Winterhorn (Tokens Of Benevolence Book 1)

by Nicolae Ovidiu Baiculescu

  Of late, there was always silence inside the main tower, more so in the highest rooms, where any sound was dampened by levels upon levels of the thick structure’s walls. The always-busy kitchens and the underground prisons with their frantic sounds were imperceptible up there, and only the gust of always-cold wind reigned over all sounds.

  Felduror was stooped over an inclined desk, his nose almost touching its surface whilst carefully examining an ancient scroll through a golden magnifying glass. His long thin finger carefully followed marks of red ink painted on the fragile parchment. For restless nights at a time he’d find himself looking upon the same yellowed parchments, standing in the same room, barely eating anything and only drinking his own turbid teas.

  Today, he was feeling his lower lip flutter more agitatedly; a restless sign of frustration and tiredness and his old bones ached, unaccountably so. As always, every once in a while, he would dictate something without ever taking his eyes away from the important scrolls, to a servant-clerk.

  Tired of remembering everything he deemed worthy of note, he had personally selected the peculiar amanuensis amongst many others of his race. His name was Nuuk. Yes, he remembered it today, but more often he did not. He called him creature instead, since he was an imp. The odd-looking creature, that from afar could be mistaken for a lean child of eight or so, up close could alarm many brave people and, in some cases, cause disgust. It was the craggy skin of his wrinkled face and his big ears that caused it, while the small and almost deformed bat-like wings were almost tolerable. Unfortunately for him, the wizard could not take any chances and he had bound the wings of the little creature with a thin, threaded-white filament which dug quite deep in his hard skin. One could easily be mistaken in thinking that the thread could be easily broken, yet its fibres were imbued with magic, unbreakable without the proper spell.

  Today the wizard could not recall precisely why he had inflicted such punishment in first place, clearly the little creature was not a real threat, weakened by years of servitude and his binding spells. Nor could he recall the reason for the fresh, dark-purple bruises, that covered the creature’s neck and arms. Were they another sign of his appreciation? Had the creature upset him recently?

  He could not remember.

  The brief look upon the silent servant almost made him ask a direct question, then another thought slipped in and he quickly ignored his impulse.

  “Mhh, I wonder. Could that be one of the olden locations?” He broke the silence thinking about the last bit of map he had inspected.

  How many times had he thought he was close to an answer? How many times had he misled himself? Another clueless row of questions invaded his uneasy mind.

  The reflective moment quickly passed and Felduror was delivered into the same big, gawking eyes of his servant.

  Just like countless days before, the helpless creature stood still and mute, attentively following his every movement. Sometimes he thought that the imp was unable to talk, something to be appreciated, especially for such a skilled master of quill and modern and ancient tongues, the creature had surprisingly proved to be.

  Felduror held back an otiose smile, recalling now why he had chosen this little creature, and for the same reason he would not let him think for a moment he was of any worth. Instead, he barked his order, “Summon Ghaeloden, creature! And be quick about it!”

  Fear was good, fear was safe, he considered as he listened to the desperate bare feet distancing on the marbled floor.

  Ghaeloden-Three-Horns was one of the strongest among the young Drakhahouls of the citadel. He was also the last one to pledge allegiance to King Belrug-the-Black. Though he knew it had all been a charade; he could not be fooled by what really transpired in the empire. For as far as he could recall, he had always disliked the wizard. An innate instinct, just like the desire to fly, only far less enjoyable. He was always on alert when it came in having to deal with the wizard’s devious ways.

  On this cold late-summer day, the dragon was resting and cleaning his fangs after a swift hunting which consisted of a couple of sheep. Delicious, scented tender-meat, were it not for the wool that always stuck in his tall teeth. Luckily, he was stood by his favourite spot, which always soothed his many annoyances; the pond. None of the others had a liking for the quiet place, yet he enjoyed laying his wide, crimson stomach on the soft patch of moist grass. Given that his thick-scaled skin did not allow neither cold nor heat to penetrate easily, he enjoyed the pond in whatever weather the days provided. The silence and the stillness of the water the sunny days delivered, nurtured his soul and allowed his thinking to become clearer. He couldn’t care less if the others wanted to claim the spot now, he would not allow it. It was his, and his alone.

