The Drowned Vault by N. D. Wilson Page A

stomach rumbled, and he closed his eyes.
    For a while, he was simply walking along the Northern California cliffs, listening to the seals bark, watching the white lines of surf roll in. For a while, he wandered the pastures of Wisconsin, searching for tires in the irrigation ditches. For a while, he walked along a country road looking for the Archer Motel. Cars would slow down with lowered windows and drivers would ask if he needed a ride. He told them he was heading to a place called Waffle.
    And then it was night and he was sitting on a boulder on the side of a mountain. Beneath him, a thick pine forest rustled like the sea sucking at sand. Across from him, on another peak, there was a fortress. A needle-sharp crescent moon was rising behind it.
    But the fortress didn’t matter. Three men strode out of the pine forest and climbed up to his boulder. The oldest and heaviest man had a thick black beard, and he carried a long slender ax with a blade as thin and vicious as the moon. The second man was taller, with broad shoulders and long, lean arms. He had a mustache thatdangled past his sharp chin, and in one hand he carried a long, slightly curved sword, like something between a saber and the weapon of a samurai. The moonlight danced across its blade, and Cyrus saw the long, twining image of a dragon etched into the steel. In his other hand, the man carried a long, sharpened wooden pole. The third man was the youngest and the slightest. His face was clean-shaven, and he carried only a bow, with arrows in a quiver on his belt. All three men wore thick silver chains around their necks, and thin silver crowns were nestled into their dark hair.
    The man with the sword stepped forward.
    “Vos volo?”
His growling voice sounded distant, like he was speaking from a cave.
    “Sorry,” said Cyrus. “I need to sew your heads on my jacket.”
    The man lunged forward, slashing with his sword.
    “Cy!”
    Cyrus jerked awake as Antigone kicked him in the leg. Arachne was standing behind her.
    “Tigs!” He grabbed at his shin. Both of his patches slid to the floor.
    “Sorry,” Antigone said. “You wouldn’t wake up.”
    Arachne bent and picked up the patches. She tossed the Ashtown patch back onto Cyrus’s lap, but she studied the Smith patch.
    “A vivid dream,” she said simply. “A wandering mindcan be a strength.” She looked up from the patch at Cyrus. “The embroidery is good. I never understood the trouble about Smiths—apart from the treachery of your greatest grandfather. These three”—she tapped the heads—“earned their ends, though most of my kind will deny it.”
    “Who were they?” Cyrus asked. “Or are we not allowed to know?”
    Arachne inhaled slowly. “It’s on my list. Rupert said to tell you as much as I know. They were men that I—and the world—feared. The heart of
Ordo Draconis
. The Tri-Dracul. Sorcerers of a rare and bestial breed.” Starting with the bearded one, she tapped all three. “Vlad the Second, Vlad the Third, Vlad the Fourth—each beheaded by Captain John Smith with their family’s own heirloom sword.” She handed back the patch.
    Cyrus stared at her, waiting for more. But more wasn’t coming. “Come on,” he said. “You know more than that. Tell the whole story.”
    Arachne’s blue eyes laughed, and she shook her head. “Train hard and I will tell you later.” She looked at Antigone. “If you train harder, we may paint later.”
    Antigone smiled. Cyrus looked at the patch in his hands. “Will you help me sew this on my jacket?”
    “Cy, no.” Antigone crossed her arms. “Now that you have it, you should keep it somewhere safe.”
    Cyrus grinned at his sister. “Somewhere no one can see it, maybe?”
    “Preferably, yeah,” Antigone said.
    Arachne looked from sister to brother. Then she nodded. “I may sew it on later. But now, both of you lie on the floor.” She waved at the rug. “Facedown, please. You must learn to bend.”
    “Any chance of lunch