Dragons Lost (29 page)

So here I end. In
darkness. Chained. Broken. Half the world away from my daughters.

"Bloody sacks of horse
shite!" Amity was screaming, banging against the door. "Let us out, you
puke-guzzling, hairy griffin bollocks!"

Her shoulder was bruised
from her many attempts to break the door. Chains clattered around her ankles
too, keeping her in human form. Sweat dampened her short blond hair and
clothes, and she panted.

"I need to break these
chains." Amity growled and slammed her fist against the metal links again and
again. "Damn it, I can't shift with these chains on me!" With a roar, she
tossed back her head and tried to shift again—she had been trying all day—only
for the chains to tighten around her growing legs, shoving her back into human
form. She fell to her knees, breathing raggedly.

"It's no use, Amity,"
Korvin said.

She growled at him. "Help
me, damn you! Stop moping there like a flea-bitten pup and help me break the
door, or break these chains, or break the walls." She bellowed in rage. "I'm
going to kill them all! I'm going to kill every last pig-shagging man in this
maggoty Horde!" She rushed back toward the cell door and kept banging against
it.

Korvin looked away. It
hurt too much to look at Amity, to see her caged, hurt, waiting for death.

As Amity screamed in
rage, again Korvin heard it, the sound that had been echoing through his
nightmares for fifteen years: his wife screaming, crying out his name . . .
then falling silent.

Korvin clenched his
fists and closed his stinging eyes. Every time he had loved a woman, tragedy
had followed.

I loved you,
Beatrix, the light of my youth,
he thought. He remembered himself as a
young soldier returned from the war, scarred, hurt, haunted. He remembered a
young, beautiful woman, a priestess of the Cured Temple, healing his wounds,
praying above him, kissing him, soothing him. Beatrix had nursed him during his
long recovery, healing his wounds and soul, and she had loved him, lain with
him, wanted to marry him. And Korvin had loved her too—his healer, his savior.
He had loved Beatrix with every breath until that day—that day she had caught
the Vir Requis child, the day she had slaughtered the boy, crying out in
ecstasy as the blood stained her hands. The day she had screamed, vowing to
hurt him, vowing to crush his life because he had left her, spurned her, saw
the madness inside her.

And I loved you,
Mishal, my wife,
he thought. He remembered the day he had met her, a young
milkmaid in a village, how she had sheltered him on his wanderings, watched the
stars with him, laughed with him. He remembered how he had told her about
Requiem, about his secret magic, how she had vowed to never purify her
children. And he remembered her giving birth to their children, to beautiful
Fidelity and wild Domi, how they had traveled from town to town, fleeing the
paladins, keeping the girls' magic secret.

I miss you, my
daughters.
The pain clutched at him, forever lurking behind his ribs.
Are
you safe? Do you hide, waiting for me to find you?

And he remembered the
day Beatrix had found them. The day the High Priestess had laughed as she
thrust her blade into Mishal's heart. The day he had fled, holding his
daughters, his own heart shattered.

Kneeling in the cell,
Korvin looked up at Amity. She was still screaming, pounding her fists against
the door, crying out that she'd slay every man outside.

And I dared to love
another,
Korvin thought, looking at Amity.
I dared to love again, and I
will see another woman lost.

Amity was only thirty-one
years old, a whole fifteen years younger than him. Amity was wild, loud, and
headstrong while he was gruff, laconic, and stubborn. But he knew how he felt,
knew how she felt, knew what could have happened between them . . . yet again
darkness had fallen.

"Amity," he said, voice
hoarse. "Amity, come here."

She groaned, fists
bloodied. Her eyes were red. She turned toward him and whispered, "I have to
break free."

Yet she trudged toward
him, shoulders slumped, body bruised, chains rattling. She sat down beside him.

"The abina said he'd
feed us to . . . a beast," Korvin said. "What did he mean? Can we fight this
beast?"

Amity looked at the
stone walls around her. "We'd have an easier time fighting these stone walls."

"What is this beast?"
He stared at her. "You've spent years with the Horde. Tell me everything you
know."

