Page 3 of Among the Burning Flowers (The Roots of Chaos #3)

KINGDOM OF YSCALIN

CE 1003

You’re certain it’s a lindworm?’

Estina Melaugo folded her arms, trying to show the pitiful sliver of muscle that remained to her. She carried her fine Ersyri dagger, which the woodcutter had clearly noticed. His gaze kept darting towards it, and then back to her grimy red hair, her scabbed and hollow face.

‘I ask,’ Melaugo continued, ‘because I do not cull basilisks. Their venom is too dangerous.’

‘I’ve never read a bestiary,’ the woodcutter said, ‘so I couldn’t say for sure.’ You’ve never read a thing in your life, Melaugo thought darkly. Nobody in this backwater can read. ‘My sister happened on its trails and followed them to a cave. It’s been slithering out to kill deer, from the bones.’

If it had been a basilisk, there would have been no bones to find. Melaugo loosed a breath.

Are you really doing this again?

‘Very well.’ She lifted her chin. ‘I would usually charge ten gelvas for a lindworm.’

‘A heavy price even for nobles,’ the woodcutter remarked, ‘but we don’t deal in coin out here, gold or no.’

‘I am well aware. What can you offer me if I slay it?’

‘We’ve a ram for you. A wether.’

Melaugo huffed. ‘I will try to ignore that insult. Do you know how dangerous it is to confront a sleeper?’

‘He’s a good ram.’

‘I don’t care if your ram is the most virtuous creature since the Saint himself. I am not risking a gruesome death – the worst death in all of recorded history – for the sake of a fucking sheep.’

‘You’ll need its wool in the cold months.’

‘And you will need my blade all year.’ Melaugo squared up to him. ‘There must be many sleepers in these mountains. This one will not be the last to threaten you. They have slumbered for five centuries. All of them will be hungry when they wake, and sooner or later, deer will not sate them.’

At least she was nearly as tall as the woodcutter, even if her body had turned as thin as a reed. The corners of his mouth pinched.

She had chosen him with care. All of the villagers had been murmuring about the creature, but this man was among their elders, someone who could make decisions. He had reached for his axe when he saw her, intending to chase her back to the trees, before she said the words.

I will slay it.

‘I thought you were trading a single kill. That you were planning to move on from here soon,’ he said. ‘But you want to be one of us.’ Melaugo said nothing. ‘So be it. If you agree to kill any sleepers that wake in this region, you’ll have two meals a day. And the ram as well.’

For a moment, Melaugo could only stare at him.

‘You are one word away from a broken jaw,’ she bit out. ‘What makes you think I would agree to that?’

‘Because it would put some fat on your ribs,’ he said, his face as hard as granite. ‘We’ve seen you trying to hunt and forage, outsider. And to steal from us. You’re lucky we’ve let you stay in that tree.’

She had never wanted to kill someone as intensely as she did in that moment.

‘The meals are a start,’ he said. ‘Win our trust, earn your keep, and we won’t drive you off. There’s an empty house in the village, if you want it. But first you’ll need to slay that lindworm.’

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 the Dreadmount 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 Fyredel.

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 Fyredel, 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 you think he 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 the monsters 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.

Next, she took out her firesteel, lit the candle in her mining lantern, and latched it shut. It might not be enough. Each time she entered a lair, there was a chance the sulphurous air would ignite, or that her light would go out altogether, stranding her in the dark with a monster. Few cullers lasted beyond their first or second kill. She was already on borrowed time.

Her palms sweated as she grasped her shield and lantern. She had lost her bear spear – her best weapon – during her last cull; her chances were even lower than usual.

Still, she did not ask the Saint for protection. She took his name in vain now and then, but had not prayed since her parents had been taken from her.

A few spiders darted away from her light. Her throat burned as she inched along the first passage, stopping to listen every so often. She edged around a corner, avoiding bones and smears of blood. It was thought that wyverns fed on lava, but their offspring relished flesh.

