The Dragon Lords: False Idols Read online

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  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Jonathan Wood

  Excerpt from The Fifth Ward: First Watch copyright © 2017 by Dale Lucas

  Excerpt from Age of Assassins copyright © 2017 by RJ Barker

  Cover design by Lauren Panepinto

  Cover illustration by Crystal Sully

  Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

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  First Edition: August 2017

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  Map copyright © Tim Paul

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Hollins, Jon, author.

  Title: False idols / Jon Hollins.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Orbit Books, 2017. | Series: The dragon lords

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017014746| ISBN 9780316308281 (softcover) | ISBN

  9781478917823 (audio book downloadable) | ISBN 9780316308274 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Dragons—Fiction. | Imaginary wars and battles—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Fantasy / Epic. | GSAFD: Adventure fiction. | Fantasy fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3608.O48487 F35 2017 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017014746

  ISBNs: 978-0-316-30828-1 (trade paperback), 978-0-316-30827-4 (ebook)

  E3-20170721-JV-PC

  For Tami, Charlie, and Emma.

  All the treasure I could wish to have.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Epigraph

  Part 1: Dragons Rising 1: Big Thaumatobiologist on Campus

  2: Shedding His Skin

  3: Happily Never After

  4: The Open Road

  5: Master of His Own Domain

  6: Round Two

  7: Money Talks

  8: Yes, Minister

  9: Home Sweet Home

  10: Alcoholics Go to Meetings

  11: Substandard Subterfuge

  12: A Tamathian Roast

  13: Sacrilege for Fun and Profit

  14: The Loss of Cyrill’s Innocence

  15: Run, Lettera, Run

  16: Some Like It Hot

  17: The Hand in the Puppet

  18: The Fine Art of Politicking at Sword Point

  19: Oh Snap

  20: That Which We Have Come to Fear the Most

  21: Heavy Lies the Crown

  Part 2: Dragons Dominant 22: Beauty and Grace Carven in Flesh

  23: Pièce de Résistance

  24: Life Is Preachy

  25: The Burdened Beast

  26: Mistakes Were Made

  27: Monstrous Truths

  28: Monstrous Consequences

  29: In the Land of the Drunk …

  30: … The Utterly Obliterated Man Is King

  31: With Friends Like These

  32: Temporary Accommodations

  33: Asking Awkward Questions

  34: As Simple as Stealing Beers from a Drunkard

  35: Inaction Plan

  36: To Forgive Is Profane

  37: Punch Drunk

  38: What’s Small, Red, Furry, and Smells of Dried Blood?

  39: The Champion and the Thief

  40: Peace Talks

  41: Breakfast of Champions

  42: Bar Brawl

  43: How to Make Friends and Influence Kobolds

  44: Run, Kobolds, Run!

  45: Balls

  46: Unprepared

  47: And a New Day Will Begin

  48: WTF?

  49: Sour Grapes

  50: Falling Down

  51: Defeat of the Total Variety

  Part 3: Dragons Descending 52: By Way of an Explanation

  53: The Chapter of Revelations

  54: Deus Ex Machina

  55: The Two-Backed Beast

  56: The Four-Backed Beast

  57: The More You Know …

  58: In the Afterglow

  59: Changing Plans Like Diapers

  60: Make War, Not Love

  61: Lette and Will Sitting in a Tree

  62: Wolves in Cows’ Clothing

  63: Buckling Under the Pressure of Thinking Up Funny Chapter Names

  64: Live from the Vinland Bowl

  65: Ready, Aim, Fire

  66: Dangerous Subversives

  67: Flora and Fauna

  68: Insults and Injuries

  69: Hilarity Ensues

  70: Oh My God

  71: Lette There Be Blood

  72: Goddess Among Us

  73: About That Victory …

  74: Cutting the Puppet Strings

  75: Even Heroes Fall

  76: Hail to the King, Baby

  Coda: What in the Hallows Was That? 77: Soul Survivor

  78: Time for a New Plan

  Extras

  A Preview of The Fifth Ward: First Watch

  A Preview of Age of Assassins

  By Jon Hollins

  Orbit Newsletter

  “Come not between the dragon and his wrath.”

  —King Lear, William Shakespeare

  PART 1:

  DRAGONS RISING

  1

  Big Thaumatobiologist on Campus

  Quirkelle Bal Tehrin dreamt of fire. It kindled in her sleep, licked at the feet of her desires and fears, then rose—wings spreading—to the sky, tearing through her subconscious. It was a roiling ocean of flame, obliterating everything in its wake. She would come awake in the cot she kept in her garret above the Tamathian University, sheets soaked with sweat, her palm prints scorched into the sheets.

  She had yet to work out if the racing of her heart was a symptom of terror or pleasure.

