Dragon Mage

by ML Spencer

  “Are you a sorceress, my lady?” he asked.

  The crystal-white woman turned to look at him with her shimmering purple gaze. “Of a kind.”

  That didn’t explain it, but it was something.

  She led him forward, down one of the main roads that cut through the center of the encampment. The fog clung heavily to the ground here, as did the silence. Even the air felt heavy and haunted. The camp was mostly empty and unnaturally quiet, with only a few people within sight.

  Which made the low, inhuman moans coming from the far end of the encampment all the more unsettling.

  “Do you know of the three gifts Senestra bestowed upon each of her children? The Three Signs of an Archon?” Lazair asked.

  Sergan had to think about it. It had been a while since he had studied any type of religious tracts. “The Crow’s Foot Mark. The Obsidian Signet…” He squinted, straining hard to remember. “…and the Baelsword.”

  “That’s right.” She paused next to a tent. “Wait here.”

  He glanced at Obriem, who rolled his eyes. Sergan couldn’t contain his smile, for this woman really was delusional.

  Lazair emerged from the tent carrying a long, thin object wrapped in black silk that could only be a sword. She brought it forward and laid it down upon a rug in front of the tent, and there folded the fabric back to reveal the weapon beneath. The sword’s hilt was made of bone, the pommel carved in the image of a panther’s head. It was encased in a lacquered scabbard that lacked any ornamentation, although the workmanship looked exquisite. Sergan put his hand out, desiring to draw the weapon from its sheath, but Lazair pulled it away from him, glancing at him with a sharp look of fury.

  “Only I have permission to handle it.”

  “Of course.” Sergan stepped back with a glance at Obriem, his irritation running rampant. “I assume this is one of the Baelswords you’re talking about?”

  “It is. Come.” Apparently, Lazair was done smiling. She walked away from him, cradling the sword in her arms like a new mother.

  He followed her through the camp in the direction of the awful noises. As they strode between the neat rows of empty tents, he could feel his skin prickle, his nerves stretching thinner by the moment. The quiet was unnatural, as was the lack of people. Even soldiers on campaign left followers behind in camp to see to the necessary tasks.

  But, as they cleared the last row of tents, all of his doubts and worries about the camp fled completely from his mind. Sergan stopped between footsteps, catching his breath.

  Tied to the ground by thick iron chains was a dragon that groaned and thrashed, straining against its bonds. Its wings were held splayed and flattened by hooks that had been embedded in its flesh, caught around the slender wing bones. Its long neck was held straight by a series of U-shaped anchors driven into the ground. Dark brown blood wept from wounds covering its body, and the pupils of its eyes were contracted in agony. Seeing them walking toward it, the dragon let out a long, ghastly moan.

  The sight of a creature so fierce, so magnificent, reduced to such a pathetic state filled Sergan with awe. He glanced at the white sorceress in amazed wonder.

  “You captured a dragon. What are you going to do with it?”

  Glancing back at him, Lazair’s smile returned. But instead of answering, she walked on, leading them past the dragon to where another prisoner was staked to the ground. This one was Auld. Like the dragon, the man was bleeding from numerous wounds, his syrupy blood drenching the sand. As they drew nearer, he tilted his head, glaring up at them in hatred and defiance.

  “My master desires dragons,” Lazair explained. “The problem is, dragons are soul-bound to their riders. So when the rider of a dragon dies, so does the beast, unless the bond is severed first.”

  Sergan paced slowly around the man and his tormented dragon, surveying the scene with morbid curiosity. He’d always envisioned dragons as proud beasts, but this one moaned and whimpered like a beaten cur. Perhaps it sensed something of Lazair’s plans for it. Or for the rider it was bound to.

  “What are you going to do to it?” he asked.

  Walking closer to the dragon, Lazair knelt to stroke its sleek, gray neck. “The bond pairs two souls in death as well as life. The only way it can be broken is through the complete destruction of one of those souls.”

  Rising, she slid the Baelsword from its sheath.

