2. Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Caelan
T his land was dead for as far as my eyes could see—for as far, even, as the eyes of my Imperial eagle, Arbaaz, could see as he circled above my head, no warning cries issuing from his closed beak. Behind the low, pebbled hills where nothing grew and heat shimmered in the air, the Firecap Mountains I’d journeyed to see hid behind low clouds that darkened the pink sky.
Ten days had passed since I crossed from Vaharilar where my father ruled as emperor into the Broken Realm of Los where demons infested the sand like ants in a thousand scattered colonies. Ten days and I still did not have the answer I’d come seeking: Were the mountains pregnant with dragons again?
Once, a thousand cycles past, the roiling fire in the stomachs of these mountains incubated the eggs of the dragon-gods. It was foretold that someday, the dragons would be Reborn, and the dynasty of the Dragonslayers— my family’s dynasty—was all but assured to end.
When a recent quake rocked the Palace of the Suns in our capital, my father learned it could be a sign that the great mountains were awakening. So I’d crossed the River of Madness into the Broken Realm of Los to see if liquid fire leaked like tears from the long-dormant peaks. To see if the promised Rebirth was near.
The mission was my idea, and my first command. Five Vaharilarans had put their lives in my hands by joining me. It was my chance to prove to my father that I could do more than wear the emerald robes of a High Priest—the shudder-inducing destiny of most royal second sons.
At first, distance foiled my sight. Then the storms that violently tossed the red sands. And now, the hills and the clouds that might be smoke maintained the mountains’ mysteries. How much longer before the land gave up its secrets?
Arbaaz cawed a warning and a blink later, a demon rose from the sandy, pebbled ground like a mirage conjured by a mind sickened with heat stroke.
“Dismount!” I shouted to the five others in my party.
Though on a battlefield, mounted men ran through infantry like steel through water, in these unstable hills, our mounts were a liability. I’d learned as much in the first attack, when a fast-footed demon slit the leg tendons of Broker Kells’ alwashi, forcing us to carry two of our party on a single alwashi’s back. It was lucky not all members of our party were as rotund as Broker or as tall and muscled as I was, or else we might not have been able to go on.
I catapulted off my saddle and drew my scimitar at the same time. Steel rang like bells in the air as the other members of my party followed suit. Puffs of dust swirled up around us as heavy boots dropped into sand.
I lunged at the demon and he fell back. I stepped again to pursue and he twisted away. He was stalling for time.
“Watch!” I shouted, knowing what it meant. “There are more of them.”
I scanned through Arbaaz’ eyes and my own. And sure enough, they rose around me like sand made flesh. A dozen, I counted, perhaps more. Two of them for every one of us.
I grinned as the promise of the fight enlivened my blood. My heart sang in my ears, a joyful drum beating. I could almost taste the iron tang of spilled blood, though none yet ran.
A good fight was better than sex—or at least, better than the sex I allowed myself to have with palace prostitutes who whispered of our encounters to anyone with coin. Those were curated experiences; I might take my clothes off but my carefully constructed mask never dropped. Never had I let a woman see what I really wanted to do to her.
“You ready?” I called to my personal guard, Joab Coy. I couldn’t see him but I knew he was right behind me, his back against mine.
“Ya,” Joab said shortly. It was more a sound than a word. He never did talk much, but oh boy, he could fight. How many afternoons had we spent just like this in the yards, back to back as men swarmed us like insects? Inventing scenarios under which we might be attacked was a sick hobby of Joab’s. He’d stage battles like plays and we’d fight our way out.
I moved and the other five in my party moved with me. Joab was at my side, sliding expertly into the spaces between my attacks. I executed a practiced lunge and twist, swiping with my scimitar. The extra-long blade I carried had been made especially for me, for I was bigger than ordinary men.
