Heshayol Read online

  The old gods.

  Drast gulped, being familiar with the name but not much more. The old-dark, also called the Likhyi, were said to have existed not only before the world had fully formed, but before the gods of mortals became gods. They were said to hold no love for the living.

  Erzebeth went on, raising her voice, “For the past era, heroes have struggled to keep the old-dark weak enough so you might resurrect Wolos and restore order. Though the world will not survive much longer.”

  “You think we can save Aenar? It sounds as though we brought about its destruction.” Drast snickered.

  Tyran glared at him, grunting and flapping his lips.

  Erzebeth frowned, floating closer to Drast. “You will journey to the Netherworld and return with Wolos. Without him, the Ash Tree will die and the old-dark will destroy the pantheon of the gods.”

  “And why should we care?” Drast sneered.

  “Have you learned nothing during your time here? Is it so hard to be moral and decent?” Erzebeth responded, unblinking.

  Drast met her wide eyes and smiled. “I am not sure how well those glowing eyes of yours work, but Tyran and I are more hanging here than standing. We only breathe because we cannot touch Koldovstvo to end our pathetic existence. We are frail. Brittle. The only journey we have left is death.” He began to laugh, his voice cackling. “He can’t even talk!”

  “I would free you,” Erzebeth argued.

  “And I would kill myself at first chance,” Drast said.

  I could help.

  “Death has become a cruel adventure. All the dead have become twisted by Marheena’s death magic and then they return to this world to feast on the flesh of the living. Without Wolos, none can reach Thrice Ten Kingdom.” Erzebeth paused, letting her words hang in the air.

  Drast swallowed hard at the unwelcome thought. The lingering taste of dragon vomit in his throat caused him to gag unexpectedly.

  “Mm,” Tyran filled the silence.

  You were never destined for Thrice Ten Kingdom. You failed your charge in life. I told you that.

  “That’s right. I remember. We failed our charges. I was supposed to help Tyran, and Tyran was supposed to have sex.” He grinned at Erzebeth. “We were never going to Thrice Ten Kingdom.”

  “You have been given another chance!” Erzebeth cried in desperation, her translucent features a mockery of life.

  Drast felt a spark of life, grinning again at her despair. He suspected his few teeth looked more like jagged rocks sprouting from the sea than anything close to a smile. “You are claiming we will be given residence in Thrice Ten Kingdom if we free Wolos from death? Who gives you the authority?”

  “I am a Warden of the Ash Tree. I speak for Wolos who leads the dead to their resting place,” Erzebeth said. “Would you rather stay fastened to this wall than do a good deed?”

  Good deeds have a way of multiplying. Before you know it, you will be protecting the innocent and making sweet, timeless promises like a rainbow.

  “You’re a rainbow!”

  I never said that I was.

  “You didn’t say you weren’t either.”

  “What?” Erzebeth asked.

  Drast blinked at her, uncertain what she was asking.

  She wants to know if you are going to release me from death, even though I am alive and decidedly not dead.

  Drast pursed his lips, trying to muddle through the mess in his head. “By what means do we release a god who does not have the power to free himself?”

  Lahmia rumbled behind the skin-switcher. The center head opened its mouth, revealing an unusual gem with a strange blue light illuminating from within.

  “This is Ojenek,” Erzebeth said. “Not only will this stone allow you to speak and understand any strange tongues heard in the Netherworld, but it is also the key to Wolos’s chains.”

  “We still do not have the strength to travel,” Drast said, weakly flailing an arm and a half.

  “Restore what strength you can,” Erzebeth replied briskly. “And then Lahmia will carry you to the Kalinov Bridge. I will meet you there.”

  Tyran’s forehead wrinkled temporarily, then he dipped his head with a reluctant grunt.

  “Sure. I have been growing a bit restless anyway,” Drast said with a half-smile, bowing his head at Lahmia. “Besides, we have surely overstayed our welcome.”

  Month of Rutting

  Second of Frost

  1352 CE

  Chapter I

  The dragon nosedived alongside the snowy crag, painted as white as its scales, clasping Tyran Kaligula in her curved black talons. He inhaled a lungful of frosty night air, holding his breath until his cheeks burned with the same fervency as his chest. With an exasperated breath, he peered through watery eyes at the fading fog and tangled treetops whipping beneath him in the strange, flushed light.

