“Who are you?” his dried-out voice scorched his throat.
“Uhm, I’ve almost forgotten,” she exclaimed, and with her knuckles, pressed on the imp’s forehead, she closed her eyes and mumbled a long word. “Feel any better now?” she continued.
All of a sudden, Nuuk felt refreshed. The inbound energy allowed him to slowly lift himself on his elbows and then raise to a sitting position on the floor. The spinning and headache were gone. Memories flooded his mind and he remembered the silhouette of the old woman staring at him outside that house, hours ago.
“Are you Naghnatë?” he asked.
Her head tilted to one side, one hand gently brushing her chin.
Seemingly lost in her own reminiscences, she quickly added, “Oh yes, that indeed is what I responded to.” She looked at Nuuk and smiled. “It’s been so long since I heard that name, I’d almost forgotten it was mine. Now up, you need to drink hot tea to recover from that spell.”
“What spell? Have you used magic to restrain me?” The imp thought that must be the cause of his horrid headache and lack of memory.
He followed her to the fireplace where a vegetable broth was cooking.
“I had to make sure you were no foe of mine. I sensed your healing spell and I came to see who was wielding magic in this valley, even though my purpose was not solely that.” She paused her effort of lifting the boiling cauldron from the fire and then placed it on the floor, on a flat, square piece of stone.
“How could you know what kind of spell I used or if indeed it was me?” Nuuk was astonished.
“Heh, I think I might know a thing or two about magic,” she replied sarcastically, “the question is, however, what was a magical creature doing here? I surely did not expect to meet an imp anytime soon.”
“How –” the imp stopped himself.
He realised he was trying to hide behind a finger from the all-knowing witch, and feared what she might do to him.
“I cannot tell you!” he said with an unconvincing voice.
She smiled at him, “That might’ve just given me the answer I was looking for!” and turned her attention to the cauldron.
There was certainly no fooling her. As he tried to put an order to his thoughts, a shiver ran down his spine; the sceptre. He quickly glanced about inside the room alarmed he could not spot his bag.
“Don’t worry, imp! Your things are in the cupboard. Now, I don’t know about you, but all this magic-wielding and talking has made me hungry. Be a sport and bring me the ladle and the bowls I left on the table.”
He was truly hungry; of that he was certain. So much in fact, that he totally ignored every instinct of not trusting the witch and did as bid.
“This soup is delicious, Naghnatë.” He found his words after the third bowl of the delicious broth. He couldn’t recall the last time he had had such a delightful treat.
“Very kind of you, I enjoyed it myself too,” she replied.
“Now can I have my things back?”
She nodded and indicated towards the cupboard where he was able to find his property. Inside everything was intact; the map, in which were folded the notes from Felduror, and the glowing sceptre, which in the scuffle, had squashed part of his adored beeswax almost flat. He returned to the table where she was still, slowly, sipping from her bowl. There was no doubt she had rummaged through his things and there was no point in trying to pretend she hadn’t.
“Do you know what this is?” the imp asked placing the opened bag with the sceptre clear in sight.
“I didn’t at first. Now I am certain of it. That cannot be anything else than the sceptre of Bilberith, the lunatic. I saw his marking etched on one side of the shaft; the goose head.” She looked at him as if expecting him to know to whom she was referring.
The imp did not.
“Well, this powerful object has a very peculiar and amusing story, which I’ll spare you right now. Suffice to say, it is a very dangerous item to meddle with, lightly. It can sap your strength and leave you in terrible pain if you misuse it. I can’t but wonder, where you found it and, mostly, why do you carry such a thing with you?”
“I…” The imp hesitated.
There were not many directions he could take the conversation while still earning her trust. If he decided to lie, she might do the same with him. Or he could try to escape. That would not be acceptable. Cleary Felduror had known all along that she could easily surpass him and his use of spells, and perhaps the Drakhahoul too, and he wondered why he had been so foolish to believe he could achieve what his master asked of him. He doubted that his safety had been of any concern to the wizard and probably their failure and demise would be interpreted as a successful mission, having revealed that, indeed, the witch was still alive. There was no other way to know what he was up against, other than to be honest with the witch.
“I come from Arkhanthï –”
“I knew that,” the witch interrupted excitedly and waved at him to continue.
“I found the sceptre in the armoury of the citadel, and I only know that when I touch it, I become invisible and unheard by those around me.”
“Invisible, unheard?” She plunged into another reflective state and after a while added, “Can you hold it briefly for me?”
The imp took it in his hand and saw the face of the witch change into an expression of awe. Was that a smile?
“By the blades of Balathul, that is a real treat you’ve got there! Remarkable Bilberith, nothing I thought even possible. I thought it was supposed to provide wealth and riches to those that handled it, that being the main purpose of its existence, though you seem not to be attached to any material things, eh.”
The imp dropped the sceptre with a thud on the table. “What I truly want has a higher price.” He sighed but continued, “Since you know I’m an imp, what do you know about my people, the Iprorims of Grora?”
“Know about you? Don’t you remember me, Nuuk?” asked the witch, moving her chewing face closer to the him, “I’m the one that took you away from Grora!”
