Dragon Mage

by ML Spencer

  Markus didn’t like the idea. He didn’t trust Obriem. “What if he turns us in?”

  “I don’t think he would,” said Peshka. She tugged at her shoulder-length red hair, looking annoyed by it. It was the longest Markus had ever seen her wear it.

  While Peshka fiddled with her hair, Markus drummed his fingers on his leg, tired of watching Poda pace. He was getting impatient. It was past the night bell, and according to the rules, his candles should have been snuffed out already. If someone noticed the light, there would be explaining to do.

  Poda stopped his pacing and bit his lip. “All right. I’ll go get him.”

  Markus sat straight upright. “No. We can’t risk it.”

  “Do you want to get inside or not?” Poda asked. “Because I can’t think of another way.”

  Markus heaved a sigh, standing up. Reluctantly, he nodded.

  “Wait here,” said Poda, and left the room.

  Markus glanced at Peshka, fingering his string bracelet and shifting uncomfortably. She hadn’t stopped looking at him since the moment she had entered his room, and the compassion on her face was touching. He gave her a halfhearted smile, not sure whether he was trying to reassure her or reassure himself.

  “They’ll kill you,” she said.

  Markus shrugged, for she was likely right. If he succeeded in depriving the Exilari of their most prized source of essence, he had no doubt they would take their anger out on him. The fact that he was the most Impervious Shield in the Order might save him from the gallows, but he knew it wouldn’t save him from the whipping post. And flogging might be the easiest part of his punishment.

  “I can’t leave him there,” Markus said.

  He hoped she understood. He thought she did, for she nodded and looked away. Peshka had to understand that no amount of pain he could possibly suffer would be close to what Aram had been forced to endure. Since coming to the College, Markus had learned a lot, not just about the specifics of being a Shield, but also about the sorcerers they protected. He knew exactly what it took to extract essence from a victim. And by now, he knew the procedure was far more terrible than even the bard had described.

  No matter what they did to him, he vowed he would not leave Aram in the cellars another day.

  It didn’t take long for Poda to return, Obriem following in his wake with an irked expression on his face. He stood by the door with his arms crossed, glaring at Markus derisively. “You honestly think you can break into the cellars? You’re a fool, Galliar. And soon you’ll be a dead fool.”

  “Thanks for coming,” Markus muttered. “Means a lot.”

  “Look, the only reason I’m here is to talk you out of it.”

  “Then go back to the rookery.”

  Markus turned his back on Obriem and walked toward the window, which had been shuttered to hide the candlelight from view of the courtyard below. He peered through a gap in the shutters, waiting for Obriem to leave. But instead of leaving, Obriem approached and set his hand on Markus’s shoulder, and the gratitude Markus felt washed away all the bad feelings that had ever come between them.

  “I want to help,” Obriem said in the gentlest tone Markus had ever heard him use. “But what I’m not going to do is risk my neck just to help you get yourself killed.”

  Markus’s shoulders sagged in disappointment.

  “But there is another way…” Obriem added quickly.

  Markus turned to look at him, his interest piqued. “What way?”

  Obriem shifted his weight uneasily. “They let them out for sun and exercise once a day. They’re allowed to walk around a cloister on the far side of the compound. They’re not under heavy guard because there’s no need for it … they’re not a threat.”

  “How do you know about this?” Markus asked, glaring at Obriem suspiciously.

  Obriem grimaced, lowering his gaze. “Because I’m one of the guards who watch over them.”

  “What? You’ve seen him?”

  Obriem nodded, looking ashamed. “I didn’t want to tell you. I figured you were better off not knowing.”

  Markus lunged for him, knocking Obriem back against the wall and punching him in the face. It took both Peshka and Poda to pull him off.

  “You son of a whore!” Markus growled. “How long have you known?”

  “A while,” Obriem answered. “Look, I’m sorry.”

  Markus groaned, throwing his head back. He pointed at the door. “Get out.”

