The Chronicles of Amberdrake

by Loren K. Jones

  “Cousin, how may I help?” he asked softly, causing the last to look up.

  “Cousin? Oh, Cousin, he took my daughter. My baby!” she wailed as Drake knelt in front of her.

  “The server told me. How can I help?” he asked, taking her hands gently in his.

  “No one can help. No one,” she wailed as she cried. She pulled her hands away from Drake and buried her face in them once again.

  One of the other women, a petite blond with tears shining in her blue eyes, spoke in a grief-choked voice. “No one has been able to discover who the Hunter is. The best magi in the city have tried to no avail.”

  “We thought she was safe,” the third woman said, “but he took her from her very room.”

  Drake nodded and stood, then backed away, out of the room. The server was still where he had left him. Drake looked at him and all but snarled, “Where is the girl’s body?”

  “Sir, the best…”

  Drake growled, “Where is she?” interrupting the man. And carrying his words was a truly terrifying growl.

  The man swallowed his fright at what he was seeing in the mage’s eyes. “At the mortuary,” he whispered.

  “Take me there,” Drake ordered, and the man immediately obeyed.

  It took a long time to reach the mortuary. Time for Drake’s anger to grow. The mortician was reluctant to allow Drake access, but a whispered word from the server caused him to relent.

  Erica had indeed been carved like an animal. Dressed out, and from the looks of things, alive for most of it. Deep gouges on her wrists and legs told of the ropes that had bound her. Her face was frozen in a scream of agony.

  Drake stretched forth his considerable magical abilities, seeking the one who had done this to a child of his clan. Images of faces and places flashed through his mind, but they were all images of the people who had found her, and the circle of seven magi who had sought the person responsible. Of the perpetrator, there was no trace.

  Drake turned to the mortician and the server. “She is to be treated as the finest lady. Do you understand?” he asked, bringing forth a purse full of gold. “The finest lady.”

  “As you command,” the mortician said softly, frightened. Drake seemed to be glowing with anger.

  Drake turned his glowing golden eyes on the serving man. “I will not be returning to the inn. Go back and tell your mistress that I have gone hunting.” Drake’s voice was barely above a whisper, but the server reacted as if he had shouted and ran back toward the inn.

  Drake asked the mortician, “How do I find the constable’s office?”

  The man said, “Turn left on the street, Lord. The building is about a hundred paces away.”

  Drake nodded and then walked briskly through the city. His eyes were constantly in motion as he searched for some trace of who had murdered one of his clan. One of my children.

  The chief constable was in conference when he arrived, but Drake’s identity and glowing amber eyes convinced the sergeant to interrupt him. “What is it, Carl? I said not to…”

  “Sir, please! I think you really need to meet this man,” the sergeant said, nervously glancing over his shoulder to where Drake stood glowering. “He claims to be an Adept of Amberdrake’s Children.”

  “An Adept of the Clan, is he? Well, let’s see what he has to say.” Chief Constable Anders stood and motioned the three men with him to follow. Walking out the door, he froze at the sight of Drake’s face. Swallowing the fear that suddenly grasped his throat, he nodded. “Adept,” he said cautiously.

  “I am Drake Standralson, Adept of Amberdrake’s Children. Where was Erica found?” Drake’s eyes locked on the chief constable’s, forcing him to answer.

  “Near the river, same as the rest, Lord,” the constable answered. His voice trembled as the air of menace the young Adept exuded intensified.

  Drake’s eyes flicked to the men behind the chief. “Who are you?”

  The elder of the three cleared his throat. “I am Adept Danver. My colleagues, Adepts Framlin and Grove.”

  Drake nodded at the introduction. “You used a circle of seven, and still found no trace. That implies that a God or a demon was involved.”

  Adept Danver nodded. “We had thought so, young man.” Drake looked to be no more than twenty-five, for all his obvious power, while Danver was a man in his late sixties.