But the demon ducked beneath my blow and spun away. He was quick and small. His movements indicated a desire to protect the demon beside him, who wore a heavy backpack. So I danced sideways to attack that one instead and the first demon followed me, stepping between us. It gave Joab the opening he needed. He slid from my side like a dagger pulled from a hidden sheath. His blade slipped into the demon’s gut and back out again in a single swift motion. The second demon raised their dagger and thrust forward with it, grim-faced and silent. I dispatched them with a quick slice across the throat.
It was almost too easy.
The demons wore no armor beneath the wraps of red fabric that blended their bodies with their stark red homeland and obscured even their faces. Only their animalistic horns and slitted red eyes were visible. I, on the other hand, was a shining beacon of gold and dragonstone scale.
My suit had been carved in a time when the old techniques had not yet been lost. Though the scales were ancient, the suit itself had been tailored for my large frame. Harder than any metal, dragonstone couldn’t be melted or forged, only shaped and sharpened. Steel could not penetrate it. It was created in only one way: through the death of a dragon.
When the old gods died, they didn’t rot. Instead, while their spirits returned to the Crust to await rebirth, their bodies turned to stone. Which meant that no new dragonstone had formed in the thousand cycles since my ancestor had killed the last dragon-god and taken the throne that once belonged to the ancestors of the demons dying on the sands before me.
Atop my breast, on a golden plate, the severed head of a dragon announced who I was: an Havard. A royal prince. A Dragonslayer.
I suspected these roving peasant demons didn’t know what the symbol meant. If they did, they would run instead of rising from the land to attack us like shadows made flesh. We Havards were not known for our mercy.
Another came at me, swifter than the first. Then another. This one carried two blades. Steel clashed on steel as I swung to deflect their blows. The scimitar swept like a broom while the dagger stabbed like a boot stamping a bug.
I dodged the scimitar and blocked the dagger with the vambraces on my forearms. The power of the blow was deflected but the dagger slipped along the surface of the armor and cut me shallowly in the crook of my arm. The demon tugged his dagger back, flinging my blood across the sand. I hardly felt it.
I countered his attack without thought, my body moving through the practiced motions on its own. The drop of blood he drew from me was all the victory he’d see. A rapid series of attacks brought me inside his guard. I tugged him into an embrace and trapped his scimitar too close to be of any use to him. I grinned down, a feral expression replacing the courtier’s careful mask.
He spat at me and I laughed. His small rebellion made it all that much sweeter when I stabbed into his chest, just under his ribcage, pointing up towards his heart.
It was a quick death, and a bloody one. That was just fine; no need to savor the agony of a gutting or a flaying. I was an Havard, and sadism flowed through me as surely as blood did, but I wasn’t like my older brother, Amon. I didn’t get off on torture and cruelty.
Just on power. Holding it in my hands as I watched the light go out in the demon’s eyes. Power pulsed beneath my skin, innervating me from the tips of my fingers to the crown of brown hair beneath my helmet.
Better than drink, better than sex. Almost as good as freedom.
The blood pumped out of the demon in my arms, soaking first his clothes and then the red dirt below his feet. The hungry land drank up the offering and didn’t even change color.
I assessed the broader fight. All members of my party were still standing, and only three demons were left alive.
Behind me, Joab still engaged one of them. Baris Barellis joined him.
The Barellis family was old eastern blood, and Baris’ skin was rich and dark. Scarifications lined his collarbone, though I couldn’t see them now. He was a short man with tight musculature and a clean-shaven face. I probably weighed two of him.
I’d debated before asking him to join this mission. He was young to die. But I needed the best with me, and Baris was the best.
At nineteen, Baris was six cycles younger than me and already one of the most skilled swordsmen in Vaharilar’s army. From the day he’d wandered into the palace yards as a boy of seven, he’d been hungry for any time he could spend with a blade in his hands. Always the first to practice and the last to leave, Baris had earned enough respect to be allowed into my father’s army despite his tarnished name. His grandfather had been lord of a small eastern territory called the Embrace when the Traitor’s Rebellion broke out. He’d chosen the wrong side, been executed, and his territory was stripped from his family. Baris meant to make his name respectable again and he was going about it the right way—by earning the respect of the warriors who fought alongside him.