  Built at the same time as the citadel, the pond was placed on the lowest level, and reflected the whole castle in its pure lime-green water. Compared to the dragon, it seemed nothing more than a puddle, but for the human gardeners that maintained it, it required quite a laborious effort. They had to allow only a precise number of plants to grow and of a specific type, which they tended weekly. Therefore, the perfection of their work was pleasantly in accord with the dragon’s undisclosed opinion. The biggest part of its size was taken by a cattail cluster in one corner which provided shelter for the singing frogs and smaller fish. Scattered all over the water’s surface, there were a dozen or so wide water lilies which blossoming in this year’s spring had caused annoyance for Ghaeloden; everyone had wanted to witness their marvel, inexplicably some of the Gholak brutes included, and the place had always been crowded. Other smaller plants and water weeds were carefully allowed to multiply and each provided further balance to the overall charming aspect.

  Among all vegetation, the most beautiful was the most recent shrub; a pair of water hyacinths. The plants had appeared rather like an ordinary water-shrub for months, much to the dragon’s irritation. He had considered it to be the sole disagreeable addition, which unbalanced the pleasantness of the entire pond. Yet, the last month of summer he had changed his mind; the bloom of the plant had demonstrated its unexpected and true essence. Few marvellous purple-bluish flowers had sprung with an unexpected beauty, their sweet and delicate aroma permeating the entire area around the pond and tantalising the dragon’s senses. The event had been very intense and, unfortunately, very short lived, yet he had been seized completely by their beauty and their fragrance like he was a meagre, brainless insect. Even the fish of various dimensions and colours appeared to have changed their habit of scattering whenever he moved, since most of the time he was still as a plant himself.

  As he thought back to that day, he noticed the same group of fish languidly swimming undisturbed under his big shadow. Today they were looking more curious about his huge three-horned-head that prohibited raindrops from reaching the surface of the water. He quickly realised why they were ensnared and kept still while he himself looked upon the reflection of his bright dark-red scales that sparkled in the water. His thick-scaled skin protected the dragon from the most vicious attacks of fellow Drakhahouls or any human weapon, therefore this cold weather really stood no chance in making his bulk muscles flutter. Actually he preferred it when it was raining as other creatures were compelled to withdraw from the gardens, leaving him to enjoy the cleansing and relaxing experience by himself.

  Alas it was not the case anymore; his enhanced senses allowed him to hear something approaching long before there was anyone in sight.

  “Stop right there, creature!” His deep voice thundered across the pond, scattering the multi-coloured fish to safety.

  He felt the creature try to stop but slip on the wet grass and fall with a hefty thud, only to instantly regain his standing, and almost freeze where he stood. He caught his breath, his tiny heart racing in his thin chest.

  “Mh! What did I sense? Quick tiny bare-feet that don’t mind wet grass, a thudding-heart as big as a potato, and…” the dragon let out a chuckle, “…a tightly closed mouth after this blast? You might want
to start breathing through your mouth, imp, the nose is barely enough for the effort!”

  The imp exhaled a mouthful, gasping for air to recover from the effort. It was only when his not-so-pleasant-to-see purple-red face turned more towards his natural pale-shade, that he was ready to reply.

  “It was too easy, master Ghaeloden! I’m the only barefoot creature at the castle, the humans prefer to wear dead animal’s skin as shoes!” he replied. “I’m sorry to bother your tranquillity, but the splendiferous king’s assistant and wise-wizard Felduror has asked for you! You shall meet with him now on –”

  “Creature how many times do I have to say that firstly, I am not your master, you can simply call me Ghaeloden, and secondly, and most importantly, in my presence you shall not refer to the old wizard in such an appreciative fashion, unless he’s among us!” He felt his nostrils widen and puff a wave of smoke.