  And yet, despite this confusion, there were some things Quirk was certain of in life. That she knew more about dragons than anyone else alive. That such knowledge made her position at the Tamathian University more secure than a princess’s chastity belt. And that the Tamarian Emperor’s palace was not quite as impressive as he thought it was.

  She sat now at his dinner table, two seats away from the man himself, flanked by his daughter and the Empress.

  The Emperor was a small man, in his late fifties, balding, and with his remaining hair cropped to short gray stubble. He was wreathed entirely in gold. Great swirls of fabric encircled his arms, his torso. A great gold neckpiece—that probably weighed almost as much as the birdlike Empress—wreathe
d his neck. His deeply lined face, emerging from its depths, appeared somewhat inadequate in comparison. Religious iconography dangled from him. A medallion inscribed with the scepter of Lawl, king of the gods, bobbled over the neckpiece. The open palm of Klink, god of commerce, was etched into his broad earrings. The wheat sheaves of Toil, god of fertility and the field, was upon his rings.

  He had invited her here, as was now his weekly custom, to dine with his family, several highly esteemed courtiers, and a smattering of visiting dignitaries. At first she had served more as a conversation piece than as a source of conversation. Still, over time she had managed to become something much more integral to the gatherings.

  At that precise moment, his eminence was attacking a small roast partridge and coming off the worst of the two combatants. More than once he had needed to signal for a bodyguard to throw an elbow into his sternum so he could hawk up whatever bone had lodged in his throat. On the plus side, he had not yet called for the beheading of the chef. He knew now that Quirk did not like that.

  “So,” the Emperor said around a mouthful of gristle, pointing a partridge thigh at her like a miniature rapier. “What is it that you make of this business with the elven king?”

  Quirk felt thirty pairs of eyeballs come to rest on her. Nobles, lords, ladies, the Emperor’s cousin, two of his bastard children, three ambassadors, and a visiting dignitary from Verra. They all watched her and they waited.

  The truth was, of course, that her limited knowledge of the world made her woefully inadequate to answer the question. She had, for most of her life, lived in seclusion, first as the personal weapon of a murderous demigod, and then as a hermitlike academic lost in the warrenlike tunnels of the Tamathian University. The one time she had ventured out into the world she had witnessed the death of seven dragons and just over ten thousand of the inhabitants of Kondorra. It was not a period in her life she would necessarily describe as successful.

  And yet, they all waited. They all wanted to know what the world’s leading thaumatobiologist and expert on dragons would say.

  She wondered if any of them had actually read her papers. Had attended her lectures. She could not imagine the Chancellor of the Exchequer really getting to grips with the inner workings of Varanus draconis’s digestive tract. He was having enough trouble getting anything other than alcohol into his own.

  On such things, she thought, the fate of nations fall.

  The specific matter the king was referencing was the death of a white hart at the hands of several of his huntsmen. The hart had wandered from the forests of the Vale—which the Elven Court claimed as their own—and into the path of the several huntsmen looking for boar in the Emperor’s abutting forest. Not being the sort of men to question providence when it stood in the way of a full purse, the huntsmen promptly shot the hart, skinned it, and sold the hide for a profit that would make even a city merchant blush. Which was all well and good until the elven king delivered a message stating that the hart was his sovereign property, that the huntsmen were thieves, and that unless they were handed over to him for execution, the consequences would be dire.

  Well … that was if she paraphrased the specifics of the elven dialect. More directly the message had read: “So-called Emperor of the so-called empire of Tamar: give me the round-ears who stole my hart, or I shall come and fuck you. His highest eminence, master of the bowstring, slayer of the round-ears, commander of the Vale forces, fine-aspected Todger IV.”

  “Well,” Quirk said, as delicately as it was possible to, “given the tone, and content of the letter, I do not honestly believe that King”—she hesitated—“Todger,” she managed as gracefully as she could, “should be entertained in this manner. And furthermore, I do not believe that he can necessarily follow up on his threat to, erm”—she hesitated over this one—“to violate you.”

  “So screw him,” said one of the nobles, and brayed with laughter. Several other followed suit. There was much stamping of feet, and pounding of golden goblets on the red velvet tablecloth.

  Quirk winced, and not just because she was being reminded of the red velvet tablecloth. Sometime she really did need to speak to the Emperor about that particular detail. She raised a delicate finger to indicate that she was not quite done.

  “However,” she said, but no one was listening anymore.

  The Emperor coughed loudly. All noise stopped. All attention returned to the richest, most powerful man in the room. He glared around at them, then looked back to Quirk. “You were saying?” he said.

  Small he might be, but it was rumored that the Emperor had personally throttled two assassins after they had killed the rest of his personal guard.