He was moving in for a swipe across the demon’s gut when the world beneath us began to shake like a marble in the hands of a gaming god.
Baris was mid-lunge and the shake tipped him. His path twisted towards me, his scimitar still out before him. Joab leaned to block but a fresh shudder knocked him off his feet. Baris twisted to avoid impaling me and managed to stay on his feet. I spread out my arms and dropped into a crouch, but the pebbles beneath my boots were being dragged away like sand under waves.
“Lie down,” shouted High Commander Fakoury. He was the most experienced member of our party and a trusted counselor to my father. By rights, he should be in command of this mission. But it was my idea and I’d volunteered to lead it, seeing it as my chance to prove to my father that I could command men. If I succeeded, I might win my way into being High Commander myself someday. If I failed, the emerald robes of a High Priest awaited me.
The other men obeyed the commander, sprawling on the pebbled ground before they fell. All but Joab, who mirrored me. And I stayed standing.
“They’re getting away,” I shouted.
The three remaining demons had taken the opportunity the quake presented them. They were outnumbered now and had no hope of defeating us, so they ran. In moments, they’d disappear behind one hill or another and be gone. They’d report our presence to whoever was in charge of this damned place, and the next party that greeted us would not be made up of roving foragers.
I could not allow that to happen.
I took off running.
Joab’s swearing was followed by the crunch of his boots as he followed.
My boots sank in the sandy soil while the demons scampered across the land’s surface as if they weighed nothing. My legs shook, and I wasn’t sure if it was from running uphill or if it was only the vibrations of the Crust traveling through my muscles.
Below my armor’s segmented plates, my tunic was soaked in sweat. Droplets beaded on my forehead below my pointed helmet and dripped down my cheeks. This scorched land was hot enough to squeeze all the water out of a man in a day and leave him desiccated. If not for Baris and Nahome Obsan, who were familiar with desert travel, we wouldn’t have made it this far.
Ahead of us lay squat hills that offered the demons cover I didn’t wish them to reach. I had a feeling that the moment these pests left my sight, they’d dissolve into the sands again and be lost to me.
But they weren’t carrying the weight of full armor on a body as muscled as my own. I was faster than many men expected in a fight but at an uphill run, I had no hope of catching these creatures. I drew a short dagger and flung it at the unprotected skull of the nearest of them. My aim was true, but a moment before the blade hit him, the demon sidestepped and the dagger flew by him. He reached a massive boulder and dodged behind it, disappearing from sight.
As suddenly as the shake started, it stopped.
I slowed down and caught my breath. The other demons had disappeared like the first. For all I knew, they awaited me together behind that same boulder, perhaps with fresh men alongside them. I’d have to be an idiot to approach on foot alone.
But luckily for me, I had a secret weapon.
Above my head, circling lazily through the sky, my Imperial eagle, Arbaaz, awaited my command. His sharp eyes saw past every rise with a predator’s crisp vision. He whistled, his keening cry piercing the silence.
Heart hammering, I blinked into Arbaaz’ mind. His eyes were mine now and I saw the enemy shapes immediately.
The demon had circled north and now lurked behind a mound of rock with his scimitar drawn and ready. One of the others huddled with him, but the third was missing. These two were probably trying to circle around behind me and take me by surprise to cover the escape of the third.
Through Arbaaz’ eyes, I scanned for the figure and found him. Sure enough, he inched away, back towards the sacred mountain range where I imagined the demons gathered in larger numbers.
Soil shifted just behind me and I spun around, raising my blade. But it was only a disgruntled Joab, followed closely by Baris. He wasn’t a bit out of breath and sand was hardly displaced where he’d stepped.
“You’re more suited to this place than I am,” I admitted. “I’m loud as an alwashi’s hooves on black glass.”
Baris shrugged, his eyes scanning the boulders and hills ahead. “The deserts of the east aren’t so different from the deserts of the west. Where’d they go?”
