Into the Dragon's Maw: The Spoken Books Uprising, #5

By D. T. Kane

"And so it was," Baz concluded, "that I abandoned my people, mounted my dragon, and came to your lands."

 

Not even the flame of rebellion can melt the snows of the Icy Heights in winter. So, despite their resounding victory against the forces of Erstwhile, Baz and his rebels have spent the last four months holed up in Enigma City, waiting for the reprisal that is surely on its way from the rest of Oration come spring.

But just as the thaw starts, the unthinkable happens. Enigma is attacked, and one who Baz holds dear is taken. Baz pursues the kidnappers, accompanied by Rox and Eromér the Book Dragon. Their chase takes them into the Karst, the mysterious wasteland beyond the eastern limits of Oration. There, Baz meets the natives and enlists their aid.

The natives' help isn't free, though. The Ravagers, invasive barbarians who live at the borders of their territory, have a new leader, a terrifying figure known simply as the Placid Man, and Baz must agree to dispatch this villain in return for the natives' help. Sounds easy enough. After all, Baz has survived far worse and he has a dragon on his side. But the Placid Man is no ordinary foe, and when Baz learns his true identity, everything will change…

 

"This series is right up there with Robin Hobb's Elderling books." -Review of The Acktus Trials on the Fantasy Faction FB Group

"D. T. Kane is an amazing storyteller." -A Maze of Words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eremite Publishing
• Release date: Mar 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798987371114

Book preview

For Aunt Rosanne

Thanks for being a fan.

I hope these books continue to bring you joy.

Into the Dragon’s Maw

Map of Oration

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VISIT https://dtkane.com/resources/map-of-oration for a full-size version of this map.

Prologue

A MAN OF MANY NAMES trudged through ankle-deep snow, shielding his eyes from the late morning glare. He wore a colorful robe, which he’d secured above his knees with a leather sash. The man’s face was creased with lines of deep thought yet didn’t appear particularly old.

His trailing foot stuck in the wet snow a moment longer than he’d anticipated and the many-named man stumbled. Reaching out with both hands to steady himself, the rings he wore on each finger flashed in the sunlight, the fine chains connecting each set of five sounding a soft, bell-like tune that broke the silence of the wintery landscape. The man pushed himself back upright, yet somehow his hands came away clear of moisture, as if he’d thrust against the air itself, rather than the snowy ground. Grumbling under his breath about the winter thaw, he carried on.

Finally, the man reached the spot he’d been seeking—a high ridge overlooking a square of black and white tiles. There he paused. It wasn’t that he was tired. Certainly not. But it had been a long time since he’d climbed a mountain, and it was impossible to ignore the fact that his joints didn’t quite bend as they used to.

The square below him wasn’t empty. Of course, he’d known it wouldn’t be. He knew many things without having to lay his own eyes upon them. There were maybe a dozen individuals, and one much larger creature, difficult to see against the white snow that still covered the surroundings. The man permitted himself a half smile. It had been a long time since he’d seen that particular Book Dragon. He took a step closer for a better view of its brilliantly tattooed hide, but the movement caused snow to go cascading down the hillside and the man quickly pulled back. It wouldn’t do for any of the Linears below to see him.

It was difficult to say how long he waited to return to the lip of the ridge. When one’s lifespan is measured in centuries, spans of seconds, minutes, or even hours blend together like the blink of an eye.

When he looked over again, the men had all departed, back into the circular portal that led to the city deep beneath the snows of the mountain. The dragon remained, curled in the belfry suspended between the two gold-tipped towers that loomed over the city’s entryway. For a moment, the many-named man considered going to the creature. But no, that wouldn’t do. He’d meddled too much already. A pang of regret at what he’d told the dragon the last time they’d met rattled through his chest. He knew the guilt those words must still cause the gentle Book Dragon. But the words had worked. It had taken the better part of three centuries, but they were now manifesting their intended effect.

The Book Dragon was, in some ways, like an extension of himself—an extension that wasn’t constrained by the laws of time and place as he was. The shame his words had produced in the great tattooed creature now caused it to act where the rest of its kind refused. Certainly, the Book Dragon wasn’t nearly as powerful as the many-named man, but its abilities were a great boon to those who fought the powers of darkness. It was a loophole that the man was rather proud of himself for exploiting.