  He was helpless, hanging with his arms wrapped up in the dragon’s scaly grip, his skull nearly crushed in the limited space. For days, the mountain range was as soundless as a grave and, in the silence, Tyran’s mind quieted. He did not need his voice or even his thoughts to occupy the time; he was a master of emptiness. Nonetheless, by and by, he eventually came to think about the last time he ventured into the Shade to steal a young dragon for his father’s blood ritual, which eventually gave his brother and him more power than any Stuhian man should possess. The journey had been arduous at best, made even more difficult in the company of his ignorant soldiers.

  Ser Tyran is what they called me. I was the son of a Serder who became Arkhon. I was the commander of armies. And now, I am what...a dragon’s plaything...

  His upper lip quivered under his faded mustache as he strained to see Lahmia, the winged serpent who carried him in her grasp. Everything was a blur. The beast was nothing more than a hoary blotch blocking all the other blotches of color.

  Lahmia was a stupid, fat beast. She should know he and Drast were dragon-men and god-killers. By the gods, they still had dragon’s blood flowing through their veins.

  He forced his head sideways to peer at his older brother, squished in a similar fashion in the adjacent claw. Like himself, Drast was little more than wrinkles and timeworn hair sprouting from parchment-thin, mottled skin. Dark brown spots and blackened bruises dotted Drast’s exposed flesh, all muscle, fat, or sinew seemingly boiled away to leave only bone beneath. Tyran was certain Drast would not know the origin of any of the bruises. Not only did a contusion surface on either of them from touching an object more solid than their flesh, but they frequently woke to discover blood welting beneath the surface of their skin like they were suffering from internal wounds.

  His brother’s half-arm drooped at his side, twitching slightly, while he slept. Tyran once thought the entire arm was torn off during the battle against Wolos, but later learned he simply could not see what remained of the appendage through all the blood.

  Drast swayed in the adjacent claw, snoring soundly, looking old enough to be a long-buried corpse.

  “Wake up!” Tyran heard himself holler. His tone sounded as profound as a strapping man, a tone powerful enough to command nations. The wind whistled in his ears. The cursed dragon seemed to be picking up speed as they descended through the Shade Fells. He huffed in and out, regaining some strength before yelling again. By the gods, his voice was immaculate. “Drast, wake up!”

  Drast snorted, his eyes fluttering for a moment before widening in excitement. He croaked, twisting in the talons as though he could free himself with a simple tug. He chuckled, the sound carried away with the wind. “Nine Lands!” Drast mumbled, barely intelligible.

  “Calm down. We are finally here.” Tyran said aloud, ignoring his brother’s muttering.

  Lahmia screeched from one of her many crowned heads and fanned out her leathery wings, rearing up to bring them to a halt before dropping them several feet above the ground. Tyran’s gut roiled and his head spun as he heard Drast’s wild shout nearby. Falling onto his weak legs, he crumpled to the dirt and rolled over and over. Drast flailed next to him in attempts to regain some sense of balance.

  After several rotations, Tyran finally stopped on his back and groaned. Lahmia flapped her wings above him, rising back toward the darkened sky, flinging dirt and dust at them in her departure.

  “I want to kill that pretty dragon.” Drast found the energy to sit up and shake his fist in the air at the serpent as she flew away.

  “She probably feels the same way about us,” Tyran remarked, pulling himself up onto his haunches to see the small clearing among the snarled trees and jagged rocks. “How many years did she protect us at Anaerfell knowing we drank her kin’s blood, murdered her father, and all the while, called ourselves dragon-men? Keep your vengeance for someone worthier, hm?”

  Drast whipped his head around, bloodshot eyes watching Tyran. “Admit you want to kill her, too. I do not remember Father’s spell, but maybe her blood would ripen us right up. Or it might kill us!” Drast cackled, twisting his hand over and over in front of himself as though he were spinning yarn. His grin split his face until the laugh completely faded. “Ah. The days since Erzebeth visited us at Anaerfell have already turned to months and Wolos remains dead. I really expected this little escapade to move a bit quicker. What took Lahmia so long to bring us here?”