  Drake’s mouth took on a wry twist at the term ‘young.’ “Not as young as all that, Adept.” Turning to the chief, he nodded. “I want to see for myself. Will you please provide me with an escort?”

  The chief constable nodded, motioning the sergeant forward. “Take the Adept to where we have been finding the bodies.” Looking at Adept Danver, he cocked his head to the side. “Would you care to join him?”

  The elderly Adept looked at the chief, hearing the plea in his voice, and nodded. “Yes, I think so.”

  Drake stepped back and allowed the sergeant to lead him to a carriage that was parked at the side of the building. The sergeant held the door as the two Adepts entered, then took the driver’s seat himself.

  Adept Danver looked at Drake as the carriage started to move. “Where are you from, Drake? Your accent is one that I’ve never heard before.”

  Drake almost smiled. “I am from the highlands of the Darendian Empire. A little place called Chanders.”

  “Ah, that would explain it. Provincial accents…forgive me, I meant no insult,” Danver said, interrupting himself when Drake’s face changed expression.

  Drake held up his hand. “It wasn’t you. I felt something, a touch of darkness. Something inhuman just swept past us. Something that felt distinctly demonic.”

  Danver looked at Drake with new respect. “I felt nothing. You must be very sensitive to have detected it. Demons are hard to detect even when you are face to face with them.”

  Drake nodded. “I’ve had prior experience with demons.”

  Danver looked out the window of the carriage and nodded. “This is one of the better parts of town. It is hard to believe that something demonic could be here.”

  “Demons take many forms, Danver. Many forms.”

  The two lapsed into silence as the trip continued. Finally, they reached the riverfront. The sergeant stopped the carriage and hurried to open the door for the Adepts. Danver led Drake to a place on the bank near a bridge. “We have found most of the girls on this side, but two were found on the other side of the road.”

  Drake nodded and knelt, lightly brushing the dirt with his fingers. “Cleansed. There are traces of magic in the soil, but even the impressions of those who found her are fading. Something very powerful is covering its tracks very carefully.” Standing, he crossed the road and repeated his investigation. “Here as well. There may be no easy way to find this demon.”

  “So we had concluded. The magi of the circle have been taking it turn and turn about searching the city each night for some trace, but so far we have had no luck. Will you join us?”

  Drake stood and stared across the river. “No, I think I will take a more active approach. Prowling the night is an old bad habit from my youth.” Drake turned a feral snarl toward Danver, and then walked away. Nightfall was just an hour away.

  * * *

  The streets of Peregrine Falls were well lit, but empty. People were staying indoors in these dark times, afraid of the hunter in their midst. Only the most urgent tasks would send someone out after dark.

  A young girl of about eleven, pretty and blond, made her way across the city cautiously. She clutched her cloak tightly about herself, seeking protection from the cold as well as the darkness.

  A man watched from the shadows and smiled thinly as the girl passed. This one is just right. Stealing silently up behind her, he covered her mouth and nose with a drugged rag and then carried her limp body away. No one noticed.

  It was a long trip to the ceremonial place. Long enough for the drug to wear off and the girl to start crying. Good. She is afraid, and fear is power. The sack he had tied around h
er head muffled the girl’s cries, but he savored every sob he heard.

  No light marked the house he drove to as inhabited, and the thick carpet of unraked leaves muffled the sound of the horses’ hooves. A dark figure opened the barn door, and quickly closed it behind them.

  “Another so soon?”

  “Caught her crossing the city. Probably thought she was safe. We’ve been spacing them five days apart, but she looked so perfect that I couldn’t resist.”

  “Fool. Well, it can’t be undone. We’ll just keep her until the time is right and the others arrive. Bring her,” the dark man ordered, and the girl was lifted from the wagon by three sets of strong hands. The sack was removed, and the men nodded in appreciation. She was pretty, and the pretty ones brought more power. The dark lord likes them pretty. Two men took her down to the basement and locked her in a storage closet. Her cries and pleas drew smiles from the followers of the dark lord.