The dragon was asleep when the lions came. They were powerful creatures with sable fur and great manes about their massive skulls. The man watched from above as they approached the Frozen City. Upon each creature’s back was a rider, unclean men dressed in rags who hailed from beyond Oration’s eastern border. The many-named man had seen such riders before, though it was unexpected that each wore shaded spectacles over his or her eyes, as if they feared to reveal what lay beneath them. The man pursed his lips. Very few things took him unawares, and when they did, it usually meant another of his kind was involved. His pursed lips turned to a scowl.

As he looked on, several of the riders dismounted, one carrying a wooden box. They approached one of the now-riderless lions. Opening the box, one of the filthy men reached in and immediately began to howl in pain as he lifted an irregular stone from the crate. Black as night, it shown with malice in the sunlight and caused the many-named man to catch his breath. Even by his standards, it had been a long time since last he’d seen such abomination.

The stone was burning the hand of the raider who’d lifted it from the box, but he grasped it tight all the same. He approached the riderless lion, raised the stone high over his head, then drove it into the beast’s flank. A roar reverberated from the lion’s throat as it bolted forward, trying to dislodge the hateful shard from its flesh. The beast crashed headfirst into the smaller circular door that stood beside the larger, closed portal that led into the subterranean city. Its neck snapped on impact and the unfortunate feline dropped to the snow, twitching in death. The impact of the creature’s skull, however, cracked the small door down its center, and the raiders were quick to exploit the damage, sending several more of their lions barreling into the damaged stone until it collapsed entirely.

The many-named man started in alarm, though not at the destruction below. He was no longer alone on the ridge. For a moment, he thought one of the raiders had discovered him. But while the creature beside him was another lion, it was distinct from the others. For one, its fur was jet black, rather than ruddy brown, and its eyes held a suggestion of wisdom entirely absent from its feline counterparts.

Taking a deep breath to ease his nerves, the many-named man turned to the newcomer. The black lion sat on its haunches, tail slowly swishing from side to side, causing a cloud of snow to rise into the air behind it. The beast’s eyes were fixed on the scene below, as if it didn’t see the many-named man at all, though he knew that wasn’t the case. He turned his own eyes back to the scene below before addressing the black lion.

I hear you’ve been busy.

The lion didn’t respond. Not in words, at least. But the sweep of its tail communicated a distinct sense of agitation that brought a smile to the man’s lips.

I’m not lecturing you, just voicing an observation.

The lion huffed through its nostrils. The man permitted himself to smile a moment longer, then asked, What do you make of that? He motioned to lions and their filthy handlers. The beasts were now leaping over the shattered door, carrying their riders down into the Frozen City. After a pause of several moments, the man turned once more to regard the lion beside him, narrowing his eyes at the beast’s inscrutable features.

Meddling? he asked. What do you mean?

The lion aimed a glower at him.

Me? Oh, no. I am not responsible for this.

The lion’s glare persisted.

What? I’ve done nothing more than drop a few tidbits of knowledge that he could have discovered on his own, given time.

The lion flicked a paw upward, pelting snow into the man’s face. He did his best to maintain a dignified posture as he wiped the slush away, ignoring the freezing liquid that had gotten under his collar and now trickled down his chest. He turned his gaze back downward—all the riders had disappeared and the Book Dragon had stirred, gliding down from the belfry and surveying the damage the raiders had caused.

Well, perhaps I have interceded more than might otherwise be preferred.

The lion gave a growl that wasn’t entirely friendly.

But, he continued, holding up a hand, it wasn’t without just cause. You know the threat that has arisen from beneath the home of the Scribes.

Again, the lion growled, joining the many-named man in regarding the lone Book Dragon below. It was flying in anxious circles above the city, obviously wishing to alert its inhabitants of the imminent attack, but unable to fit through the broken door. Finally, it returned to the belfry and nudged at the great bell. It peeled out over the barren plain like a harbinger of evil to come.

For a time, the man and lion simply stood there, unspeaking, each left to his own thoughts. Abruptly, the man turned back to the feline.

What? Troop movements to the west?

The lion returned its gaze to the many-named man.

No, I didn’t know, he said.

The lion’s scrutiny intensified.

Why not? The man wiped a hand over his face. True Path guide me, he muttered. I’ve been at the Great Library. One moment, you criticize my interventions, the next you’re surprised when I say I’ve been keeping to myself?

