strands of his beard against his desiccated frame. The distinct brawn in his chest and shoulders had long ago withered to nothingness, much like the lower half of his severed right arm.

  With little success, he twisted his head in annoyance, unable to properly shield himself. His other arm, clinched by a similar iron loop around the bicep, was entirely useless in protecting him.

  “The bitch has returned.” Drast coughed, biting off the beginnings of a chuckle and peering at his younger brother through the dirt stirred up by the blast, now clouting him across the face. Secured in a similar manner, though with decidedly more hands, Tyran looked little better. His skin had shriveled with age, sagging against his bones with only the barest hint of his former sinew.

  “Mm.” Tyran grunted weakly, hardly wincing at the uninvited dust storm. The younger brother’s blue eyes flashed in the midday sunlight and hung on the leviathan, their eternal sentinel, with unmasked hatred. For thirteen hundred years and more, Lahmia and the Wardens of the Ash Tree had guarded them in their solitary sanctuary in the north, a place lost to the world of men.

  Drast grimaced. He and his brother were as forsaken as Anaerfell, doomed to live without living. They were not immortals like the gods, but ageless, except for the steep cost in years when casting their magic, Koldovstvo. Neither could touch the ancient craft of the Stuhia while hooked on the mountain beneath the engraved mark called Znaki—a crude eye with a moon and cross.

  A familiar, imposing timbre resounded in Drast’s ear, which nearly caused him to jump out of his skin. He never could quite discern from where exactly it came.

  She has come to finish what I could not, Drast.

  He echoed the voice. “She’s come to do what her god could not, no doubt.” He snarled, clenching his teeth to keep back a giggle that threatened to steal his breath. “We have to fight, brother. We cannot let her take my other arm.”

  That is why she has come.

  “That is why she has come. To take it. She wants to see what the left hand tastes like, just like when Wolos took my right.” He smacked his lips. “To taste it.”

  She drifted downward, extending the two large feet tucked near her round belly, folding her thin, large wings over her coiled body. Her three cone-shaped heads snaked at the end of long necks, the cold eyes of each fixated on the two imprisoned brothers. Her icy breath could kill them at any moment, yet she let them live.

  Drast waited until her feet touched the weathered stone of the temple before speaking. His sunken stomach rumbled with such vitality that he could feel the vibration through his spine. “Any update on the whereabouts of our caretaker? Our Warden?”

  She will not say.

  “No?” He raised his eyebrows.

  No.

  “Fascinating. I would expect no less from the brainy beasts who follow you. Well, if such is the case, please tell us if we are to eat or be eaten.”

  I’m hungry.

  “I have been positively giddy awaiting her return.” A smile he could not control split his face in twain. “I will not die here without fighting. I have broken a Znaki before and I can do it again!”

  One of the heads zipped toward him, displaying rows of bloodstained razor teeth while issuing the familiar high-pitched screech. Drast’s ears rang. He reared back from the dragon’s bell-shaped nostrils as it took a step closer, swirling its other heads above the first.

  His shoulder blades scraped against the rocky wall. The deteriorating fabric covering his chapped flesh might as well have not existed. Sneering, he leaned toward the dragon and screamed back in defiance with all that he could muster, his thin frame soon trembling from the effort.

  The dragon’s shriek echoed against the stone walls, shaking loose motes of dust from the few columns holding up what was left of the ceiling. The vegetation that had overrun the temple did little to dampen the sound.

  Drast ended his wheezing cry and began to laugh, breathlessly, having outlasted the dragon to win the contest.

  As the cry
faded, Tyran blew the long white strands of hair out of his face, wafting them loose from his thick, tangled beard. He seemed irritated, casting a hard, wordless look at Drast, who could not contain his giggles.

  With the faceless voice conversing with him, Drast sometimes forgot Tyran existed. He wished Tyran would speak with him too, but his brother had not spoken in hundreds of years.

  He has no tongue.

  Drast nodded to himself, shifting his eyes from his silent brother. The voice made perfect sense. Reasonable, really. That is what the Wardens had done. They took Tyran’s tongue.

  Drast squinted at Tyran, curious, almost as if staring hard enough might allow him to see past his brother’s lips. Was all of it gone? Maybe just the tip? He peered so heavily at his brother’s chapped lips, he nearly missed the fact that Tyran was licking them.