"I don't know much
about it." She gulped. "I've heard tales of Behemoth, the beast of the south.
The Horde executes its prisoners by feeding them to the creature. They say it
feeds upon disobedient griffins, mighty salvanae who dare fly free, and even
firedrakes caught patrolling the coast. They say it makes those creatures seem
no larger than mites."

He raised an eyebrow. "I've
never known you to be scared, Amity."

"I'm not! I'll face
this beast in battle. None have ever defeated Behemoth, not in hundreds of
years." Amity growled. "But I will."

Korvin sat beside her
and leaned back on his elbows. He stared up at the ceiling. "Do you know what
The
Book of Requiem
says of the afterlife?"

She snorted. "Can't
read. Don't care."

"I can and do. It says
that great, celestial halls, woven of light, rise above the Draco stars, a
heavenly twin to the fallen halls of Requiem below. They say that the souls of
Vir Requis rise to those stars, that our fallen sing and drink wine there for
eternity among our ancient heroes."

"Then soon I'll be
singing myself hoarse and drinking so much I piss my pants." She sighed and
looked around her. "Unless they bring us a chamber pot soon, that might even
happen in this life."

Korvin couldn't help
but smile—a thin smile that creased his craggy skin. "Who are you, Amity? How
did you end up here?"

"By saving your hairy
backside, remember?"

"I mean in the Horde.
This life."

Amity rolled her eyes. "Trying
to get to know me better before we're both beast food?"

He nodded. "I'd like
to."

She groaned. "Parents
fought for Requiem. Parents died. That's all you need to know. After they were
gone, I figured their life—hiding in the Commonwealth, spreading the word of
Requiem—was not for me. So I flew overseas. I joined the Horde and vowed to
fight against that piss stain Beatrix." She grumbled. "Thought I'd fight with
the Horde, not die in their pit." She began to work at unlacing her tunic and
tugging off her breeches. "Help me with these, will you? Stars, be useful for
once. Grab my pants legs and tug."

He frowned at her. "What
are you doing?"

"Getting naked, what do
you think? Go on, tug my pants off!"

He raised an eyebrow. "Did
you piss them already?"

"Stars!" She groaned. "You
said you wanted to know me better before we died. To the Abyss with that shite.
I'm not dying talking about Requiem or old stories of some fancy-arse heroes.
You're going to get to know me the proper way, and don't pretend you haven't
wanted this! I've seen how you look at me. If I'm going to die, I'm going to
know you first."

Finally she had removed
her clothes and stood naked before him, all but for the chain that still ran
from her ankle to a post in the floor. Her body was long-limbed, muscular,
covered with small scars and bruises, the body of a warrior. Before he could
say anything, she grinned and leaped onto him, and she began working at his own
clothes, tugging them off.

"Come on, old soldier,"
she whispered into his ear and bit down on his lobe. "You got one more battle
in you."

He closed his eyes as
her hands worked at his belt, and soon he found himself naked as well. His body
was leathery, hard, covered with old scars, and she straddled him and grabbed
his shoulders. When he tried to speak, she grabbed his hair and kissed him, and
he closed his eyes, and all he knew was the heat of her body, their sweat
mingling together, and old fire. In her lovemaking, she was as wild as in
battle, digging her fingernails down his back, biting his shoulder hard to
stifle her screams, so hard he bled. Korvin had not made love to a woman in what
felt like eras, and he had almost forgotten the passion of it, and now he
surrendered to that heat. One last time to love. One last time to feel young.

For a long time afterward,
they lay side by side, drenched in sweat. He panted while she grinned, trailing
her fingers across his chest, and she nibbled his ear again.

They were pulling their
clothes back on when keys rattled, many voices chanted outside, and the door
creaked open.

Firelight flooded the
chamber, blinding. The roar of a crowd gushed in. The silhouette of a soldier
stood at the doorway, holding a spear.

"Move!" the man
shouted. "Move, weredragons! The beast is hungry. The beast will feed."

Korvin blinked in the
light, nearly blinded. Thousands of voices chanted outside, and above them rose
a single cry, deep and deafening, louder than the roar of dragons.

 
 
CADE

They had printed forty-seven books
when they ran out of paper.

"Fidelity." Cade waved
his hand and cleared his throat. "Another sheet?"