With a swish of its tail, the lion swiped another flurry of snow at the many-named man. This time he was prepared. Raising a hand, his chained rings tingling, the snow deflected off an invisible barrier before it struck him. The lion huffed, a sound more like a chuckle than a feral exhalation.

"It is not meddling if I merely stay in one place, the many-named man said, glowering at the lion. My presence at the Great Library is the only thing keeping it safe while the great work continues. He won’t risk an assault so long as He senses my continued presence there. It is a risk even coming here, though a small one, as I sense He has moved far away for the time being."

The lion must have had a response to that but was prevented from replying when the raiders burst out from the underground city, their feline mounts dashing back into the east from where they’d come. Struggling figures were bound to the backs of several of the beasts, including one that caused the many-named man to start with concern. Even the lion beside him growled with ill ease.

Is that who I think it is? he asked the cat beside him.

Another growl.

Felled trees on a muddy road, the many-named man cursed. It’s a trap. You know what the boy will do once he realizes.

The lion watched the departing riders without any audible response.

Don’t tell me there’s nothing we can do about it, the many-named man snapped. "The sanctity of the True Path itself may rest on his shoulders. What’s the point in following The Lessons if existence itself is destroyed?"

Still, the lion made no sound.

Don’t lecture me on the laws of time and place, the many-named man muttered. I practically wrote them. I know the consequences. He watched with anxiety as the last of the raiders disappeared across the snowy landscape. But is there really nothing we can do to aid them?

The lion was silent for a time more, then with a flick of its mane, the great beast turned and began to lope away from the city. The many-named man didn’t make to follow, but shouted a final question after the beast.

What do you mean, you’ve already given him all the aid he’ll need?

The lion gave no indication it had heard and soon was lost from view.

Infernal animal, the many-named man thought, glowering at the prints the creature had left in the snow. But despite its attitude, the many-named man couldn’t suppress a quiet chuckle.

I thought we weren’t supposed to meddle, he murmured. For all its aloofness, he knew the lion cared just as much as he did about the boy and the pivotal role he had yet to play.

Still, his anxiety didn’t dissipate. The many-named man had more power than perhaps any being in the known universe, and yet he had to rely on the actions of a single boy to save that which he’d spent his lifetime protecting.

Faith, he mused to himself. He’d just have to exercise it. But it wouldn’t be easy.

With a final glance at the city, his face settled in an expression of concentration, and the many-named man vanished.

Part 1

Into the Dragon’s Maw, Part 1

Chapter 1

WHEN FIGHTING A FIRE-breathing monster, it’s important to remember that Books are flammable.

Illiterate ink! Baz cursed, slapping at the smoldering leather cover of the Spoken Book he held. Sweat rolled down his forehead, stinging his eyes, eliciting further curses from behind his teeth. His hair, which was nearly long enough now to cover his ears, stuck to his scalp in wet mats. He desperately wished for his hat.

His hat. The thought of it—or rather, where it had gone—twisted his stomach, but also steeled his resolve.

Shattered inkwells, Eromér! Baz shouted up to the sky. "Can’t you do something that will incapacitate the thing?"

The Book Dragon arced in his flight path, temporarily blocking out the sun, then dropped rapidly to hover above Baz.

The children of the All Truth are cousins to my kin. My kin. I can no more attack one than I could a member of my own family. Own family.

In Baz’s experience, family ties weren’t nearly so strong as Eromér implied, but another jet of fire distracted him from the thought. He flinched, bracing for the pain. But mere inches from his face, so close Baz was certain his eyebrows had been singed off, the flaming gout met an invisible barrier and dissipated into the atmosphere. One of the tattoos along Eromér’s underside glowed blue in the mid-afternoon glare. Baz ought to have thanked the Book Dragon for saving his life, or at least sparing him from great pain, but he had more pressing things on his mind.

Well, if you’re not going to attack the blasted thing, at least make yourself useful and track where the lions are headed.

Eromér whined from deep in his chest, a sound like a disconcerted housecat.

Are you certain, young Orator? Young Orator?

The big man’s here, Baz said, already turning his attention away from Eromér back to his Spoken Book. Its spine was charred, the binding beginning to fail, but none of the volume’s pages seemed damaged. I’ve seen him down a beast far larger than this one.

The Book Dragon hesitated a moment longer, but after giving a deep huff through his nostrils, began to rise into the air.

Very well. I shall find you once I’ve identified the lion riders’ destination. Eromér continued his ascent, moving off to the east, until Baz lost sight of him behind a jagged outcropping of rock. Baz turned his attention back to the wyrm.