  Inside, the girl found a rough pallet, a torn blanket, and a bucket that had obviously been used as a latrine. She beat her hands raw against the thick boards of the door and walls, but her screams brought no help.

  Her screams were not, however, ignored. No, they were savored. The men who heard smiled and licked their lips in anticipation. Her fear had time to grow, and they had time to revel in it.

  Four days passed with the girl continuing to scream and beg for release. They fed her and gave her water. The dark lord liked his victims healthy. She threw the latrine bucket at them when they opened the door, but others had done so before, so they were ready.

  At last the night arrived. Dozens of carefully muffled men and women arrived at the dark house, all waiting for the dark lord, their master. Finally, he arrived.

  The dark master was tall. His eyes were black pools with no whites. The lipstick and eye shadow he used were also black, accentuating the pallor of his skin. Long black fingernails tipped long white fingers. Fingers that were almost feminine.

  In what had been the great hall of the house, they gathered. An altar had been set up in the center of a carpet that had been woven with arcane symbols. Blood stained the carpet, but no footprints. Only the dark lord dared to tread upon those symbols.

  The sacrifice was brought in, stripped bare, with long ropes tied to her arms and legs. Strong men grasped the ropes, pulling hard so that she was lifted from the ground by the force. She screamed as her arms and legs were all but pulled from their sockets by the force of it, and the gathered people moaned in ecstasy at her agony. Walking forward with the girl suspended, they brought her to the dark lord and lowered her onto the altar, tying the ropes tightly to hold her in place.

  The dark lord stepped forward, smiling with thin, cruel lips as the girl struggled. “This is the time. This is the place. We are the chosen,” he intoned in deep, reverberating tones.

  “This is the time. This is the place. We are the chosen,” the people chanted back.

  “This is the way to everlasting power. Only in the blood of innocents will strength be found.” Again, the dark lord spoke in echoing tones, and again his followers echoed him.

  “Pain is the power. Power is the pain. Only in pain is power released.” The dark lord picked up a dagger that was stained with dried blood. “Prepare to receive the power of this child’s pain.”

  “Pain is power. Power is pain. Pain is power. Power is pain,” the gathered people chanted as they watched their lord.

  The girl had been screaming and struggling during the whole ceremony, but suddenly she stopped. “Somehow, I don’t think things are going to work out that way for you,” she said in a sweet voice, and her smile was almost serene. Then the dark lord looked into her eyes. Golden eyes, like those of a cat.

  Bright golden power engulfed the girl and altar, and the dark lord stumbled back, away from his intended sacrifice. When the power faded there was something on the altar that was darker than the lord. Insect-like chitin covered a body that seemed to be evil incarnate. Long claws ended fingers and toes, and an abundance of sharp teeth filled the mouth of the creature. “Timmmme to feeeeel the painnnn,” it hissed, then attacked.

  People fell, disabled but not dead as the daemon circled the room. Arms and legs were broken and shredded as claws sought flesh. Screams of agony echoed, though they were not the screams of a young girl. Finally, there was nothing but a sea of broken and bleeding bodies scattered about the altar.

  The dark lord was kneeling next to the altar, clasping his shredded arm. The demon within him struggled to overcome the pain and terror of its servant, but there was magic filling the room that was beyond its demonic power. Then the black form returned, and the demon fled before the magic of a daemon, magic that could only be surpassed by that of a dragon. The daemon flipped the hood back from the dark lord’s face, and the fear in his eyes was beyond that of any of the children he had killed. Again, the golden glow of power engulfed the creature, leaving a young man standing in its place.

  “There is no power in the pain of others. Only in your own.” Grasping the dark lord by the front of his robe, Drake lifted him, then slammed him onto the altar. Ropes that had once held little girls wound themselves around the dark lord’s arms and legs. The sound of tearing cloth filled the room as the robes of the followers shredded under Drake’s magic and bound their hands and feet.

  “This terror ends with you.” With a flick of his finger the draperies caught fire. Screams of terror filled the room once again, but they were the screams of adults. Cries of despair and pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears. The ceremonial knife appeared in Drake’s hand, and the dark lord died on his own altar, in his own fashion.