As Melaugo crawled on, waiting for her lantern to blow up in her face, she thought back to the bestiaries she had read, considering her opponent. The lindworm was an engorged serpent. It could suffocate her with its coils, but at least it didn’t spit a venom that melted flesh and bone, like the basilisk.

Around her lantern, all was black. It was best to lure sleepers outside for the fight, but this cave was too deep and narrow for that.

At the end of another tunnel, she negotiated a small opening and slid into a crouch on the other side. Thanks to the cloth she had tied to her soles, her landing was almost silent. She held up her lantern and waited for her eyes to adjust. This cavern was larger, the air dry and hot.

And there was the lindworm, surrounded by chewed bones.

Once it must have been an adder or a slowworm or some other legless animal, minding its own business, only for a wyvern to transfigure it. Now it was at least twenty feet long and encased in Draconic armour, as coarse and tough as volcanic rock.

It was also, mercifully, asleep.

Melaugo hung up her lantern. If the lindworm destroyed her only light source, she would die.

Her heart was beating harder than she liked. As she put her shield down, she remembered her first kill. A foul cave in Aperio, so tight that it had trapped her twice. The chilling sight of the culebreya – a winged serpent, curled in a hollow. The stony rasping of its breath.

And the realisation, terrible in its magnitude, that all the stories of the past were true.

That monsters did lurk in the dark.

She locked a bolt into her crossbow. According to rumour, meteoric iron was best for killing Draconic things, but nobody knew where to find it. This bolt, tipped with common steel, would only work if she hit a weak point. In absolute silence, she took aim, blinking hard as her sight blurred again. Even here, staring at a creature that might eat her alive, her own hunger felt more urgent. She waited for the beast to move, to open its accursed eyes.

‘Wake up,’ she ordered.

The lindworm remained still.

It was coiled in a way that might conceal gaps in its hide. If it was going to keep its eyes shut, she would have to get closer. Assuming its slumber was as deep as it seemed, she could use her bill-hook to pry off a scale, but that was a last resort. She took a few steps forward.

The lindworm raised its head. Each of its fangs was as long as her face.

‘Well met, serpent.’ Melaugo bared her own teeth in a nervous grin. ‘Did I wake you?’

A rattle stemmed from its maw, raising the hairs on her nape.

‘No.’ Her smile faded. ‘Saint, you were … waiting. You sensed me, so you set a trap.’

Before the implications could sink in, the lindworm began to uncoil, its hiss echoing around the chamber. Long ago, its eyes would have blazed with the fire of the wyvern that had created it. Now they were like dying embers. More than likely, then, the sire was still asleep.

Melaugo stood within striking range. As the lindworm moved towards her, she glimpsed the vulnerability she needed – a missing scale over its heart, where some brave soul had tried to kill it in the Grief.

All at once, the lindworm attacked. She let the bolt spring from her crossbow, missing its eye by an inch.

Then she ran.

The cave was larger than she had anticipated, giving her room to avoid the lindworm.

Fortunate, because the bastard thing was clearly in the mood for a chase.

It followed her around a limestone column, its breath hot on her back, reeking of blood.

She tossed the crossbow, snatched up her shield, and drew her rapier.

Her lantern guttered by the entrance, casting bizarre shadows.

Even though she was slow and weak, Melaugo let her instincts take over, trusting herself to avoid every strike.

She spun with her shield, just in time to block a lunge that might have finished her.

Wherever she turned, the lindworm was in close pursuit, its huge body rasping in her wake, threatening to trip and squeeze her. Those coils seemed to be everywhere, all over the ground.

With a growl, she dashed after the weak spot.

It was only about as wide as her fist, but that was plenty of room for a rapier.

When another coil blocked her way, she took a risk and scrambled over it, feeling its inner heat as she rolled off its back.

Its hide was not slick, like that of a snake, but rough enough to cut bare skin. Only her gloves and greaves kept her safe.

Her body was already protesting.

When she had faced other sleepers, there had always been a surge of strength, an icy rush of clarity.