  He also realised his huge mouth remained opened. A frightful sight for the little one to stare at such rows of imposing fangs. He chewed some air and recomposed himself.

  “I ap-apologise! It’s that, I always feel him standing right behind me,” said the frightened imp.

  “You are coming from a long line of Iprorims, the wisest race amongst the imps, is it not?” asked Ghaeloden.

  The imp swallowed hesitantly.

  “Yes maste –, yes, your dangerousness Ghaeloden!” The little creature quickly corrected himself.

  “Then how is it that you cannot gain control over your own thoughts? Has the wizard put a spell on your mind as well? Are you prevented from reasoning? You might not be a pretty sight, I must admit, yet you have definitely been blessed with many skills, and you too are capable of magic. Throughout time, your race had accomplished many deeds worth of praise. So I want you to compose yourself and…” The dragon stopped as he noted fresh marks on the creature’s neck and shoulders.

  Again, the wizard’s doing!

  Inside his own mind, he went to confront the cunning wizard for such a weak gesture of unprovoked violence, but the helpless creature’s face, frozen in the same position, made him reconsider. He felt compassion for the tiny imp, and wondered how many more like him had been subjected to the endless powers of this old man. How many had to suffer his treatments? The consideration was bitter; even he himself was bound to serving him, through the sworn loyalty to Belrug-the-Black and he knew there was no easy way to recover from such a dire predicament. He would have to outsmart the astute wizard if he were to regain his freedom. Reaching the dragon king was far more arduous than one could imagine – the wizard never allowed anyone to gain a consultation with the king without his presence.

  The fumes of rage passed and he regained some tranquillity, wondering what the wizard wanted of him this time. Couldn’t he use one of the other dragons? His mother, Sereri for instance, she always seemed so keen to obey every command. Alas, he knew he had no choice.

  “And?” the imp asked, seemingly curious to know his thought.

  “Never mind, imp! Tell the wizard I will meet him as he pleases. And, as always, mention nothing of what we discussed!” He left no space for misunderstandings.

  There would be consequences if his harsh tone and voice were not understood. Yet, he realised he had been a tad too harsh on the helpless creature, which already started back on its way.

  “And whenever you can,” he made the imp stop on his steps, “come see me again, imp!” His voice acquired a softer and less commanding tone and he could almost feel the joy pouring out of the imp’s skin.

  “It would be a pleasure, kind Ghaeloden.” There was an honest smile on the imp’s face.

  The dragon watched the little creature run off, his soaked shirt a dirty rag fit for disposal. Spreading his monumental wings and flapping them vigorously, a myriad of drops splattered across the pond’s surface. He flipped his tail in the wet air and with a suffused roar and a leap, he took to the grey sky.

  Felduror was waiting with discomfort under one of the arches of the tower’s topmost-structures. The special place, designed for the taking off and landing of all flying creatures, dragons most importantly, allowed him not to get wet from the sideways showers of the rain. But its insistency was dragging him towards a very bad mood, adding to the irascibility caused by the dragon’s tardiness.

  Although in past times the tower had seen the greatest of the mighty beasts consult with their king, for many years it had seldom been used by anyone but Sereri-the-White and the King Belrug himself. The younglings never interacted directly with their king, nor did they take part in any decisions, so they were as estranged to the structure as most of the empire’s subjects.

  On this occasion, the Drakhahoul king accompanied the wizard, motionless as a statue. With each, slow breath, his chest made the Blight-Stone move up and down and shine against the dullness of the sky. A priceless sight for his old eyes, considered the wizard. Yet, the king appeared indifferent to the powerful token. Perhaps he had become so. His eyes were a testimony, if one knew what it meant. Like the result of a sultry disease, a foggy thin layer of murk obfuscated what had once been deep-brown irises. Felduror knew what the realisation of entrapment must have been for such a beast, perhaps constantly unsettled in mind and soul, though his body did not reflect any of it. He could not. He was standing still like a waiting, old dog, careless at the rain which bounced spiritedly all over his massive body.