  Seeing the naked blade revealed, Sergan sucked in a gasp at the same time as the dragon’s rider issued a heartrending moan. The Baelsword glowed with a terrible, dark power that scintillated over the blade. Sergan could feel it even from where he stood, filling him with a stark loathing that hollowed his insides.

  Perhaps if myths and legends could be believed, then so could Lazair.

  “This is the sword of Draxal that delivered Raginor a mortal blow.” She rotated the weapon, letting its dark fire undulate over the steel. “A Baelsword claims more than just the life of its victim. It also claims the soul.” Moving slowly, she knelt beside the man staked out on the ground. Just as she had with the dragon, she caressed his skin, trailing her hand across his bared chest.

  Compelled by dark interest, Sergan moved closer, squatting beside her. He peered intently into the man’s eyes, wondering if the sight of the blade would melt his defiance. To his satisfaction, he saw that it had. Panic now filled the warrior’s eyes as he gazed upward at the malevolent sword.

  “Please,” he whispered, his voice dry and raw. “I beg you…”

  “Yes.” Lazair smiled indulgently. “I want you to beg me. I want to hear terror in your voice. Plead with me. Promise me everything.”

  To Sergan’s disgust, the man began to weep. He remained at the man’s side, fascinated by the spectacle of his terror, listening to the frenzied wailing of the dragon as the woman rose to her feet and raised the sword.

  “Please…” the man whimpered.

  His dragon thrashed and shrieked piteously, bucking against its chains with all its incredible might. Sergan wondered why it didn’t smother them with flame then realized that every movement Lazair had made put its rider between the dragon and themselves. Realizing her tactic, Sergan stood and backed away, for once the rider was dead, there would be nothing stopping the dragon from slaying them all.

  “Don’t worry,” Lazair said, stroking the Baelsword. “We are protected.”

  With an abrupt motion, she thrust the sword deep into the man’s chest. He howled and shrieked piteously as the dark energy from the sword poured into the wound, snaking over his body, slithering into every orifice. His chest caved in, and his eyeballs melted to gore in their sockets. Black ichor ran from his mouth and nose, cutting short his mortal scream.

  The dragon’s keening shrieks went on long after its rider’s ended.

  Lazair moved to kneel beside the pathetic beast, bending to stroke its great, muscular neck even as it strained against its bonds. Reaching up, she removed the necklace she was wearing. Sergan walked forward, wanting to get a closer look at it. What he thought was a pendant was actually a signet ring.

  The second sign.

  Slipping the ring onto her finger, Lazair pressed it against the dragon’s flesh and started mumbling words he couldn’t hear as the signet seared the beast’s hide with a sizzling sound. The dragon’s thrashing slowed, it’s snarling quieted. The creature’s body stiffened and then went limp, its great, golden eyes closing. For a long moment it lay there as though dead, even its breath arrested in its chest.

  Lazair whispered a word, and beneath her hand, the dragon stirred. Its eyes opened slowly, making Sergan’s breath hitch.

  The dragon’s eyes were liquid pools of shadow, dark reflections of the Baelsword’s power.

  Sergan glanced up in wonder, staring wide-eyed at Lazair.

  “Now I have a dragon,” she said as she rose, replacing the necklace with its ring back around her neck. “I understand your master is having problems with a Gifted boy. Fortunately, these artifacts work equally well on all things im
bued with essence.” She smiled as sweetly as a courtesan. “Boys included.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Leaving the smithy, Aram decided to grab a bite to eat from the kitchen before heading up to the Henge. Today was the first day Esmir was going to have him train simultaneously with Markus, and he was nervous. Markus had spent five years training to be a Shield, while Aram had worked only a year and a half honing his skills, and much of that effort had been focused on strengthening his body. He did not want Markus to see him as incompetent or weak, but he feared that was exactly how he would look.

  By the time he took the steps up to the Henge, Aram arrived breathless and anxious. Stepping into the circle of sand enclosed by the Portal Stones, he saw that Markus and Esmir were already working together. Both had practice swords in their hands and were circling each other slowly. As he watched, Esmir advanced and struck out with a diagonal slice that Markus deflected before replying with a counterattack.