All of a sudden, the room seemed too small and Nuuk found he could not breathe properly. Scared and confused by her confession, he did not know what to say or if there was any point in saying anything. He grabbed the sceptre with one hand, pushed aside the chair with the other, and made for the door.
Unfortunately, the witch was quicker and moved a cupboard with a flick of her fingers, smashing it against the door and barring his way. Although he was invisible, she seemed to know where he stood. Yet, he did not ease his clenched fist from the sceptre’s handle. Nor did he breathe, for a while. He held it tight to his chest, feeling his heart beating rapidly. His eyes fixed on hers.
No, she did not know precisely where he was. She started to look elsewhere.
“There is no point in running away, Nuuk. Where would you run to? To those that ordered me to take you? To the same master that tied your wings and kept you locked in a tower only to show you the disguised gesture of gratitude by sending you to your certain death?”
In the rage of the moment, he could not think or hear anything of her words. He could only try to recall a spell that would aid him escape, but his mind was clouded and his brain thumped inside his skull. The more he tried the more he failed. As soon as a word seemed to form in his mind, it blended with another and nothing of use could come out.
“Would you return to Felduror who trained you like a dog and forbade you to use magic? Denied you your freedom?” She continued to search the room.
He was trapped, Naghnatë was too strong for him. He dreaded the feeling of having to submit to another powerful mind. Alas, she was right; Felduror hadn’t been any kinder. The thought gave him courage to move towards her, sceptre still tight in his hands.
She did not seem aware of his movements, nor did she hear him approach. “What would I gain by killing you, imp? Think about it, had I wanted you dead, would I have shared my soup with you?”
There was no other choice than to see what
she wanted and why had she kept him alive so far. Now that he was back at the table he could scrutinise her face and look for any signs of evil. He could find none. Her wrinkled face was serene and her eyes were not bursting with the rage he, too often, witnessed in Felduror’s moments of lunacy. She had prevented him from escaping, yet she hadn’t hurt him. It only meant that she wanted something.
He wondered what that was.
“I am still hungry,” he said, revealing himself at the same side of the table, sceptre rolling on the wooden chair beside him.
“Splendid, I would like another bowl myself, too!” Naghnatë moved the cupboard back from the door with another gesture of her hand.
When she finally placed two bowls on the table, the imp found the courage to ask, “What is it you want from me? Why did you take the Iprorims?”
“I was merely an apprentice then and knew nothing of what I know now. Elder wizards had mastered a way of extracting the strength from magical creatures and had used it for their benefit. Unfortunately for you, the Iprorims represent one of the most abundant sources of magical wisdom. Abnormally so.”
That was a very unexpected thing to learn about his own race, thought the imp.
“That is what Felduror has always needed from you and your kin. What I want from you, instead, is far simpler and more generous,” she added, handing him another chunk of dark bread. “I want for this abomination to come to an end! I want to destroy all the tokens of benevolence and I need help in finding them. You know what I am talking about, don’t you?”
Nuuk’s thoughts were disordered. He considered at length what she just said and could not think of one good reason why he should help her and go against the wizard. He had learned how to deal with his moments of madness and felt, somehow, that Felduror would one day free him from his wards. He was torn; could he risk what he considered to know, for something that sounded better but he completely mistrusted? Even if he wanted to deny her request, what if she went as mad as Felduror and constricted him with her own kind of magic wards?
He could not go against the witch, not alone. Maybe if the dragon was here it would be easier to leave this place unhurt.
“I know what you mean,” he said after a while, “Felduror has been looking for them for a long time. It’s what drives him crazy, although I don’t believe he has been able to find any, as far as I know.” He quickly glanced at the sceptre. “Is this such a one?”
Naghnatë chuckled, “No, no. Bilberith was a fine magician and he managed to imbue some personal items with magical powers, though not always succeeding. I believe this sceptre to be his greatest success and am not surprised you found it in the wizard’s armoury. But I doubt the real artefacts are in the same place. If you managed to find it and easily extract it, I wouldn’t count on finding anything more valuable than this!”
“I do not know where they are, if that’s what you are asking,” the imp said.
“I trust you don’t,” she quickly replied. “If anything is true about the Iprorims, it is that they have a tendency to be honest and loyal – too much if you’d ask me. No, what I want from you is help in understanding where they are being kept. Since your wings are still bound, I believe you are supposed to return to your master?” she added a bit scornfully.
The imp hesitated. She was right, again. “That is true, I’ve been sent to get you, and I shouldn’t return empty-handed,” he finally admitted.
“Ha-ha! You were –” Naghnatë started laughing, dropping her spoon on the table.
She appeared unable to subdue the hideous giggle. Only when she realised the imp was serious did she manage to force some seriousness into her expression.
“You must not think ill of me, Nuuk. I find it very amusing that he made you believe such things were possible.” Her laughter faded. “I mean no offence. We both know I could escape the magic of one imp if I were forced to, don’t you think? Your master must know this surely. Unless,” and she paused, her face sterner still, “of course! Unless, that Drakhahoul was sent here with you as well. It can’t just be a coincidence!” She fixed his eyes with a serious gaze, half rising from her chair.