  A sound issued somewhere far and travelled across the entire sky with a muffled thundering feel. When the wizard shifted his gaze, a black spot high above the tower was dropping towards the ground with preposterous speed. For an instant he hesitated and considered moving away, but before he acted, young Ghaeloden had already opened his wings revealing wormlike veins across his thick membranes. He circled the roofs a couple of times and then landed with a heavy thud.

  “Your majesty!” Ghaeloden bowed his head in front of Belrug.

  The body of the king stood thrice taller over the younger, red dragon.

  “Young Ghaeloden, you’re late again!” echoed the king’s voice after a weak, welcoming nod.

  “I thought I had time to see the sunset before coming here, my lord! It’s been a couple of gloomy days with all this rain and I wanted a little comfort from the last sun’s rays!”

  “Your insolence precedes you!” called Felduror while approaching the young dragon.

  He knew very well that the young Drakhahoul had a predisposition towards challenging him, he had showed his nerve too many times. It would only be a matter of time until this dragon too would get what he deserved.

  With gratification, he then forced him to meet his face. “We’re not here to talk about your character, that in itself would require too much effort. No. We want you to go somewhere beyond the walls!”

  “Am I to be allowed?” Ghaeloden did not appear at all bothered.

  “These are dire times, and as such we have to act accordingly. We knew it would eventually happen. There’s only so much one can do to keep an entire city concealed, me and our righteous king are strained by the efforts that you, younglings, have been spared to experience,” Felduror said.

  “But, why me? Why cannot a human servant aid in such endeavour? Why not any of the regiments from Liarhï, Iriath, Hulverion or Doradhur? Or why not the Gholaks?” Ghaeloden argued.

  “It might come as a surprise to you, however, neither Hulverion nor Doradhur are as solidly in our control as before. They’re growing bolder. Too much idleness. And the fear of the Drakhahouls and Gholaks alone will not be enough to keep them at bay. At this rate, we’ll have to fend for ourselves and most likely go to war. And that’s why we need you for this task,” Felduror said, appreciating how the light in the young dragon’s eyes sparkled brighter the more he seduced him with his words.

  “You can fly high, be swift and invisible to most! Even if you were to use magic few would be able to sense it,” Belrug added.

  “I understand. Where shall I travel and what shall I do?” Ghaeloden asked.
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  “You shall go to Sallncoln! Though, magic should be not used light-heartedly, as a matter of fact, if possible, do not use it at all! The very success of your assignment will depend on it. There’s someone I need you to bring back to the citadel. Her knowledge is…” and he hesitated, looking for better words, “… her skills are required for deciphering some ancient scrolls and maps. We’re afraid that without her knowledge the whole damn papers are useless and we could lose another hundred years trying to understand it with meagre prospect of success.”

  Ghaeloden listened attentively.

  “Once there, you should look for a witch, by the name of Naghnatë, whom I have no doubts that you’ll sense long before finding the small village. She reeks of magic!” Felduror’s words were tainted with a trail of hate, though he regained self-control quickly, before his anger clouded his judgement. “Words travelled of a curious event, the kind the old witch cannot ignore and won’t waste an opportunity to come out of hiding. I want you to find her and bring her here! Yet I warn you, Drakhahoul, do not underestimate her as she is far smarter than what she likes showing.”

  The young dragon looked towards his king, their gazes locked for a long moment. A vain attempt in whatever he was trying to do, thought the wizard as he cleared his throat.

  “And what if she refuses to come? What do I do then?” Ghaeloden demanded.

  “You tell her I’ve sent you to summon her, her past is forgiven, her assistance is required. She will not give away the chance of regaining access to Arkhanthï, I promise you that!” Felduror let out a small sound of contentment.