  He touched the wrinkles on his cheek, searching for an appropriate response. Finally, Tyran muttered, “I do not know.” Even at a whisper, he sounded hearty, unlike Drast’s nasally drawl.

  Drast chortled, shaking his gaunt bare foot at Tyran. “Can you believe this? Look at me! My thighs are as thin as my ankles. My muscles can barely hold my frame upright. I nearly break my own knees with the pendulous sack flogging between them.” He smirked. “By the gods, Tyran, I can only shit water. I wish we were but a bit stronger than when Lahmia was spewing down our gullets.”

  “We have had a few good meals in us,” Tyran said.

  His brother rattled on before Tyran even had his say. He was not sure Drast was even listening to him. “We do not have any weapons with us. I am telling you, we are not going to last long in the Netherworld wearing these rags either, not that you have the strength or I have the appendages.” He waggled his stump. “You do remember I lost an arm, right?”

  “Yes,” Tyran replied, pushing himself from the cold, hard ground to his feet. He lifted his eyes to the crimson glow emitting from the sky. “What do you make of that?”

  The dark red moon hanging in the night sky had been hidden when they were cusped in Lahmia’s talons, but now the ruddy ball was unmistakable. The light defiantly danced amid the shadows on the ground through the naked boughs of the trees. A subtle wind stirred the dusty ground into small whirlwinds reminding Tyran of the intrinsic death Erzebeth said clung to the world. He was reminded that, instead of dust, the land should have been covered in red-gold leaves from the maple trees, which now stood stripped of fronds. The branches were stained red in the light of the moon, taking on the forlorn image of crimson-clawed fingers reaching for the meager white light of the stars.

  Like ashes, the dust drifted through the air, illustrating images. Tyran strained, his frame rigid with shock. “Are you seeing this?”

  “Are you seeing this?” Drast repeated softly, the stupid smile still planted on his face. Tyran wanted to turn and glare at Drast, frustrated that his brother would mock his honest question. Yet he was too caught up in seeing anything after his eyes had failed him for so many years.

  The wind swirled and a stone statue of the Horned God appeared before being crushed under the massive weight of a dragon’s claw. The ash-like dust eddied and the walls of the great city unknown to Tyran gave way under the onslaught of a hundred legions of troops. Then the earth seemed to bound into the sky, knocking Tyran back to his knees. The dust churned into the image of a score of gods, all once worshipped throughout Aenar; the image was then swept away by a great darkness. As the sights played through the arid powder, it was almost as though the cry of the wind became the sound of the gurgling screams of women and children dying beneath the weight of the draconic breath. The rustling of the barren branches bespoke of the clattering shields and axes of battle-worn warriors; then came the sudden silence of the night as though the gods were emptied from the heavens.

  “I didn’t mean...this. We didn’t know. Did Father know what could happen?” Drast’s voice was a whisper. “We aimed for everlasting life, and instead, we invited eternal death.” Tyran watched Drast blink several times as the images dispersed, passing before them. Although Tyran understood he and his brother held similar ambitions, the methods in reaching these ambitions knew different boundaries. From this knowledge, he wondered if the apparitions blurring in his mind’s eye corresponded with Drast’s visions.

  From the corner of his eye, Tyran saw something move in the distance near the mountain edge. He turned from Drast’s angular face to peer along the ghostly dark trees, ready for any evil that would come for them.

  The light figure that emerged from the shadows appeared like rain from a cloudless sky. Tyran fought against the dim light to make some semblance of who the person could be, but he quickly realized the individual was cloaked in hooded robes—too-familiar hooded robes.

  Drast tittered, throwing his head back in amusement, confirming Tyran’s own suspicions. “Would you look at that, Tyran? We found the missing Warden. What is he doing here?”

  “Sent by Erzebeth, no doubt,” Tyran said, inspecting the Warden as he approached. Tyran knew this Warden was smaller in stature than the others who had guarded Drast and him over the past millennium, but in the shadow of the mountain under the wretched, decaying trees, he looked all the slighter, as though he may have been drowning in his robes. Tyran could not see much of the frame or face, but the shoulders were narrow enough to belong to a woman. Yet he could not see much beyond the typical grey robe securely fastened by a brown belt notched around the skin-switcher’s scrawny waist. He squinted to better see some sort of axe hanging from an iron ring on the belt. The handle seemed to be fashioned out of what may have been a man’s leg bone.