I wished I could simply tell him what I saw. But if there was one lesson I’d learned in the Palace of the Suns, it was to trust no one.
The magic that allowed me to control the body of a bird of prey was called altaya, the bird-magic of kings. With it, my ancestor Calathan the Conqueror had killed the dragon-gods and won my family our throne.
But no altayr had been born in generations. Not until me.
I’d thought once, when I was a naive child, that my father would be proud that one of his sons carried the ancient power of my house.
When the Imperial Falconer, Selim, discovered my secret and urged me to keep it private, I’d longed to disobey him. Perhaps I could raise an eagle, I suggested to my father at dinner. I was a boy of eight, my powers just beginning to come in. I did not speak of them yet, hoping to practice enough to surprise my father with my skill before I did.
My father gave his permission and I joyfully chose an eaglet as my own.
Only to return to the mews to find the feathers of my once-proud bird scattered, blood-coated, across the hay, the bird’s entrails among them. My father bloodied me nearly as much that day, swearing to do worse to me if I ever returned to the mews again.
So I trained with Selim in secret. Learned to use my magic and to hide it. To split my mind between two bodies, controlling both. To keep my mask on even as I soared on the thermals, eagle and man made one.
It was not until I was a man that my father finally allowed me to train an eagle and attend my first Hunt. I muddled my way through, allowing Arbaaz to catch only a single vole. I made a show of my disappointment in his performance and disinterest in the tradition that, in truth, made my heart sing with joy.
It worked. My father spared Arbaaz’ life. Cycles later, his suspicion had waned enough to allow me to bring the bird with me on this mission. An invaluable ally posing as a trophy.
I made a show of scanning the ground for footprints as I watched from the air. I pointed to the rock the demons hid behind and gestured for Baris and Joab to approach from one side while I came around the other.
The two demons hiding together went down fast, but the third tried to run. I went after him but he dodged every assault with enviable speed. Baris joined me with a flurry of attacks but the demon jumped away, scampering like an animal onto a nearby boulder. Baris was far too short to reach him up there.
I drew another dagger and threw it but the demon dodged this one as he had before. I had no choice but to approach the boulder and engage, my height and the reach of my scimitar granting me the ability to swipe at his legs while he stabbed down at me.
Joab darted to my side, but there was nothing he could do but get in my way. He swore and stepped back.
My arm burned as I swung it again and again. It was like trying to swat an annoying fly, but it was also like trying to solve a puzzle. I noted a dip in the rock and drove him towards it, hoping his attention on me was complete enough to cause him to trip when he reach it. Baris saw what I was doing and tossed a dagger. The demon stepped back and the rock was not where he expected. His foot thudded hard as it kept going and he fell.
I was ready. My scimitar swept across his cheek and he tumbled to the ground at my feet. Wasting no time, I threw a leg over him and pinned him to the ground. My scimitar was too long for such close quarters and I tossed it aside. My fist would suffice. I slammed it into his face once, twice, three times and he no longer had a face. I grinned as his hand loosened on his blade and his shoulders dropped.
“He was good,” I said cheerfully as I stood and wiped the sweat off. The red light of Jupe and the pale yellow light of Ksafa had baked my exposed skin. My scalp was drenched, my brown waves soaked beneath my helmet.
Beside me, Joab dripped like he’d just climbed out of the river. His eyes scanned for more of them. Heat waves shimmered around us like silken fabric, conjuring itself into monstrous shapes. “That’s it,” he said.
I sent part of my attention into Arbaaz’ mind to see for myself as Baris went through the fallen demons’ packs.
“Damn, they got you,” he said as he stood back up, offering me a canteen made of goatskin.
“Hardly.”
“Let me see it, my prince.”
“Are you my nursemaid now, Baris?” I glared at the young nobleman.
“Only if you ask nicely, my prince.” His eyes twinkled and then grew serious. “There are creatures in desert lands who can be used to make a poison. If a blade is coated with it, even a small cut can bring on weakness or infection.”
I held out my arm and Baris peered at the nick while Joab frowned silently at his side.