He’d only seen such a creature once before. Generally they kept to themselves, deep in the Reach, the charred wasteland south of the Inkwell River in Oration. Out here in the Karst, though, they apparently lived in caves. That made sense, Baz supposed, since there was little else aside from rocky hills as far as the eye could see in this Scribes-forsaken wasteland. Sun sparkled off mineral deposits in the granite walls, the reflections making it difficult to see without squinting. The smells of charred ozone and sulfur from the wyrm’s fiery exhalations were nearly enough to make Baz gag.

This wyrm was far smaller than the one he’d faced during the Acktus Trials, a time that seemed decades past, but really had been less than a year ago. Whereas that one had seemed as tall as Xavier Tower, this one was only slightly larger than a horse. That was plenty large, though, when you were talking about what amounted to a barb-tailed, fire-breathing snake.

Little Baz. Rox lumbered over to Baz, his wicked razor extended to its full length, polished steel blade glistening in the sun. At nearly two feet taller than Baz, he had to crane his neck to look the man in the face. Rivulets ran down his bare, scarred scalp. He hadn’t worn his leather Harbour’s mask since the Battle of the Frost, and Baz was still growing accustomed to clearly seeing the expressions on the man’s face. Right now, it showed concern mixed with consternation.

Little Baz, the big man repeated. Where is the Illumined One going?

I sent him away.

You... what?

He wasn’t helping, so I sent him to track the raiders.

Lies, little Baz. The Illumined One’s shields were of more aid than any I can—

Cask it, Rox, Baz snapped. I can handle this thing. He flipped several pages in his Spoken Book, glowering down at the characters scribed in green and brown inks. He had little skill with spells based in elemental earth, but fire was hardly a sensible weapon against a creature with a furnace for lungs, and he didn’t have any Books of water with him.

Very well, said Rox, his lips settling into a grim horizon. You distract it, and I will return the child to the Mother.

Rox took a lumbering step forward, but Baz grabbed his belt with a frenzied lunge.

No! he shouted, much too loud, even given the volume of the wyrm’s rasping breaths from not twenty paces away. The thing was slithering back and forth across the entrance of its cave, the top half of its torso raised off the ground, green eyes tracking their every movement.

You can’t just go charging in, Baz said, moderating his tone, though it still shook.

I took down Children of the All Truth larger than this one before I spoke my first oath, Rox said.

Enigmans didn’t lie, so that was no idle boast. Still, Baz held the giant man back. So many had already died on his account. He wasn’t going to—

The wyrm had apparently had enough of waiting and suddenly lunged out, sunlight glistening off its fangs like the edge of a headsman’s ax. Rox shoved Baz to one side and the two of them went sprawling down a small embankment. The abrupt loss of his feet sent the Spoken Book sailing from Baz’s hands. It came to rest beneath the wyrm’s looming bulk, and the following moment exploded in a burst of green and orange flame as the beast exhaled like an overheated oven.

That’s not ideal, Baz mumbled, gasping for the breath that his sudden impact with the rocky earth had knocked from his lungs. I think a retreat might be in order, Rox.

Of course, retreat had been Baz’s initial reaction once he’d realized the raiders had led them into a trap. They’d all ridden into a cave and Baz, finally thinking he’d cornered them after a week-long chase, had leapt from Eromér’s back to follow them. That had proved foolhardy when, moments later, the raiders had burst back out of the cave on their feline mounts, the wyrm at their heels. Steep mountain walls surrounded the depression in which the cave sat, meaning the chances of escape without the services of a flying dragon would be suboptimal at best.

The wyrm spun on its midsection, bringing its spiked tail to bear. Rox met the attack with his razor, narrowly turning the foot-long barbs aside from Baz. A drop of gelatinous goo dripped off the tail and splattered onto a nearby boulder. The acid began hissing and quickly burned a divot the size of a grown man’s boot into the stone.

We’ll have to charge it, little Baz, Rox said, the muscles of his legs already tightening in preparation for a sprint toward the beast. Without your Book, we are too vulnerable fighting at a distance.