  “Wait.” Obriem ran his hand over the red spot on his cheek where Markus had slugged him. “I said I wanted to help you, and I do.” He drew in a deep breath. “The place I’m talking about isn’t that far from the lagoon. If we could have a boat ready, there’s a possibility they wouldn’t miss him for a while.”

  Real hope surged into Markus for the first time. His breath caught, and he felt a flood of relief that made him dizzy. Turning to Peshka, he asked, “Could you get ahold of a boat?”

  Peshka worked at the stables, which wasn’t too far from the boathouse.

  She shrugged. “I suppose. But where would you go? The lagoon’s the first place they’ll look.”

  “Maybe not,” said Poda. “Not if we give them reason to look somewhere else.”

  Markus looked from one friend to the other, marveling that they were all willing to risk their futures in the Order to help Aram. Even Obriem. For a long time after he’d first gotten there, he’d thought that everyone at the College was evil, and there could be no such thing as a decent Exilari. His fellow students had made him reevaluate that idea.

  Of course, they weren’t Exilari yet. And there was a good chance, after tonight, they might never be. Markus looked around the room, his eyes wandering over the furniture as his mind grappled with doubts. He weighed each of their fates against the plight of one boy whose mind and spirit were most likely long broken. The more Markus thought about it, the more wrong their involvement seemed.

  “I can’t ask any of you to help me,” he said.

  Poda looked from Obriem to Peshka, then firmly crossed his arms. “This is about Aram, and we’re going to help.”

  Markus’s eyes blurred, for he knew at that moment that he and Aram had the best friends in the world.

  “Thank you.”

  They stayed up half the night planning. By morning, it was decided that they would wait two more days, until Obriem’s next watch. Obriem assured them there would be no more than four guards, all regular men on the Exilari payroll. Peshka and Poda had volunteered to create a distraction on the other side of the College. There was an old wooden shack over there, surrounded by a grove of trees. It wouldn’t take more than a spark to burn the shack to the ground, and if the fire spread to the grove, it would threaten the rest of the College. The plan sounded too good to be true. Which probably meant it was, but it was the only plan they had.

  The next two days went by in a bleary haze of anxiety, misgivings, and indigestion. When the morning of their attempt finally arrived, Markus felt like a quivering mess. He was frankly surprised that no one suspected anything, from the way he’d been acting. More than one professor had chastised him for not applying himself to his work, and he’d received far more blows in the practice yard than he normally would have, simply because he was too distracted to react fast enough.

  He went to eat the midday meal with the others, his heart pounding as though he’d spent all morning running laps around the compound. He couldn’t stomach swallowing even one bite, which was frustrating, for he knew this meal might be his last. After lunch, the older students were rewarded with an hour of rest before afternoon drills. They returned to the dormitory without rest in mind, instead meeting in Poda’s room for a last-minute review of their plans.

  Poda and Peshka shook his hand before slipping out the door to carry out their part in the mission. Markus tried to express his gratitude, but the words failed him. After they departed, he was left alone with Obriem.

  “It’s time for my watch,” said Obriem. “When the
two o’clock bell rings, I’ll walk away. I’ll leave the door to the cloister unlocked behind me.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” Markus spread his hands.

  Obriem just smiled. “That’s because there’s nothing to say. Just remember: when this is all over, you will owe me, Galliar.”

  Markus chuckled. “How about I just let you beat me up again?”

  Obriem grinned. “I’ll take it.”

  Markus remained behind in his room, giving Obriem time to assume his post. When the chimes in the bell tower sounded half-past one, he took Aram’s string off his wrist and, gripping it tightly, muttered a prayer to Ahn, a deity no Vard had prayed to for centuries. But all the other gods had already failed him, so Markus decided to give the Fallen God a chance. Replacing the knotted string back on his wrist, Markus picked up his sword and set out to either rescue or murder his best friend.