  Drast blinked. “I thought you said he did not have a tongue.”

  I never said that.

  “Yes, you did.” Drast scrunched his face, looking down at his arm. He idly wondered if the Wardens took his arm or if it was missing at all. Maybe if he stared long enough his arm would come back too.

  Yes. The Wardens took your arm. No amount of wishing will bring it back. You are lucky that is all they took.

  “Lucky?” Drast cast a blurry squint back at Tyran, at the dragon, and then at a speck on the wall. “I want to know where the hooded Warden went. We have never gone so long without silent judgment; I am beginning to forget how bad I am supposed to feel for trying to kill their precious god.”

  You didn’t kill me.

  “Well, of course, I know that now. You won’t shut up about it.” He squinted harder at the speck. “Is that you?”

  No.

  “Oh.” Drast blinked. “So, are you Wolos?”

  I didn’t say that.

  “You didn’t not say it either.”

  So.

  “Can I call you Wolos?”

  It’s a fine name.

  Drast stopped squinting at the speck, somewhat certain it was Wolos. Maybe.

  Lahmia twisted her leftmost head toward Tyran to deliver his meal. Drast heard the babble of regurgitated food rising from the depths of her throat before she spewed a stream of brownish muck like a waterfall over his brother. Despite the acidic stench, Tyran gulped ravenously at the watery substance washing over his face, further discoloring his mustache and beard.

  Drast fought back his churning stomach, jerking his head sideways to dodge the droplets spraying against the side of his face. He considered slamming his head against the stone wall in hopes of losing consciousness before receiving his own meal. Long ago, he tried to kill himself by splitting his skull open but simply woke hours later with a dented head and a brutal headache. If that were not bad enough, he also suffered Tyran’s wrath.

  The incident occurred during the earlier years of their captivity when Tyran spoke more than five words a day. He did not talk much after.

  The bobbing, crowned head of Lahmia returned Drast to reality. Lahmia expectantly recoiled and rose inches above him. His stomach ached for sustenance, beckoning him to do as he had done the last few days, if only to survive.

  “Or you could kill me today,” Drast proposed, squinting his eyes shut and reluctantly lifting his chin.

  The last syllable fell from his tongue with the first splash of dragon vomit. He stretched his mouth wide, swallowing as swiftly as he could, tasting the slight flavor of bloodied venison through the bitter bile. He did not stop until he had nothing to gulp but air. He did not want to think about the pieces of the meal he missed, already crusting to his skin and clinging to his clothes.

  His belly still rumbled.

  Tyran’s voice croaked, and he hung his head despondently to stare at the stinking mess on the floor.

  Drast grimaced trying not to think about his meal. He coughed again and muttered, “Sadly, it is worse going out than coming in.”

  “Mm,” his brother responded, using what little strength he had to kick at the pile of filth gathered around them. Drast luckily stopped smelling their combined stench years ago.

  “Tyran.” Drast glanced at his brother before looking to Lahmia. The last few days, the dragon tore from the temple after feeding them, staying no longer than needed; yet now she remained. “Something is different.”

  What?

  “Maybe the Warden has been replaced,” Drast said.

  And I was just getting used to the other.

  Tyran hummed with disinterest.

  “You know it was a joke, Tyran?” Drast raised an eyebrow, leaning closer to his brother with a weighty sigh. When Tyran did not reply, Drast dejectedly turned to Lahmia too and waited.

  Over the years, neither he nor Tyran could identify any Warden from under their hooded robes. Yet he knew several had come and gone over time. The bastards never said a word, but he knew someone had appointed them to guard Tyran and him. Since defeating Wolos beyond the temple, a single guardian had come regularly to spoon-feed them, clean their clothing, or even build a fire during cold nights. He could not remember when he stopped asking why the Wardens wasted their time to keep them alive.

  The gods knew Tyran and he each had their fair share of suicidal attempts, from starvation to inciting either the Wardens or Lahmia to end their life. Nothing worked. In addition, by some peculiar fate, Tyran unearthed the clarity to provide reason to Drast early on during his darkest days and vice versa; for better or worse, they were one another’s saviors. However, after Drast’s last attempt—smashing his head into the wall—Tyran had stopped speaking. Drast had lost count of the long years that since passed.