This time, it refused to come.

The food she had forced down – the dried fish, the berries, the nuts – had not been enough for a fight like this. She stabbed, but the tip of her rapier only scraped along thick armour, making her curse.

Her shield was snatched from her grasp.

Somehow she slipped away once more, but her primal instincts were failing.

If she did not flee now, she would have crawled into her own grave.

But she was so tired, and so hungry, the weakness slowing her. Fatally slowing her.

Out of nowhere, a tail whipped into her ribs, slamming her against the cavern wall.

Her spectacles broke and fell off her face.

She hit the ground, still clutching her rapier, head spinning.

The creature loomed above her, its eyes illuminating its face.

For one dreadful moment, Melaugo wanted to give up and let it drag her away.

She wanted to stop fighting and sleep.

As she stared into its gullet, she wondered how long she would last in its belly.

The thought knocked her apathy loose.

Her parents’ faces flashed before her.

Liyat appeared like a waking dream, shouting at her to get up, as the lindworm prepared for the kill. That loathsome mouth yawned open, ready to eat Melaugo whole. She waited for it to unhinge its jaw—

—and thrust her blade into the roof of its mouth.

A deafening screech. A shudder of sinew. Thick dark blood splattered her front and seeped along her sleeve. In one desperate movement, Melaugo wrenched her sword back and dived out of reach. A pair of iron fangs clanged down an inch from where her boots had been.

Melaugo smelled victory. More importantly, she smelled food. With the last of her agility, she plunged her rapier into the weak spot. The lindworm thrashed as gouts of its blood spurted out. With a heaving chest, Melaugo took her maul and hacked off its appalling head.

Her lantern flickered out.

She blindly groped out of the cave. Outside, in the daylight, she took off her left vambrace and shoved up her sleeve to check her arm. No sign of a scratch or graze. With a laugh, she dropped to her knees, and then vomited.

****

It took a long time to get back from the lair. Longer still to find the woodcutter. Seeing her alive, he gaped at her as if she were the Saint reborn. He kept his distance, but pointed to her first payment.

By the time Melaugo reached her oak, irritable ram in tow, the sun had almost set.

‘I swear to the Saint,’ she said, ‘you had better be as good as gold, or I will eat you, Lord Gastaldo.’

The ram bleated.

‘Yes, that’s your name.’ She lashed the rope around a birch. ‘He’s a miserable old ram, too.’

Leaving the animal to sulk, she ducked into her tree. The hollow was larger than one might think from the outside, with room enough for her weapons and the crude tools she had carved from wood.

The day she found this shelter, she had not eaten for over a week. Though dark and dirty, it had given her protection from the wind and rain.

She set down her mail, which she had already cleaned in the stream. Now to wait and see if she did have the plague.

In Perunta, she had been strong as a packhorse. Now her hip bones pushed out like knuckles on a fist, and she could see all of her ribs. They were bruising from the fight. All that work for the promise of food, which would likely amount to no more than a bowl of stew and a hunk of bread. She sat down to eat the two small fish she had dried the week before.

Out of nowhere, her stomach turned. She barely made it outside before coughing up a gush of bile. A good thing she had struck this deal, even if it killed her. She was already on the brink of death.

As a child on the streets of Oryzon, she had feared she would always be alone. She should have hoped for that outcome.

It would have prepared her to die alone, too.

****

Melaugo had not always been a killer of Draconic things; neither had she always been a vagrant. She had been raised on a vineyard near Vazuva, where her parents had made wine, like many in the Groneyso Valley, where the breeze was always clement and the River Gáuria kept the land green.

As soon as she could walk, Melaugo had learned to pick grapes. Her parents had been poor – they were smallholders, carrying out the hard labour of winemaking alone – but even if the work had been endless, Melaugo remembered their love, both for her and for each other.

And then King Sigoso had introduced the temperance duty, apparently to curb overindulgence across Yscalin. When the nobles were exempted from it, her parents had grown bitter. And after a poor harvest, leaving them all with empty bellies, they had grown angry.