  Aram stopped and watched the bout, marveling. With the way Esmir was always limping around, he would never have credited the Warden with the ability to move like that. There was another sharp clang of steel meeting steel, then Markus’s sword was on the ground. Aram looked on in disbelief.

  “Aram! Just in time,” Esmir called, waving him over.

  Aram jogged over to find the old man panting, sweat rolling down his face, yet nevertheless victorious.

  “Fetch your sword and get behind Markus,” Esmir directed.

  As Aram did as he asked, the old Warden moved to stand in front of Markus. “Everything I do, you do. This is Prime.”

  With that, he stepped forward with his right foot, raising his blade to mid-guard as Markus emulated him. Bringing his feet together, he raised his sword over his head and switched to a two-handed grip, rotating it slowly downward while stepping forward again. Keeping his feet stable, he swept his sword upward, then, twisting the hilt, stabbed straight out, ending with the tip pointed downward. Aram watched Markus follow Esmir’s motions then took his own place behind him, copying their movements with his practice sword.

  Setting his sword down, Esmir clapped his hands. “Practice that until I tell you to stop.”

  The first couple times were rough. But after a few repetitions, Aram and Markus moved fluidly together through the forms. After that, Esmir guided them through another five choreographed maneuvers, having them repeat the forms over and over until they moved as one.

  “You must practice these movements until your bodies perform them as automatically as breathing. Markus, when Aram lifts his blade, you must be able to anticipate exactly where he will be on the next beat of the rhythm. It is essential that you move step for step with him. Which isn’t as easy as it sounds since you’ll be standing in front of him.”

  Esmir watched them with a long face, massaging his beard with his hand until, at last, he shook his head until his jowls waggled.

  “Again! This time clear your minds. You should be thinking of nothing—the movements must come from your body, not your head! If you try to think, you hesitate. The only thing your head will do is slow you down and get you killed. It has no business in a fight. Now! This time, I want you to try to make your movements crisp and precise. Ready, begin!”

  As they flowed through the prescribed motions, Esmir barked out directives:

  “Each movement needs to be sharp! Snap your sword up, Aram! Better! Wrong way, Markus! Stop, stop, stop! Back to Prime! We’re doing this again!”

  And so the morning went.

  They practiced until the odor drifting up the cliff from Hearth Home told them it was time for lunch. At last, Esmir released them, and two sweaty youths raced down the thousand stairs to Hearth Home.

  After lunch, they retired to the dormitory for an hour’s rest, then returned to the Henge and continued working until twilight fell and the smell of supper called them back down the cliff again. When at last he retired for the night, fed and bathed, Aram collapsed into his bunk as though all his strength had been bled out of him. But no sooner had he fallen asleep than Jeran and the other apprentices came in, laughing and talking boisterously. Irritated, Aram turned over onto his stomach, pulling his pillow over his head to muffle the sounds.

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” said Corley, jerking the pillow off him. “You’re coming with us! Both of you!”

  “Where are we going?” asked Markus groggily as he slid down from the top bunk.

  “Where are we going?” asked Eugan, entering the room on the heels of the others.

  “It’s a secret!”

  Aram sat up, suddenly curious. It sounded like they were going on an adventure, which was something he had always wanted to do. But you needed friends to adventure with, and he hadn’t had any till now. Excited and grateful, he sat up and pulled on his boots. The moment he had them on, Iver burst out laughing.

  “Um… You might want to put on pants,” Jeran suggested with a grin.

  Aram was so exhausted, he’d forgotten he wasn’t wearing any trousers. Embarrassed, he tossed off his boots and pulled his clothes on rapidly. When Markus was dressed, they gathered together in a closely packed circle, formulating their plans.

  “All right,” said Iver in a sharp whisper. “I overheard Vandra saying that there’s a dragon clutch in the Southern Eyrie that’s close to hatching. She didn’t come out and say it, but—”

  “Why are we whispering?” interrupted Aram.