"All out." She pushed
her spectacles up her nose and tugged her braid. "No more."

He frowned and tilted
his head. "What do you mean no more? You said we had enough paper to print a
hundred books. We haven't even printed fifty."

She placed her hands on
her hips. "Well, somebody keeps making mistakes, spilling ink, spilling out
letters, and ruining sheet after sheet. So now we're out, and you better find
more."

Cade rolled his eyes. "Well,
somebody has been spending most of her time climbing trees to watch for
firedrakes, as I've been working away here. If you had helped, maybe we'd have—"

"Cade!" She took a step
toward him. "Hush. Let's return to the paper mill." She opened her pouch. "We
have enough money . . . I think. If we haggle. And if I tug my tunic low
enough." She sighed. "You might have to show some leg yourself, Cade."

"Yes, and then we can
steal the paper as they flee in horror." He tugged up his belt. "Let's go."

They walked through the
forest, daring not fly as dragons, not with the sun still in the sky, not with
firedrakes still patrolling. Even now as they walked, they saw two of the
beasts glide above. Cade and Fidelity had to crouch, hide in a bush, and wait
for the enemy to fly off before walking again.

It took all morning
before they emerged from the forest. In the distance, across grassy plains,
rose the city of Oldnale. Its walls were pale, and behind them rose the domes
of many huts. Several monasteries sent up their spires, and from them fluttered
the banners of the Cured Temple. A river crossed the city, flowing out through
an archway. Outside the city walls, along the riverbank, rose the paper mill.

It was a large building,
constructed of wood, its roofs tiled. Its many chimneys belched out smoke, and
even from the distance, Cade heard the clank of machinery and smelled fire,
oil, and metal. It was the only building noisy and smelly enough to be banished
outside the city, which suited Cade fine; within the city walls lurked priests
and paladins, and he preferred some clanging machinery and foul smoke any day.

Cade and Fidelity
walked across the fields, heading toward the mill. An old man and his wife,
both nearly deaf, owned the place, employing twenty workers. Most of their
business was supplying paper to print holy books, flyers for the Temple's
announcements, and sometimes sheets for the nobles to write or draw on. Cade
and Fidelity paid double the usual price—for the paper and for no questions
asked.

When they reached the mill,
they saw Old Hilda outside in the yard. Cade waved toward the grandmother, the
owner of the workshop.

"Oi, Hilda!" he said.

The plump woman stared
at him, nodded curtly, and retreated into the mill.

Cade bit his lip. "She's
in a mood." He hurried his step. "Let's grab the paper and get back. I—"

"Cade, wait." Fidelity
held his arm, stopping him.

He froze and frowned. "What
is it?"

"I don't know."
Fidelity tugged her braid. "It's . . . Hilda was a bit odd."

"She's always a bit
odd. I saw her kissing her pet frog once. Mental, that one."

"Odd but usually happy.
Something's wrong."

Cade's heart gave a
twist. "Paladins in the paper mill?"

Fidelity rocked on the
balls of her feet. "They know we're printing books. They've been trying to find
us. They'd go wait in every paper mill in the empire, knowing we'd have to show
up and buy more." She looked at him. "We should turn back."

"Turn back? Fi, we
already bought a printing press. We're not buying a whole damn paper mill to
hide away in the forest. How are we going to print our books now—on very big
leaves?"

"I don't know," she
said. "Maybe printing these books has become too dangerous. Maybe we need to
spread our word differently—with songs for poets to sing in every tavern in the
Commonwealth, or maybe with spoken stories told at hearths and bedsides." She
glanced at the paper mill again and sighed. "At least let's find a peasant. We'll
pay him to buy paper for us."

"And if the paladins
are in there, who's to say they won't follow our paper mule? The fewer people
who know about our operation, the safer we are. I'll go check the mill." He
hefted up his belt. "Wait for me here. I'll be back soon. And if I'm not, don't
follow me!" He looked at her, suddenly somber. "If something happens to me
there, I want you to run. To hide. To keep going. All right?"

"You're scaring me,
Cade."

He forced himself to
smile, though he himself was scared. It felt like he had dodged capture too
many times, and his innards shook. He patted her hand. "I'll see you soon,
Fidelity."