At last, they had started to smuggle their wine.

They had been caught and jailed within a year, but Melaugo had only been nine, young enough to be deemed innocent. Wrestled into an orphanage, she had spat upon a statue of the Saint, demanding he return her family to her. A sanctarian had beaten her with a knotted belt, one knot for each of the Six Virtues. That same night, she had climbed out of a window and limped away, determined to find her parents.

Some children might have curled up and died. Melaugo was too stubborn. By the time she was eleven, she was a cutpurse in the Port of Oryzon, preying on mariners and drunks, drinking rain and stealing food, sleeping in any rathole she could find.

Thirteen years later, little had changed. The hollow of a tree was only one step from the cobblestones.

****

The fight had pushed her starving body to the limit. Part of her thought she would die in her sleep. Instead, she woke in the smothering heat of midday, bruised and tender, parched and sticky.

Melaugo brushed an oak spider from her forehead. She peered at her fingers, checking for the redness that heralded the plague. They remained the same deep olive as always, with the same tiny scars from fishhooks and fights.

With a dry mouth, she heaved on a tunic, tasting blood. Her gums were raw again.

Once dressed, she walked to her traps, head throbbing. Finding no fresh catches, she returned to her tree, too weak to hunt or fish.

A round dark loaf waited outside.

She collapsed by the oak and picked up the bread. Still warm. With a watering mouth, she sank her teeth into it, breaking the crust. It was coarse and gritty and the best thing she had ever tasted.

When she had first arrived, she had thought her crossbow would be enough to keep her fed, but hares and birds were faster than Draconic things. She had spied on the villagers as they foraged, to see which mushrooms and berries they chose, but that had only ever quelled the hunger for so long.

She ate every crumb of the bread and washed it down with a mouthful of water from the stream. Lying on the hard earth in the hollow, she imagined herself back to the coast, waking up with Liyat in her room above the shop. Meeting her on the warm sands of Lovers’ Cove, where the smugglers hid their cargo. That first kiss on a starlit wharf in Perunta.

Your pride will kill you, Estina. Her voice drifted from the memory. Just this once, I will swallow mine first.

****

Each day, another loaf of dark bread came, sometimes with a smudge of butter or a wedge of grainy cheese. Melaugo had eaten six of them by the time one of the villagers came to her oak.

She stood up a little too fast. Once the faintness had subsided, she emerged from the hollow, blinking in the daylight.

A sinewy woman in her winter years waited outside, furrowed as a baked walnut, with callused hands from splitting wood and long hair in a braid. Melaugo recognised her from the day she arrived.

Unless you can offer something we need, you are on your own, outsider.

‘Have you decided I’m not catching?’ Melaugo said icily. ‘Or do you already want another beast slaughtered?’

‘Neither.’ She eyed Melaugo. ‘If you’d told us you’re a culler, we’d have taken you into the village at once. You even have your own weapons. Why hide it until you were starving?’

‘I hoped you might take pity, you heartless—’

‘We’ve not survived this long by giving alms to outsiders. We’ve enough sick and frail of our own to support,’ was the curt reply. ‘I’d have liked to leave you here for another week or two, to make sure you’re not tainted, but you’re wanted at the alehouse. There’s a man.’

‘A man?’

Her stomach turned cold. Any new arrival could be an agent of the king.

‘An outsider. A rich one, from the looks of him,’ the woman said. Melaugo tensed. ‘Don’t trouble yourself. He’s no outlaw hunter. But he is searching for a young woman with red hair and eyes like honey. Thought it sounded like you, culler.’

Melaugo absorbed the words.

‘This man,’ she said. ‘Does he have scars on his face, from the pox?’

‘He does.’ The woman looked her up and down. ‘You should come and claim a meal.’

She returned to the trees. Melaugo leaned against the oak, clutching her sore ribs, and sighed.

The Knights Defendant had not found her, but somehow, Harlowe had.