Theft of Swords (The Riyria Revelations #1-2)

“There’s supposed to be a weak spot in their armor near the armpit, or whatever a dragon has for an armpit,” a woman with a particularly dirty nose explained. “I heard an archer once killed a dragon in mid-flight by hitting him there.”


“I heard you weaken a dragon by stealing its treasure hoard,” a bald-headed man told them all. “There was a tale where this prince was trapped in the lair of a dragon and he threw all the treasure into the sea and it weakened the beast so much the prince was able to kill him by stabbing him in the eye.”

“I heard that dragons were immortal and couldn’t be killed,” Rose McDern said.

“It’s not a dragon,” Esrahaddon said with a tone of disgust. He stepped out from the crowd and they turned to face him.

“Why do you say that?” Vince Griffin asked.

“Because it isn’t,” he replied confidently. “If it was a dragon whose wrath you had incurred, this village would have been wiped from the face of Elan months ago. Dragons are very intelligent beings, far more than you or even I, and more powerful than we can begin to comprehend. No, Mrs. Brockton, no archer ever killed a dragon by shooting him in a soft spot with an arrow. And no, Mr. Goodman, stealing a dragon’s treasure doesn’t weaken it. In fact, dragons don’t have treasures. What exactly would a dragon do with gold or gems? Do you think there is a dragon store somewhere? Dragons don’t believe in possessions, unless you count memories, strength, and honor as possessions.”

“But that’s what he said he saw,” Vince countered.

The wizard sighed. “He said he saw a snake or lizard with wings and two legs. That should have been your first clue.” The wizard turned to Pearl, who had finished driving the last of the pigs into the courtyard of the castle and had run back out to join the crowd. “Tell me, Pearl, how many legs does a dragon have?”

“Four,” the child said without thinking.

“Exactly. This is not a dragon.”

“Then what is it?” Russell asked.

“A Gilarabrywn,” Esrahaddon replied casually.

“A—a what?”

“Gil … lar … ah … brin,” the wizard pronounced slowly, mouthing the syllables carefully. “Gilarabrywn, a magical creature.”

“What does that mean? Does it cast spells like a witch?”

“No, it means it’s unnatural. It wasn’t born; it was created—conjured, if you will.”

“That’s just crazy,” Russell said. “How gullible do you think we are? This thingamabob—whatever you called it—killed dozens of people. It ain’t no made-up thing.”

“No, wait,” Deacon Tomas said, intervening, waving to them from deep in the sea of villagers. They backed away to reveal the cleric standing with his hand still up in the air, his eyes thoughtful. “There was a beast known as the Gilarabrywn. I learned about it in seminary. In the Great Elven Wars they were tools of the Erivan Empire, beasts of war, terrible things that devastated the landscape and slaughtered thousands. There are accounts of them laying waste to cities and whole armies. No weapon could harm them.”

“You know your history well, Deacon,” Esrahaddon said. “The Gilarabrywn were devastating instruments of war—intelligent, powerful, silent killers from the sky.”

“How could such a thing still be alive after so long?” Russell asked.

“They aren’t natural. They can’t die a normal death, because they really aren’t alive as we understand living to be.”

“I think we’re going to need more wood,” Hadrian muttered.

As the sun set, the farmers provisioned the castle for the night. The children and women gathered beneath the great beams of the manor house while the men worked to the last light of day building the woodpiles. Hadrian had organized effective teams for cutting, dragging, and tying the stacks such that by nightfall they had six great piles surrounding the walls and one in the center of the yard itself. They doused the piles in oil and animal fat to make the lighting faster. It was going to be a long night and they did not want the fires to burn out, nor would it do to have them lit too late.

“Hadrian!” Thrace yelled as she ran frantically through the courtyard.

“Thrace,” Hadrian said, working to the last minute on the courtyard woodpile. “It’s dark. You should be in the house.”

“My father’s not here,” she cried. “I’ve looked everywhere around the castle. No one saw him come in. He must still be at home. He’s out there alone, and if he’s the only one alone tonight—”

“Royce!” Hadrian shouted, but it was unnecessary, as Royce was already leading their saddled horses out of the stable.

“She found me first,” the thief said, handing him Millie’s reins.

“That damn fool,” Hadrian said, grabbing his shirt and weapons and pulling himself up on the horse. “I told him about coming to the castle.”

“So did I,” she said, her face a mask of fear.

“Don’t worry, Thrace. We’ll bring him back safe.”

They spurred the animals and rode out the gate at a gallop.





Theron sat in the ruins of his house on a wooden chair. A small fire burned in a shallow pit just outside the doorway. The sky was finally dark and he could see stars. He listened to the night music of the crickets and frogs. A distant owl began its hunt. The fire snapped and popped, and beneath it all, the distant roaring of the falls. Mosquitoes entered the undefended house. They swarmed, landed, and bit. The old man let them. He sat as he had every night, staring silently at memories.