Page 8 of Among the Burning Flowers
Melaugo pictured a fire, a warm bed.Yes, she thought.Apparently, you really are doing this again.
‘The ram,’ she gritted out. ‘And the food.’
‘If you survive, you’ll need to keep away from the village for a few more days, so we can be sure you don’t have the plague.’
‘I’ve survived this long without you.’
The woodcutter narrowed his eyes. ‘The lair is about two miles north,’ he said. ‘Follow the stream to the Haytha Tree, then turn east and walk for about a hundred more steps.’
‘What the fuck is the Haytha Tree?’
‘It’s a yew. You’ll know it when you see it.’ His smile was grim. ‘No doubt you’ll smell the sleeper when you’re close.’
****
All children of Virtudom knew the old tales – taught in every sanctuary and every household, rich or poor. How the Nameless One – a vile red wyrm – had emerged from theDreadmount to conquer the world, only to be vanquished by an Inysh knight, known to history as the Saint.
Five hundred years later, the Dreadmount had erupted again, and from its mouth had soared five more wyrms, the High Westerns, led by Fýredel. All made in the image of the Nameless One. All bent, for no discernible reason, on the utter destruction of humankind.
They had brought a flock of wyverns from the Dreadmount – smaller and more agile wyrms, no less terrible. On the orders of Fýredel, the wyverns had flown across the world, using its animals to breed vicious servants: basilisks, cockatrices, ophiotaurs, and many others.
For over a year, the Draconic Army – the wyrms, the wyverns, and the beasts they had spawned – had laid waste to the continents in a time known as the Grief of Ages. They had razed cities, burned crops, and spread a plague that made the victim feel as if their blood was burning. At last, the Saint’s Comet had ended the violence, stripping the creatures of their fire. The creatures had crawled into every cave and mine and pit they could find, laying down to sleep like stone.
There were thought to be many thousands of sleepers, lurking in the deep forgotten places of the world. For centuries, they had not stirred unless they were disturbed.
But now the Draconic Army was waking of its own accord.
Melaugo hiked uphill, past firs, stone pines, and cork oaks. She still had no idea if the problem extended beyond Yscalin, how long it had been going on, or if King Sigoso knew of it. The beasts were stirring unpredictably, and so far, no wyverns or wyrms had been sighted.
But even one Draconic brute could devastate a settlement. And where there was fear, there was always profit.
That or a bowl of gruel and a sheep.
‘What did youthinkhe was going to offer you?’ she muttered to herself. ‘A banquet and a milk bath?’
She flexed her right hand, then her left, committing the feel of her fingers to memory. One did not confront a sleeper and not expect to lose a limb. Culling was a crime of opportunity, like housebreaking. The creature might be on the hunt, wide awake, or lying still as a boulder.
Even in a drought, this forest remained green and shaded, nourished by mountain streams, but the ground was unyielding. Though Melaugo was in her early twenties, she felt as stiff and weary as a woman thrice her age.
At noon, she came upon an enormous old yew, marked with the same runes she had seen when she first arrived in this region. This must be the Haytha Tree. She sat beside the stream to eat the pine nuts she had gathered.
During her time in Perunta, she had loved to dance in alehouses and climb the cliffs for sport. Now less than a mile on foot was exhausting.
She splashed her face, filled her waterskin, then checked her compass and turned east. After a hundred steps, she noticed a trail of animal bones and followed it away from the stream.
Before long, she reached the mouth of a cave. She leaned inside, only to grimace and withdraw. It was filthy, redolent of brimstone, and she could see the telltale yellowing on the walls.
The evidence of a sleeper.
Melaugo took a deep breath. It had been more than three months since she had last done this.
She knelt to unpack her supplies. A tunic went over her mail, made of waxed leather to keep out blood and spittle. The way the Draconic plague spread was a mystery – some were more likely to catch it than others – but all of themonsters were thought to carry it, and Melaugo took no chances. Best to treat it like the pestilence and cover up.
A hood came next, then gauntlets and steel greaves, a thick cloth for her mouth and nose, and a pair of rivet spectacles. All bought in Aperio, when she was flush with coin. Other than the bridge of her nose and a sliver of her brow, not an inch of her skin was on show.
Now she prepared her weapons: crossbow, rapier, billhook, splitting maul. Even the most unsavoury cullers never used rifles; it was perilous enough to risk an open flame inside a lair, let alone gunpowder, even though it wounded sleepers.
No, Melaugo could make do without powder, even if it took more sweat. She used the rusty hook on her belt to span her crossbow.
