The D'Karon Apprentice

by Joseph R. Lallo

  Mott, now lively once more since Turiel had replaced the staff’s gem, skittered over to a crate and shoved it forward with his head so that Turiel could take a seat.

  “Now, time is potentially limited, but I see no reason not to treat this situation with the proper decorum. My name is Turiel. Who are you?”

  “Rasa, the swordsman,” murmured a hoarse voice from within the armor.

  “Aneriana,” said the woman. Her voice was clear, pristine.

  Both of them spoke lifelessly, mechanically. The information they gave lingered in their minds and flowed from the spirits and those drifting in the ether around them. They were puppets, soulless and unthinking.

  “Ah,” Turiel said, nodding slowly to the woman. “You, my dear, are the one I seek. I understand that you were at the center of this castle when it crumbled to the ground.”

  “I was,” she said.

  “As was I,” said Rasa.

  “Really? I must say, to have experienced the same force that leveled a castle, you both appear quite whole. And as this occurred months ago, I would not have expected to find bodies so free from rot.” She looked to Aneriana. “You, my dear, are practically alive. How is it that you have been spared the ravages of death? And how is it, though your soul is bound to another, you answer the call of my spells as though you still had one of your own?”

  “We are Chosen,” said both of them simultaneously.

  “Elaborate.”

  “To defend their world from the creations of other gods, the divine powers of this world created or selected five warriors,” Rasa said.

  “We were to be two of those Chosen, but we lost our lives, or our souls, before the five could be joined in the Great Convergence,” Aneriana said.

  “Our bodies remain, touched by the divine, and thus spared true death while there remains a task to be done,” Rasa said. “When you speak to us, you speak, in part, to the divine, and are privy to some things known only to them.”

  Turiel’s expression hardened. “Touched by the divine… speaking for the divine… Yes… there is a power about you, even in death. Pray tell, these ‘creations of other gods,’ have you a name for them?”

  “In my time held by them as a tool to be used against my fellow Chosen, I came to know them as the D’Karon,” said Aneriana.

  Turiel released a breath and shut her eyes. “Tell me, these… creations of other gods, must we assume they mean us harm? Are we so fearful of the knowledge from beyond our world that we must defend ourselves even from those who might bring us wisdom?”

  “No,” Aneriana said. “The Chosen were forbidden to unite until the D’Karon made clear their intentions. Only when the D’Karon had willfully taken the life of a native of this world, purposefully and intentionally without heeding the orders of another, could the final Chosen arise and the Convergence occur.”

  “As the D’Karon said would be necessary for the adversaries to arrive. And a D’Karon did this?”

  Rasa answered, “In the months prior to the Convergence, the D’Karon known as Epidime assumed control of a beast now known as a dragoyle. He took my life.”

  Turiel narrowed her eyes. “Epidime… he allowed this to occur?”

  “He caused it to occur,” Rasa said.

  “Why would he do such a thing?”

  “I do not know. I cannot know,” Rasa said.

  “Aneriana. When Kenvard fell, you were there.”

  “I was. I was the target of the Kenvard Massacre.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “The target?”

  “The D’Karon knew of the coming of the Chosen. They knew of the prophecy, and knew if they could secure the Chosen, the world would be without its strongest defense against them. They found me within Kenvard and knew that the fates of many Chosen would bring them together in this place. So they laid waste to it to secure me.”

  Turiel was silent for a long time. When she spoke, it was with grim realization—and stabbing regret.

  “The D’Karon… they slashed across this world. Twisted two nations into war. They brought ruin to great cities to claim single individuals. They manipulated the rules of a game played at a cosmic level. They stand in direct competition with the powers of creation. And I brought them here…”

  “The D’Karon prey upon fear and anger. They find those with needs that seem impossible. They called to you. You were the first manipulation in the game,” Rasa said.