Baris’ finger snaked out and tapped the wound, then he put his finger to his tongue. He swirled the taste of my blood around like it was a fine wine.
Joab made a sound of disgust while I laughed. “Wouldn’t you prefer a red?”
“No poison,” Baris said.
“They were just peasants,” I supplied.
“The desert provides for all her people, not just the noble ones,” Baris said.
“This desert is a fucking wasteland. If it gets any hotter, I’m going to combust. It’s no wonder the demons never stop trying to cross the river into Vaharilar.” I glared up at our dual suns, cursing them for the unyielding heat of midday. The clouds that had loomed above us for days had finally cleared. For the first time since our arrival in Los, the sky was pink and pure as a northern child’s skin.
Arbaaz turned, riding the breeze that had pushed the clouds away. And he saw it.
If the sky was a child’s skin, the peaks of the Firecap Mountains were black boils on that skin.
I gasped and covered it with a cough. Grey smoke lay low and thick above the largest mountain. Worse, orange liquid fire rolled down the mountainside like blood.
The Firecap Mountains were active again. And I couldn’t tell anyone.
“The sky is clear,” I said instead, and raced ahead to the tallest hill, hoping against hope it was high enough to allow Baris and Joab to see what Arbaaz could.
Baris overtook me, scampering up the hillside and sending pebbles skittering down behind him. As Joab and I reached him, he was bending to Kiss the Crust and offer a prayer to the Father. Triumph and relief flooded me as I turned my eyes towards the Firecaps and saw with my own eyes what I’d seen through Arbaaz’.
Fewer details, of course. I could not see the bubbles in the liquid fire, only its thick orange fingers on the mountainside and the black smoke that smothered the peak like a thick blanket.
“The air tastes rotten,” Baris noted.
It was true. The flavor of eggs gone bad lingered on my tongue.
“That’s what dead god smells like,” Joab said.
“We have to get back to Vaharilar as soon as possible.” My father would need time to mount a mission to kill the creature before it was born. Could an army of men fell a mountain?
Arbaaz nudged my mind and I brushed off his touch. His consciousness pecked at mine more insistently.
What? I sent him.
He showed me a fast-moving shape sprinting away from the boulders towards the mountains. The figure was still close enough to catch.
I opened my mouth to tell Baris and Joab that we had more cleanup to do before I noted details that had me shutting my mouth again. The red-clothed figure was hardly larger than a wild dog. Long dark hair had slipped free of a head wrap and bounced against her back as she ran with frantic, wild steps. Her horns were hardly longer than her fingers. She was a child.
Fuck.
If I let this child escape, she would report our presence to the first demons she came across. The party of warriors that came after us then would be well-prepared. They would compromise our return.
There was no question what I should do. But there also was no question of what I would do.
Killing demons? That was my favorite sport.
But children? Innocents?
Let’s just say that the homes I searched when I raided the Borderlands never seemed to have any children in them. It was the damnedest thing.
“Come on,” I said to Baris. “Last one back gets first watch.” I was already calculating how much faster we’d have to move now that the demons knew we were here.
“If you want first watch, my prince, why not just say so?” Baris winked and turned.
I had about a thousand pebbles in my boots by the time we reached the rest of the party. I itched to mount my alwashi, Ufuk, and begin the ride home. Time was running out for us now like sand in a timepiece. If we didn’t make it home to report on what we’d seen and a dragon was born, Vaharilar would be unprepared.
Yet despite the staggering importance of this mission, I’d let a child live to compromise it.
The Havards hadn’t held onto power for a thousand cycles by showing mercy. And I was an Havard. Like the others of my bloodline, I hungered for violence and found no pleasure where it was absent. But all violence was not created equal, and I was not like the others in my family. It would be easier to be cruel or kind. I was something in between.
Now more demons would come. I’d kill them all and send an army to topple their mountain. I’d stab the egg of their dragon-god myself. Alone in the sea of destruction I would wreak, one child would live. And that outcome was just fine with me.