It can burn us to a crisp just as easily near as it can from afar, Baz said, finally having caught his breath and resumed his feet. I’m not letting you charge that thing. It’s liable to take your head off or barbecue you for dinner. We need to make a—

The all-too-familiar whistle of arrows headed his way sounded in Baz’s ears. Not so long ago, he’d have stood there dumbly and been turned into a poor imitation of a porcupine. A dead one. But his reactions to mortal attacks had greatly improved from his recent and considerable experience. He dropped to his belly out of pure instinct, Rox joining him. The arrows zipped over his head.

Immediately, he rolled, putting a rock between himself and the direction from which the new attack had come. Of course, that also meant the wyrm was now behind him. Baz expected to be consumed by an inferno of pain at any moment, but it didn’t come. Chancing a glance over his shoulder, Baz found the wyrm writhing in pain, one of the arrows Baz had thought meant for him lodged in its carapace, just beneath its throat.

Dreka, dreka! came a cry back from the direction of the archers. Down one of the vale’s steep, rocky walls slid several men. They were dressed in rough furs, cinched at the waists by lengths of cord. Each held bows so long that Baz wondered how anyone could be strong enough to draw them. At either end, they were tipped by blades nearly long as short swords. Each man’s skin was dark like cured leather, roughened by long days in the sun. Their faces were painted, or perhaps tattooed, in intricate designs that Baz couldn’t decipher, causing the whites of their eyes to stand out like recriminating beacons.

Several of the men rushed past Baz, continuing their war cries as they charged toward the wyrm. Baz used the respite to scramble to another nearby rock, where he’d left his Bookpack before all this madness had begun. He grabbed another Book and flipped it open to a random page. Before he could begin to Read, however, the unmistakable sound of a bowstring pulling taut roared in his ears like a bellowing lion. Baz had only enough time to glance up and see the arrow already loosed and speeding toward his face.

Chapter 2

A GRAY BLUR AT THE edge of Baz’s vision was all the warning he had of Rox’s recklessness. The former Harbour lunged forward, catapulting his body between Baz and the speeding arrow. It took him in the thigh, driving deep. Rox crashed to the ground and emitted a low rumble of pain.

Baz gave an unintelligible—and entirely useless—cry of protest and crawled over to the fallen giant. The newcomer who’d shot the arrow glowered in their direction, already drawing another. He was young, no more than fifteen. His hair was shorn close to the scalp and dyed an unnatural shade of red, brighter than a sunset, standing out with startling contrast against his dark skin. White triangles were painted on his cheeks beneath each eye, one of them smeared with perspiration. He notched another shaft to his massive bow.

Oh no you don’t! shouted Baz. He still had the Spoken Book with him and began Reading without looking down at the text. For the past four months he’d been cooped in Enigma Below during the worst of the Icy Heights’ winter. There’d been little to do besides memorize spells, huddle beneath fur blankets, and try to ignore the responsibilities that had been heaped upon him.

Fire darts was a short spell, unlikely to do any great damage. But Baz had been in his share of fights where life hung in the balance, and if there was one thing he’d learned, it was that one never had enough time in the chaos of battle. You could be capable of uttering the most powerful spells known to man and it wouldn’t do you an iota of good if you were run through by cold steel before the Words left your lips.

After just a few sentences, barbs of flame began to leap from Baz’s fingertips. Most missed the archer entirely, but a couple went where Baz intended, scorching his attacker’s tunic. One even struck the boy’s quiver, setting it alight. He gave a cry that embarrassed even Baz and retreated behind a boulder. Several of their other assailants who had seen the spell simply stopped in their tracks, mouths agape. Baz repeated the spell, sending a volley of fire toward the men who remained in the open. They scattered to find hiding places of their own.

Rox, can you walk? Baz asked. Immediately, he saw the foolishness of the question. The big man’s face was twisted in a grimace, a small pool of blood already having formed from the steady drip coming from his wound. The arrow protruding from Rox’s leg seemed nearly as long as a walking stick.

I will stand while you flee, little Baz. Rox propped himself up using his razor but stumbled halfway to his knees and toppled back to the earth with a groan.

Spilled ink, Baz cursed. Rox, in your state, Readers and Speakers will shake hands before you can stand.

The Harbour—Baz still thought of him by that title despite Deliritous having released his oath of protection—made as if to argue. But then an animal screech diverted their attention.