  He’d seldom been to the side of the compound where the cellars were located, for there was nothing much over that way, so he had no reason to go there. Obriem had described to him where the door to the cloister was located. He crossed the yard to a long windbreak of sycamores that separated the east side of the compound from the lagoon. There, he stopped, hidden by the trees, and gazed out across a wide, clipped lawn to find Obriem standing beside the door to a decrepit-looking stone structure that looked like it might once have been part of some larger type of fortification. He waited in his hiding spot until the bell struck. Then, exactly as planned, Obriem walked away from his post.

  Markus paused a moment longer, grappling with fear. His palms were sweaty, and his hands were trembling, his pulse a chaotic frenzy in his ears. He closed his eyes and whispered one last prayer then, clutching his sword, walked out of the trees and strode across the lawn toward the heavy wooden door.

  Fortunately, no one saw him crossing the wide swath of grass, which was a miracle, for he had no way of explaining why he was there if he got caught. By the time he arrived on the door’s threshold, his breath was coming in ragged gasps and his trembling had turned to outright shaking. He tested the door and found that Obriem was as good as his word: it was unlocked. Taking one last glance around, he opened the door and let himself in.

  He stood within a covered walkway lined with robust stone columns. Markus stepped quickly behind the nearest column, hoping that no one had glimpsed him. There, he stood with his back pressed against the stone, clutching his sword against his chest. He waited there for several pounding heartbeats until he was sure he hadn’t been seen, then chanced a peek into the interior courtyard.

  A handful of people were gathered in the small, confined area. None were speaking. All looked emaciated, the spark of life snuffed from their eyes. Some stood still as statues, while others lay curled on the ground. A woman in a linen shift paced restlessly back and forth in a deep furrow that looked worn into the ground by her own feet. On the far side of the courtyard, a young man sat hugging his knees tight against his chest, rocking slightly.

  Aram.

  The sight of his old friend brought tears to Markus’s eyes. He never would have recognized him, had he not been looking for him specifically. Aram was dressed only in a pair of filthy trousers, the rest of his body naked. His ribs protruded sharply from his back, and his skin was stretched over his features, pale and paper-thin. His hair was matted and so greasy that it looked wet, and his thighs looked thinner than Markus’s forearms. Seeing him like that provoked a stab of fury deep in his gut sharper than anything Markus had ever felt before.

  He wanted to kill someone. Anyone.

  He retained just enough reason to stop himself from rushing the two guards. Fighting for control, Markus forced himself to turn his attention from the pitiful scene in the courtyard. He looked around the arcaded walkways that bordered the yard, looking for the third guard Obriem had warned him would be there. He couldn’t see him, at least not where he stood, and he couldn’t move away from the pillar, or he’d be spotted … but maybe that wouldn’t be a problem. He wore the tunic of an Exilar, if not the mantle. It should at least give them reason to hesitate.

  Sheathing his sword, he stepped away from the pillar and walked toward the nearest guard, nodding in greeting the moment their eyes met. The guard tensed, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. But then he recognized the uniform, and though he frowned, he drew his hand away.

  “You’re not supposed to be in here,” the guard said, taking a step toward Markus.

  “I’m here to relieve you,” Markus said. “You’re wanted back at the College.”

  The man’s frown deepened. “What? Why’s that?”

  Markus moved as though to step around him, but then twisted and caught the man in a chokehold, pressing the edge of his knife against the guard’s throat. There was a shout from the man across the courtyard, who brought a crossbow up and trained it on him.

  Markus swung his prisoner around, using his body as a shield. “Drop it, or he dies!”

  The man in his arms started to struggle, so Markus increased the pressure of the blade against his neck, drawing blood. The guard went still.

  “Put it down!” Markus yelled at his companion. “Or I’ll cut his throat!”

  A prisoner in the courtyard started making loud, huffing grunts that sounded like a bear. One of the women had scampered to the wall, where she stood whimpering and clawing at her face. The guard with the crossbow bent to put his weapon down but then turned and bolted for the door.

  “Stop!” Markus cried, but it was too late.

  He shoved the guard he was holding head-first into the wall. The man went limp, sagging to the ground.