  “However,” Quirk said again, “there doesn’t seem to be much point in purposelessly angering King … Todger. And while he cannot … violate anyone here, his forces can certainly make things difficult for your border patrols, and nobody wants to actually go to war with the elves.”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” said one lord, who then seemed to realize people could hear him.

  “Truly, Lord El Sharred?” said the Emperor. He had a harsh, nasal voice. “You would like to take your cavalry into thick forest, and have arrows rained down upon you, while you chased men who disappeared like ghosts among the branches?”

  Lord El Sharred appeared to vacillate momentarily between whether he should capitulate to his lord’s greater wisdom, or if he should attempt to preserve face in front of his peers. He chose wrong.

  “We should burn the place down around their ears,” he said defiantly.

  There was more pounding of goblets. The Emperor rolled his eyes. Quirk smiled at him. A question about fire, she could answer.

  “Have you ever tried to burn living wood, Lord El Sharred?” she asked. “To be honest, I doubt you’ve even tried to burn dry wood. You have people to do that for you, after all.” She smiled sweetly and watched as the insult passed over the man’s head. “Living wood does not burn like the fire in your hearth at home. It is slow, and smoky, and reluctant. If you were able to get one tree to burn before the elves turned you and your men into novelty pincushions, I would count you very good at your job.”

  Now finally the Emperor laughed. And when he laughed, everyone laughed. Even Quirk. Lord El Sharred turned very red, and nodded, and managed a quick “I daresay I am” before retreating to his goblet.

  “As ever,” said the Emperor once the general mirth had died down, “you have proven yourself of greater wisdom and experience than many of the men who sit here, Professor Bal Tehrin. I ask again, and pray that you can answer without interruption, what would you advise?”

  “Merely to send him ten of our own harts, slain, and ready for roasting so that he may feast at our expense. Lives will be spared, and honor will be satisfied.”

  The table held its collective breath as the Emperor considered this. Finally he clicked his fingers. Instantly a servant was at his side, eyes angled obsequiously low.

  “Tell the huntsmen to kill ten harts and prepare them for delivery to King Todger along with a message expressing my deepest regrets at the unfortunate situation.”

  The servant nodded and backed away. The Emperor picked up the last of his partridges, looked at it distastefully, and cast it over his shoulder. “Let’s just get to the gods-hexed dessert, shall we?”

  This time no one disagreed.

  After the meal there was of course music, and dancing, and the overwhelming desire to get away.

  Quirk knew well that it was an honor to be invited to the Emperor’s palace so frequently. She was aware that many looked upon her with envy, if not outright jealousy. She knew that she ate here better than she could ever hope to eat at the university, and that her opinions could have significant sway in the way the country was run. But she also knew that what she truly desired was a quiet night with her scrolls, and her notes, and a full pot of ink.

  Unfortunately, though, the visiting Verran dignitary had managed to trap her in a corner. What was worse, he s
eemed willing to keep her there—by force if necessary—until she managed to vomit up an opinion on his proposed trade agreement.

  “But, don’t you see,” he pressed, “that a two-point-six percent reduction in the import surcharge on Verran cotton could significantly change the landscape of the entire textile export industry here?”

  “No,” said Quirk, who was by now well past the point of pretending polite confusion.

  “Oh,” said the dignitary with a genial grin, “then I better explain again.”

  Quirk wondered if the Emperor’s favor would be enough to acquit her of murder. Then she reminded herself she was a pacifist.

  A pacifist partly responsible for the death of seven dragons and approximately ten thousand inhabitants of Kondorra …

  Fortunately, just as the Verran was sucking in a lungful of air that would put a foundry bellows to shame, a disturbance at the stairs distracted him. He turned around, and virtually squealed with pleasure. “It’s here!” he told her, a grin spreading across his face like a wine stain across a tablecloth, and he skittered away.

  “Your eminence!” the dignitary called to the Emperor, in breach of all kinds of decorum. “Your eminence! It’s arrived!”

  The Emperor squinted at the Verran. Quirk didn’t think much for the chances of his trade accord.

  Four servants were shuffling down the stairs, staggering under the weight of some vast burden shrouded by a purple sheet. They just about made it down to the ballroom floor, stumbled right three paces, then set their burden down with a crash.

  “Careful, you dolts!” hissed the Verran.

  The Emperor rolled his eyes.

  The Verran struck a pose of significant pomposity beside the shrouded bundle. It was almost as tall as he was. Asymmetrical protrusions thrust out, lumpen beneath the folds of fabric.

  “May I present to you,” he said in grandiose tones, “a token of Verra’s esteem.” He bowed deeply.

  He meant a bribe, of course. I give you this, and in return can you make it cheaper for me to import my cotton? And let’s neither of us talk about the large number of cotton plantations that I have back in Verra, and instead pretend this is for the good of all.