The wyrm had risen to its full height, all but an eighth of its rear length now off the ground. Despite an arrow having pierced its chest, the creature still snapped and snarled at the aboriginals who now faced it in a semicircular formation. Two held pikes longer than Rox was tall and stood behind a trio of others who wore circular bucklers attached to their arms by leather straps. The shields were little bigger than large dinner plates and appeared mostly made of strips of dried hide held together by a band of iron riveted around the shield’s circumference. They seemed a comical defense against the vicious wyrm. That is, until it exhaled a stream of fire at one of the natives. He thrust his buckler out, and while he gave a grunt of pain as some of the burning heat obviously struck him, the vast majority of the flames simply dissipated into nothingness.

Great, muttered Baz. It seems these are more than your average savages, Rox. The giant man grunted in agreement.

You, said an unsure voice to Baz’s left. He whipped his head back around, the Words of a spell ready to tumble from his mouth once more. One of the natives stood a short distance from where Baz still crouched beside Rox. He wore the same, rough hide clothing as the others. Similar to the one who’d shot Rox, his face was marked with a triangle beneath each eye, though his were green and appeared to be permanent tattoos. There were also several dots along the sides of each shape. His bow dangled from a limp hand, though, and the only other weapon Baz saw on him was a sheathed knife on his belt.  Baz relaxed by the slightest of degrees.

You are... the man stuttered. "You are an Orator?" He had a thick accent, as if he had cotton stuffed in his mouth, and spoke the word like it was one he’d only ever heard but never voiced aloud.

Um... Baz replied. He hadn’t expected the man capable of speaking the common tongue, much less to know what an Orator was. Even back in Oration, the term was an antiquated one for all but the secret society of Keepers. Baz had lived most of his life hearing a far less flattering term for one who could both Read and Speak. Cuss. But judging from the look in this man’s eyes, he didn’t mean any offense.

Sure, you can call me that, Baz finally replied.

Immediately, the native dropped to one knee and bowed his head.

Please forgive our ill treatment of you and your companion and have mercy upon our ignorance.

Before Baz could untangle the knots into which his surprise had tied his tongue, several other of the natives came out from their hiding spots and also kneeled before him, muttering similar apologies. Bloody burning Books! Hundreds of miles from home and people were still treating him like some blasted savior. Baz had trouble enough cooking breakfast in the mornings, and yet people insisted on treating him like a saint!

He was saved from having to respond to the other men’s adoration when the boy with the red hair reappeared and approached. His bow too was lowered, but he gave no indication that he intended to kneel as the others were. For an instant, Baz felt a flash of insult before banishing the emotion from his thoughts. All the high treatment and fancy titles were going to his head. He ought to find it refreshing, someone who was willing to show him a bit of petulance.

It has been long since an Orator visited our lands, the boy said. He had the same heavy accent as the other men, though his tone implied he very much doubted he should be directing any special titles at Baz.

Perhaps you’d care to see me Read another spell? Baz snapped.

That would prove nothing, the boy replied. Perhaps you’re a Reader. I know what that thing is. He pointed at Rox.

"That thing, Baz snapped, will slice your head off if you aren’t more polite. And you don’t know nearly as much as you think you do if you believe Readers can cast spells on their own."

It doesn’t matter what you are, the boy replied, giving no indication of backing down. You’re trespassers upon our lands and we have the right to defend ourselves.

That’s enough, Sonne, said the first man who’d knelt before Baz, the green pyramids tattooed beneath his eyes crinkling as he glared at the boy. "The Efstveid will want to meet this pair. There will be no killing them. Not yet, at any rate."

They are foreigners on our soil and must be—

Enough, the green-tattooed man said. "You may be the Efstveid’s kin, but you will not speak to me so before you’ve completed your Great Hunt."

The boy grimaced and looked away from the older man.

"Efstveid? Baz whispered, raising an eyebrow at Rox. Is that the old tongue?" The big man had undone his belt and tied it around his leg above the arrow wound. It seemed to have slowed the bleeding, though Rox was still even paler than usual.

Yes, though an odd dialect, Rox said, voice strained with pain.

You mean, there’s more than one version of the old tongue? Rox had never explained the source of his knowledge, but Baz had heard him speak the archaic language before.

Despite his injury, Rox gave a derisive huff. There are as many languages as there are places in the world, little Baz. That precise word is unfamiliar to me, but if I were to guess, I’d say it means leader.

The redhead snorted. Rox’s booming voice didn’t exactly lend itself to whispers, and he’d obviously heard the big man’s answer.

"The Honored Hunter is more than a leader. He is the Father of our people, Tamer of Dragons, Head of the Spear, and Guardian of the Book. It is an honor for