  Many of the prisoners had fled to a door on the far side of the small courtyard and were howling and banging on it. Aram wasn’t among them. He sat where he’d been, clutching his head and rocking frantically.

  Markus sprinted toward him, catching him up in his arms and turning his head to look at him. “Aram! Aram!”

  Aram started to struggle. He opened his mouth and let out a horrible wail. Markus squeezed him against his chest in a bear hug and held him tight as Aram bucked and fought against him. Chafing Aram’s back, he said into his ear, “It’s me. Markus. It’s me. It’s me…”

  Aram continued to wail, his fists pounding against Markus’s chest. Growing frantic, Markus pulled back, taking Aram’s face in his hands and forcing him to look into his eyes. “Aram! You know me! It’s Markus! I’m going to get you out of here!”

  Aram’s fists stopped. He collapsed against Markus’s chest and started sobbing. Not knowing what else to do, Markus scooped him up in his arms and was horrified to discover that Aram didn’t weigh more than a child. He didn’t fight as Markus carried him through the far door of the cloister. Hearing shouts behind them, he sprinted for the trees. On the other side of them was the lagoon where the boat would be.

  In his arms, Aram started struggling again.

  “Easy,” Markus gasped. “I’ve got you! I’ve got you!”

  Something whistled past his ear, and an arrow struck the ground in front of them, followed by another. Markus sped his pace, plunging into the line of trees. He sprinted faster, ducking tree limbs as someone shouted at his back and another arrow thunked into a tree next to him.

  They burst out of the trees onto the shore of the lagoon.

  But the boat wasn’t there.

  Markus staggered to a halt. Looking up and down the shoreline, he searched frantically for the boat Peshka had promised would be there.

  He screamed in rage and despair. Cradling Aram, he raced down the shore in the direction of the city. Ahead, more guards emerged from the trees, blocking their path.

  There was nowhere to go. They were out of options.

  With a sob, Markus sank to the ground, hugging Aram against him, his hand moving to the knife at his belt.

  Something punched him in the back, and he cried out.

  The knife fell from his hand and he slumped backward. Markus turned his head to see Aram kneeling
next to him, tears washing his face. He was making motions in the air with his hands, beautiful strands of color appearing between his fingers. Magic. Aram was weaving magic, Markus realized.

  And then Aram made a slicing motion.

  Behind him, the air ripped open, light pouring from the slice. The wound grew bigger, yawning open between them and the onrushing guards. Like a tear in the fabric of the world, it kept ripping, racing across the shoreline and out across the surface of the lake, tearing an enormous gash across the water. The shoreline disappeared, and all Markus could see was dazzling white light.

  A thundering roar trembled the earth.

  Out of the light emerged the enormous body of a void dragon, pale and wretched as a ghoul, its scales loose and rotten, its wings tattered and laced with holes. It bounded out of the light and reared above them on the shore, wings outstretched, steam belching from its nostrils.

  The dragon came down, jarring the earth, and struck out at them with fangs that were long and sharp as daggers. The great jaws closed, latching onto him, and suddenly Markus was flying through the air. His body slammed hard against the ground in an explosion of pain that tore up his insides.

  Lying on his side and moaning with agony, he watched helplessly as Aram moved to stand between him and the dragon, his arms spread out at his sides. A blinding radiance gushed from his hands, just as it had that night in the forest, all those years ago. The dragon seemed to be soaking it in, spreading its wings and throwing its head back.

  As Markus looked on in horror, the dragon’s pale and ravaged body started mending. The bare patches of skin were enclosed in fresh scales, the tears in the membranes of its wings closing. The deathly paleness of its flesh started warming with a flush of color.

  Then Aram wavered, and the light faltered. His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed to the ground.

  The void dragon emitted a piercing shriek that shook Markus’s insides. Lashing out with its tail at the guards, it lowered its head and closed its jaws around Aram, lifting him bodily from the ground. Then the dragon turned and sprang back into the rupture, disappearing in an explosion of light.