  Everyone turned to look at him with blank faces. Then they started laughing. Aram didn’t understand why, but he laughed with them, then stopped laughing when they did. He cast a confused glance at Markus, who just smiled and patted his back.

  “Anyway,” Iver continued in a normal voice, “since Vandra was telling this to Henrik, I got the impression the eggs might be meant for us. Which would make sense. She said there are seven eggs in the clutch, and there are seven of us. So I think we need to go check them out for ourselves and maybe figure out which egg each of us wants.”

  “Count me out,” said Eugan, earning himself looks of outrage. “If Vandra finds out, none of us will be getting a dragon. We may as well pack our things and head back down the mountain.”

  Corley waved his hand dismissively. “Do you really think they would spend years training us just to throw us out over an egg?”

  “A dragon egg,” emphasized Eugan. “You guys are nuts. What happens if you’re caught handling the eggs and then one ends up not hatching?”

  “Don’t get caught!” said Iver. “Look, this is something we have to do! If we wait for these eggs to hatch, there’s a chance the hatchlings might reject us. But if we each pick an egg and spend some time holding it, maybe the hatchlings will remember us when they come out!”

  “What happens if a hatchling rejects you?” asked Aram.

  “Then it becomes feral and it flies off,” Jeran answered. “And that doesn’t do anyone any good. Iver’s right. We need to do this.”

  Markus reached up and scratched the back of his head, a troubled look on his face. “I don’t know. I just got here. I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to start breaking the rules already.”

  Jeran frowned heavily. “He’s right. It wouldn’t be a good idea for him. But our Champion needs a dragon!”

  Iver’s face turned to stone. “He’s not a Champion. He’s never going to be a Champion. I say he stays with Markus. There’s no sense wasting a dragon on him anyway.”

  Hearing that, Aram felt every sliver of excitement in him die a sudden death. Struggling to hold back tears, he returned to his bunk and flopped down upon it.

  “What the hell, Iver?” exclaimed Corley, probably too loudly.

  “Yeah, what the hell?” echoed Markus.

  Feeling dejected, Aram lay back in bed, pulling his legs up. “Why don’t you guys go on? I’ll stay with Markus.”

  “No.” Glaring at Iver, Jeran strode toward him. “You’re coming with us, whether you want to or not!” Bending, he grabbed Aram’s arm and hauled him up
right. “Iver’s just being an ass. As usual.”

  Iver snorted, crossing his arms. “Fine, he can come. But I still don’t think he should touch a dragon egg.”

  Aram didn’t want to go anymore. He saw that Markus didn’t look like he wanted him to go either. But Jeran and Corley looked insistent, and he wanted desperately to go on an adventure with his new friends.

  “So, where are the eggs, exactly, and how do we get there?” asked Jeran.

  Iver’s mood broken, he responded with a harsh glance at Aram, “Vandra didn’t say where they are, but there’s really only one place they can be, and that’s in the steam room.”

  “Why the steam room?” asked Corley.

  “Because. They have to stay warm and moist.”

  “How do we get to the steam room?”

  The apprentices looked at each other.

  “I think I know,” said Eugan, and everyone turned to look at him. “It’s in the back of the eyrie on the other side of the soaking pool.”

  Iver scrunched his face. “Hmm… This might take more planning than I thought. I’ll go scout it out tonight. Then maybe tomorrow we can go together.”

  “Are you kidding?” Jeran exclaimed. “You’ll get caught, for sure! You can’t lie with a straight face.”

  “Hey, that’s not—!”

  “You know I’m right.” Corley looked thoughtful. “We need someone with a face everyone trusts. Preferably someone with a reason to be in the eyrie.”

  There was a short interval of silence, during which Aram stared at the floor, tying and untying little knots into the drawstring of his pants. When he glanced up to see what they were all waiting for, he saw that everyone was looking at him.

  “No.” Markus shook his head rapidly. “Uh-uh.”

  “But he’s perfect!” exclaimed Corley. “Look at that face! Besides, everyone knows Vandra’s sweet on him. If Aram’s seen in the eyrie, people will just think he’s supposed to be there.”