PART ONE
GIANTS AND GODS
PROLOGUE
The enemy’s small army was spread out before him, waving their weapons, shouting, beating in wild fury upon their shields. They looked more like fishermen than fighters. Reyker would have pitied them if there had been any room left for pity in his decaying heart.
Behind him came the snarls of his fellow warriors; the Dragonmen stared down the fishermen, awaiting his signal.
Reyker squeezed the sword in his right hand, the axe in his left, closing his eyes.
Inside him, the black river stirred—sloshing, boiling, churning. A river of blood and fire, the darkest part of his soul. Let me out, it begged.
When his eyes opened, every fisherman bore the loathsome face of the warlord. Reyker arched his neck skyward, roaring at the lambent stars. The Dragonmen howled, joining their animal songs to his.
Let me out.
So he did.
He barely felt the splash of blood, the jolt of axe and sword slicing through flesh. He forgot who these men were as he cut them down—fathers, brothers, husbands, sons. He obeyed the black river’s call: slash, strike, stab. It flowed through his limbs, foaming, frothing. It was darkness. It was death.
With every kill, its hunger grew.
With every kill, he was reborn.
Around him, fires burned. Corpses sprawled in the dirt. His weapons dripped blood. The battle was finished, the black river sated. All were dead.
All save one. A boy of thirteen, a skilled archer who’d felled three Dragonmen before he was captured. Looking at the boy—young, ferocious, brave to the point of stupidity—Reyker saw himself as he’d once been. He couldn’t kill the boy; even monsters like him had limits.
The idea came on a whim. Set the boy free to spread the tale: those who defied the Dragonmen would witness their homes burned, their women stolen, their sons slain.
Reyker steered the boy toward the rowboat, pointing with his sword. “Go.”
The boy stared, brown eyes shadowed with hate. He shouted threats of murder, vows of vengeance. Things Reyker had heard before. Things Reyker had said himself as a boy, sitting in the blood-painted snow, his father dying in his arms.
Reyker raised the sword higher. “Go!”
The boy pushed the boat into the cold grip of the sea and toppled in. Grabbing the oars, he rowed away from the island, yelling all the while. Reyker watched until he disappeared.
It didn’t matter that Reyker had spared him. He’d killed the boy’s people, torched his village. Reyker knew he deserved to die for it.
Someday he would.
When he returned, the warlord stood atop the ruins of the village, addressing the Dragonmen. Tall, imposing, glowing like a golden god. Draki’s eyes—an odd hue, green and yellow and gold all at once—missed nothing; they watched Reyker, narrowing.
“You fought well, my brothers,” Draki said. “The Rocky Isles now belong to us. But this is only the beginning. When we take the Green Isle, we will show them what a warrior is—a man made of ice and steel.” The warlord pounded a fist against his torso, scanning the Dragonmen’s eager faces. “Many will kneel before us in awe. The rest will fall to their knees as we cut their legs from beneath them!”
This was met with laughter and howls.
“We have bided our time, strengthening our forces, learning our enemies’ weaknesses. We have allowed them to grow fat with riches as we waited on the gods to command us. And the gods have finally spoken!” Draki raised his sword, pointing it at the sky. “Now we strike! The dogs of the east will learn that we are their rightful masters. In the name of the sea god Sjaf, father of our kind, all will bow. In the name of Ildja, eater of souls, all will submit. The era of dogs is over. The Age of the Dragon is upon us!”
The warriors erupted, a riot of celebration. Ale belonging to the dead islanders was brought forth. War chants were sung. Captured women were dragged out, and the men selected which ones they would take to their beds this night.
Draki smiled. This was what he preached: The Dragon and his men were endowed by the gods. The world, and everything in it, existed to be conquered. All was theirs for the taking.
Reyker observed in silence, the lone dissenter.
The warlord approached. “You disapprove of the festivities?”
“I am Sjaf’s disciple, servant of Iseneld, a blade to be wielded for the glory of my gods and homeland,” Reyker answered flatly, quoting the Dragonmen’s code. “If my liege approves, so must I.”
Chuckling, Draki slapped Reyker’s shoulder. “Ah, Reyker, the reluctant Sword of the Dragon. At last you wear the mask of a dutiful Dragonman. But we both know a rebel’s heart still beats beneath it.” Draki punched his fist into Reyker’s sternum, grabbing Reyker by the neck as he doubled over. “Conquer the Green Isle’s north harbor,” Draki said, “and perhaps I’ll let you keep your heart in your body and live to thwart me a little longer.”
The warlord released him. Reyker straightened, ignoring the spikes of pain in his chest.
“I know why you let that young archer go. You can hide nothing from me.” Draki shook his head. “After all this time, you continue to cling to your shattered honor. It makes you weak.”
“It makes me human.”
“Humans are weak. You should wish to be like the gods. You should beg Ildja’s forgiveness for not delivering every last one of your enemies to the Mist.” Draki laughed again, deep and grating. “Do you remember our scouting expedition to the north harbor, all those years ago? You must be wondering about that sweet little creature we caught in the forest. Such a shame she escaped.”
Reyker drew a shallow breath. From his memories of a time when he’d still had hope, before he’d become the bastard he was now, came an image—a girl with green eyes full of fire. Another soul he’d snatched from Ildja’s waiting jaws.
“I’ve commanded your legion to find the girl and bring her to me,” the warlord said. “Should you try to stop them, their orders are to chop off your sword hand. If you continue to deny Ildja the souls that are rightfully hers to consume, the goddess will seek retribution. And so will I.” Draki’s smile was as sharp as a blade.
When the warlord turned to leave, Reyker’s fingers twitched toward his dagger, aching to bury it in Draki’s back. If he’d thought it would change anything, Reyker would not have hesitated, but he knew it would only make things worse.
There was no defeating the Dragon.
Reyker stood in the longship’s stem, gazing past the horned dragon figurehead, out at the rolling sea. The Green Isle’s north harbor came into view, a blurred shadow on the horizon.