  Tyran toppled forward, hardly able to hold his head upright, skimming over the shadow of the Warden’s hood. He drew closer, close enough to feel the breath of the skin-switcher, noticing the Warden carried more objects. Drast’s bow was slung over the man’s shoulder. He held the quiver in his hand along with a large cloth sack. In his other hand, he held another pack and what looked to be Tyran’s cherished mace, forged long ago by the giants of Tundris Mor. The two-foot yew haft had a heavy bronze ball at the end, the size of his fist. Tyran weakly reached for the weapon, wishing he had the power to pull the mace to his hand with Koldovstvo without cutting the remaining thread of his life. He stopped mid-reach, catching sight of his large rectangular shield—once made from yew and hardened bull’s hide, now forged from an unknown alloy—shimmering over the Warden’s shoulder.

  Tyran had to blink to keep his eyes from watering.

  He sidestepped around the Warden, his knees popping, swinging his hand at Drast with a relieved smile. “Look. He brought our weapons. They were kept all these years.”

  “Tyran, he brought our weapons. Probably to kill us with.” Drast dropped his head to acknowledge his half-arm, then bobbed his head at the Warden, who unslung his bow. His lips became a snarling grin, revealing the handful of crooked, stained tines lining his bloody gums. “I suppose I could use my teeth.” He snorted. “Those I have left.”

  Tyran grumbled deep in his chest, reaching for his mace again and missing. He could feel the soreness in his body. He was tired, drained of strength, and ready to be at an end. But the memory of past glories danced between his ears. He craved to have his weapon in his hand or the shield on his arm again.

  “Are we not here for blood? I cannot remember. Did Erzebeth not come for us? Was it an illusion?” Tyran rumbled, his deep tenor ringing in his eardrums. “I could have sworn we had a newfound duty to uphold.”

  No one answered him. No one even looked at him.

  The Warden slung the bags to the dusty ground with an extended whine, the weapons, too, tumbling from his hold.

  When the shield clamored with a loud thud, Tyran opened his mouth to say something, but the Warden spoke first, tossing back the grey hood of his robes. The boyish face, flat nose, and shaved head took Tyran by surprise, but not nearly as much as the soft-spoken, young tenor of the near-child. He barely heard the words. “I am Kam Artur of Raccassi, a Warden of the Ash Tree, the kin of Jersi Artur. In your packs, you will find suitable clothes, a month’s worth of rations, and filled water skins. Your weapons have been refastened, reinforced, or restrung to withstand the journey ahead. I will be accompanying you to ensure Wolos is reborn and balance is restored to Aenar.”

  “He is using big words, Tyran. Do we know these people or places? I do not think I do.” He paused, cocking his head. “Oh, yes, I am sure he sat here among the decaying trees, practicing his little speech to perfection. I suppose we should clap or something?” Drast raised one hand, his half-arm moving as if he still recalled having an arm. Both arms swung, but lacking his right hand made his clap decidedly one-sided. He paused, a confused expression on his face as he looked down before hooting with laughter. Just as quickly as the merriment began, he stopped and tilted his head, speaking to something unseen. “I will ask him.”

  Tyran dropped to his knees and clawed for his mace and shield. He could not believe the foolish Vucari would throw his items down.

  Drast scuffled behind him, nearing the Warden while looking down his long nose. He smacked his lips. “You do know you left us in Anaerfell with a dragon who fed us with its own vomit?”

  Kam crossed his arms, dipping his chin to his chest. “I am aware. Lucky for you Lahmia did not feed you from her other end.”

  “Oh? Luck—are we—” Drast coughed on spit catching in his throat. Fumbling for words, Drast stalled to reach for his bag, eyeing the longbow but keeping his hand a distance from the smooth wood. He regained his composure. “What makes you think we would allow you to come into the Netherworld with us? Hardly a place for a boy! Did you hear that, Tyran? The boy thinks he is coming with us.”