  When the green light suddenly gleamed between Lahmia and the brothers, tearing through the fabric of the air, Drast’s jaw fell. From the glow, a recognizable woman, Erzebeth Navenka, materialized in a ghostly form. Her emerald eyes, round as the fading sun, shown with more brightness than humanly possible.

  Tyran’s gasp barely took form, though no words came out.

  “Erzebeth?” Drast supplied, drawing a confused glare from his brother. “What trick is this? You cannot be alive,” Drast hastily said, his tongue swelling in his mouth. He twisted his neck to see the Znaki scratched into the wall. He was powerless with the sign above him, not that he had the strength to wield Koldovstvo anyway.

  The woman was a Vucari, a skin-switcher, the sworn enemy of his people, the Stuhia. Memories raged in Drast’s mind against Erzebeth, who ultimately had been the one who left Tyran and him bound here at Anaerfell. She healed their wounds, brought them back from the brink of death, and committed them to this horrible existence.

  She isn’t alive.

  “I am not alive,” Erzebeth admitted slowly, shifting her eyes from Drast to Tyran, “or, at least, I am incapable of living as I once did.” Her essence brightened shortly, reflecting off the white scales of the looming dragon behind her. Lahmia rested her body against the stone flooring of the temple, her three heads perched over Erzebeth like guardians.

  “Good,” Drast hissed.

  Tyran exhaled loudly, his expression unreadable. Drast gave his brother a sidelong glance. The dragon’s vomit already had begun drying in Tyran’s beard and mustache.

  Centuries have passed since she left you here to rot. A swift death would have been merciful. But you have been allowed to linger on like a fart in a closed room.

  Drast stifled a giggle, snorting, doing his best to glare at the wispy woman. “Why are you here? Are we to finally die?”

  “No,” Erzebeth said. Her eyes held little life, piercing through them as she spoke. “Death will not come so easily for you.”

  Drast muttered. “Nothing about what we have endured in our lives has been easy, I assure you.”

  “Good,” she responded without emotion. “Rabid dogs should not be coddled. Consider yourself fortunate I kept you alive.”

  She is dead. How has she done anything?

  “The Wardens kept us alive,” Drast corrected.

  “At my command,
” Erzebeth said.

  Drast kept his eyebrows angled at the Vucari. “For what purpose, skin-switcher?”

  “To undo what you did,” Erzebeth answered.

  “Undo what we did?” Drast echoed.

  Undo what you did to me.

  “So we did kill Wolos?” Drast jerked his head, twisting toward the southern stone wall as though he could see through it. “I remember the decay we smelled when you first left us chained to this wall. We thought the body decomposed out there, but we thought the spirit survived. We have wondered for so long—”

  Drast felt a weight lift from his shoulders, one which he had not realized he carried. Hundreds of years passed since they fought Wolos, the God of the Dead, in the clearing beyond the temple, and still the battle was fresh in his mind. He had lifetime after lifetime to replay the dreadful event that resulted in him losing half of his right arm.

  To keep himself from gawking at his missing appendage, he looked to Lahmia uncertainly, a so-called child of Wolos, the Horned God, who had been caring for them in this prison. Lahmia must have known her father was killed by them, yet she helped keep them alive.

  I’m not dead.

  “She said you are.”

  And you believe her?

  “About as much as I believe you.”

  But you are talking to me.

  “I am also talking to her.”

  So you think.

  “Shut up! You’re dead.”

  “I am, Drast.” Erzebeth said with no small amount of confusion on her translucent features.

  “Not you. Him.” He responded in a murmur, his mind racing with the implications of the God of the Dead being gone from Aenar. “If Wolos is dead, then our father must have achieved immortality?”

  “No, young Red. Dagmar Kaligula is dead,” she said, the epithet far from accurate, given his advanced age. Before Drast could consider whether he was comforted or distraught by news of his father’s death, Erzebeth persisted, “Killing Wolos did not give mortals immortality. Instead, his death forced the dead to pour from the Netherworld and walk among the living. You have brought an imbalance to the cycle of the gods, which nearly annihilated the Ash Tree and returned power to the old-dark.”