  * * *

  An anonymous tip led the constables to a house on the outskirts of town. The tipster had told of a coven of black magi that met there, and of the fate of the girls from the town.

  Chief Constable Anders entered the house and gagged on the stench of spilt entrails and burnt flesh. “Open the windows, damn you,” he ordered, and the men behind him broke out the windows and shutters to admit light and air into the place. Moans and coughs attested to the fact that at least some of the people were still alive to be questioned.

  As light filled the room, he saw the altar. Stretched upon it was a man, tall and emaciated. And familiar. Lord Geoff, the Keeper of the City Archives. He was rough dressed, as the girls had been. But his eyes were also gone, gouged out, and salt filled their empty sockets. Someone had condemned his soul to eternal half-life, for without his eyes he could never see the afterlife. The salt condemned him as a black mage.

  “The Hunter. Well, now we know,” Chief Anders said to no one in particular.

  Adept Danver was holding a handkerchief to his nose, trying in vain to filter out the stench. “Adept Drake does gruesome work, doesn’t he, Anders.”

  “Adept Drake? Are you sure? We haven’t seen him since the riverfront.”

  Adept Danver nodded as he looked about. “The signature of his power is clear. I wonder how he found them?”

  Chief Anders shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I am not inclined to try to question him, and I suspect that he’s gone in any case. Gather up any of Lord Geoff’s followers that are still alive. We have some questions to ask.”

  A woman grasped his leg, looking up at him. “You dare not…”

  “Oh, I dare, bitch. We have questions to ask, and ways to make you answer. Ways that should be familiar to someone like you.”

  She began to scream as two men grasped her burned legs. Others were screaming now as well as the constables sorted through them for those that still lived. In their own pain they found the power they sought, and in that power they found death.

  * * *

  “Ulp.” Rochelle sat back, away from the man across from her. “You did that?” she asked in a harsh whisper. “You burned them alive?”

  Drake nodded. “Sometimes, even something that horrible is less than they deserve. I found out before I was captured that Peregrine Falls had lost thirty young girls. Thirty
girls slaughtered in a quest for power. And most of those people were nobles, leaders of the area. I never lost a moment of sleep over them.”

  Adventure 15

  The Egg of Dracol

  IT WAS EARLY AUTUMN IN THE Northern Province of the Darendian Empire. The trees had not yet changed their leaves from green to their autumn finery, though the grains the people grew this far north had ripened, and the harvest itself was well underway. Orchards were being harvested as well, and apples, pears, and cherries were being stored away by the bushel. Farming communities were scattered here and there in this wilderness, and all of them boasted at least one tavern. Arnor’s Reach was no exception, though few of its inhabitants would have guessed at the identity of their guests.

  The door of the tavern creaked open and a young-looking man walked cautiously through. He was shorter than average for the area, with a brown wool travel cloak wrapped around his shoulders. He was as slender as a youth, but something in the way he carried himself made him seem older. He kept his head down so the brim of his floppy brown leather hat hid his eyes from the other patrons.

  The interior of the tavern was dimly lit, and the few candle-lanterns added more smoke than light to the scene. Smoke from the fire, smoke from the kitchen, and the smoky candles scented the air with a hodgepodge of smells that few could have sorted out. But the young man was no ordinary traveler, and he could.

  Buried among the other aromas was the spicy scent of a dragon.

  His head came up as if he was scenting the wind. Golden eyes surveyed the room as the tavern’s patrons quieted and the barkeeper stepped around to greet him. “Aye, good sir, what’ll ye have?”

  The young man looked at the barkeeper for a moment, then nodded toward the back of the room. “Her.”

  The barkeeper looked shocked and took a step back from this strange man. “She be a customer, not a bar wench. Let me bring Sal...”

  “I know who she is,” the young man said softly, pushing past him to walk over to where the young woman sat.

  “You’re late,” she said casually.