He had a doubt that she had known it all along and was only testing his character. She might be old, but there was no tricking the witch. There was no point in denying the obvious. She could easily force the truth out of him if she so wanted.
“His name is Ghaeloden –”
“Ghaeloden-Three-Horns,” she interrupted. “I know him very well, since he was a pup no bigger than a lamb.” She giggled. “And where is he now? He is very well trained for a young dragon. I lost his trace last evening.”
“I haven’t spoken to him since I met you. And from what I gather, your presence prevents me from thinking straight and I cannot sense him anymore,” Nuuk said.
“Well it is not my presence. It’s the protective wards I placed around this place that impede anyone from staying too long or sensing its existence at all. Try outside!” she waved at him.
The imp sprinted outside, and instantly dismissed the thought of escape when he realised how high up the mountain he was. The chill air made him shiver and, as soon as he stepped foot on the plain rock, he could think clearer. She was right, it was the inside of the hut. He took a deep breath and exhaled lengthily.
Master Ghaeloden, I am well!
Nuuk? What in the skies’ names? came the deep voice of the dragon. I thought you had died, imp. Again! I am still flying above Sallncoln trying to see you. Where are you? Why couldn’t I sense you? Have you been using the sceptre all this time? His voice was filled with concern and liberation and that in itself was a relief to Nuuk’s heart.
He seemed genuinely worried about his wellbeing and he could not help a sudden smile.
I found Naghnatë. Erhm, well, she found me. I was not able to talk to you. More so, she knew I was not human and she knows we came together, but she means no harm. I think it is safe for you to come. Only I will have to ask her where we are.
After providing the dragon with directions, it took Ghaeloden less than half an hour to reach the peaks across the valley. It wasn’t that far from where they had previously landed, though easy to miss, if one didn’t know what to look for. Especially in the evening, the small hut was almost invisible, concealed by the white snowy cliffs and the lack of sun’s light. Yet, Naghnatë was sure the young dragon would be capable of finding the place.
She had gone outside to await the dragon’s arrival. She was keen to see a Drakhahoul again, especially one she had known as a pup. Dragons were intelligent creatures and she hoped he would still recognise her.
He landed with a loud thump, thrusting snowflakes about. A huge lump of snow, which had gathered on the small roof, collapsed noisily. None of them were distracted, the tension was too high.
He let out a low, guttural growl loud enough to make the snow and small rocks tremor under their feet.
With a stamped smile on her face, Naghnatë approached fearlessly, her hand extended to reach the tall snout of his head. He darted his head to the side, just slightly.
She could see him clearly enough. “Brave, bright Ghaeloden, I knew it would be you!”
The dragon winced and blew a puff of hot smoke from his nostrils, following her movements with keen eyes. “Do I know you?” His full, deep voice resonated through the air and made her shiver.
“Dragons have a good memory, even when they are very young,” she said craning her arm to touch his big nostrils with her thin fingers.
Her confidence appeared to discomfort him, though as she moved her hands about his scales, she was sure he picked up her scent and recognised it; he quivered and opened his eyes wider, his big irises pulsing with light.
Nuuk let out a gasp, the Drakhahoul’s expression of disbelief, joy and curiosity was plain on his face.
Ghaeloden growled more softly and lowered his head on the ground so that Naghnatë could reach his brows. She gently caressed the thick scales above his eyes as if he was a fragile
piece of glass.
“When Felduror brought you to the citadel you were very little. Now look at you, all grown and strong! I wouldn’t have guessed you’d turn this tone of crimson; you were way darker then.” Naghnatë marvelled at how big he had become.
A really long time had passed since she had laid eyes so closely on such a magnificent Drakhahoul. The last being Belrug-the-Black, the new king, who to her discontent, had left a mark on her soul and threatened to taint her opinion of all mighty dragons. It hadn’t been her fault he had been so easily corrupted. How could she think otherwise? How could she hope that all of them weren’t the same?
Yet, as she glanced at Ghaeloden, moving her fingers upon his thick, red scales, she knew there was hope. She had felt it for many years, dreaming of this moment and now she was standing in front of him.
“Where am I coming from?” the dragon’s powerful voice was tame.
“If my memory does not fail me, I believe you are from Myrth,” the witch replied. “Oh yes, Myrthen Valley sounds about right. I had only arrived in Arkhanthï and that was the first time I met Felduror, having travelled from my village to be instructed in the magic arts. That was…” she paused, afraid she’d reveal too much, “many years ago. In dragon years, only a blink of an eye, alas for me it is a very long time. And speaking of age, it only makes me shiver. I am freezing!” She rubbed her hands together looking at the evening’s sky and realised it had just started to snow.
“We should get inside, Nuuk. And leave the door open so Ghaeloden can see us while we talk. That is, if you are interested in hearing more, of course!” She hurried inside the hut knowing too well how curious dragons were.
Once inside, Naghnatë put the kettle on the stove and started looking in various jars, attentively searching for herbs appropriate for such a gathering.
Winterhorn (Tokens Of Benevolence Book 1) Page 18