  “Yes… This was all about my sister… I committed… all of this… to bring justice and closure to my sister.” She raised her eyes, determination beginning to show through. The corner of her mouth rose into what could almost be called a smile. “The lambs have been slaughtered. The butcher’s work is done. All that remains is to make the stew. It would truly be a crime to bring about all of that for nothing… I’ve come this far for a cause. The only proper thing to be done is to take the final steps.”

  “What you did centuries ago, you did not knowing the pain and damage you would cause. What you do now, you do with full knowledge of the consequences,” Aneriana said. “If your love for your sister has driven you to these lengths, perhaps the thing you should ask yourself is if she would have wanted it.”

  “No,” she said. “I think that is the thing I should ask her. Regardless of what they’ve done, there is no arguing with the ability of the D’Karon to reach beyond the veil. I may have done things that did not serve this world, but everything I’ve done has served my purposes. I will bring the D’Karon here, and I will seek their council to finish the task that set me on this path.”

  “Perhaps…” Aneriana said.

  “No more ‘perhaps.’ No more judgments from an empty shell. Rasa, you are dismissed.”

  With those words, the reanimated swordsman clattered to the ground in a heap of lifeless armor.

  “And as for you, Aneriana. Something was taken from me shortly before I came to you, and I have an uphill struggle to victory. Mott,” she said, beckoning her familiar.

  He trotted up and wrapped his tail around Aneriana’s arm, pulling it out to her side. Turiel pulled her knife from her robe and raised it high.

  “I believe if anyone could benefit from a touch of the divine, it is me…”

  #

  A desert is a harsh place regardless of the hour. The pounding rays of the sun claim many lives, but the cold of night is no less dangerous. Brustuum had marched through the frigid night, blasted by a dry wind that had left his lips cracked to the point of bleeding. The layers of bandages had spared him the worst of the cold, and he’d since torn a few away to wear as a mask, but now he was staring at a horizon reddening with the sun that would offer the mercy of dawn warmth followed by the ordeal of the day’s heat.

  The former commander had marched without rest with a very specific destination in mind. Grustim had followed each step of the banishment ceremony, leaving him with the scar on his cheek. No city and certainly no encampment of soldiers would take him… but there was a chance. Things had been set in motion before they had fallen apart. He knew things Grustim did not know. In the distance, between two tall dunes to the east, dust and sand were rising.

  He quickened his pace as much as he could manage and walked along the peaks of dunes to increase the likelihood he would be seen. Ahead, the cloud of dust resolved itself into a covered carriage with a pair of armed escorts. The soldiers were swathed in light cloth, first to protect them from the cold of night, and soon to protect them from the pounding sun. Sharp eyes trained for desert combat took no time at all to spot him, and calls went out for the carriage to stop.

  They guided their horses to the foot of the dune, then climbed down from their mounts and began to scale it. He moved down to them quickly, ensuring his mask was still in place. He would only have a few moments of their mercy before the finer points of their training could seep to the surface. They would check his cheek; they would seek his dagger of command. Finding both no blade and the mark of banishment, they would turn him away. He had to reach
the carriage before then.

  “Water,” he croaked, stumbling quickly down the slope. “I need water and I need shelter.”

  “Commander Brustuum?” asked one of the soldiers, his voice familiar.

  Brustuum nodded, in part as an answer but primarily in satisfaction that his navigation and timing had been sound. These were precisely the people who might help him, not out of honor, but out of dishonor.

  “What has happened?” asked the second soldier.

  “Northern treachery. The keep has been attacked… destroyed…”

  He lurched forward, exaggerating the toll the desert had taken upon him, though only slightly. He needed them to believe that he was at death’s door. The charade was enough; they maneuvered him to the door of the carriage and pulled it open.

  Inside, alone, was a man in military garb far too pristine to have ever been put to use. He held in one hand a pipe, and in the other a silver goblet filled with a spiced wine.

  “Esteemed Patron Sallim, Commander Brustuum needs water and shelter from the winds. The keep has been attacked, and he has been cast out.”

  “Brustuum? Of course, of course,” Sallim said, shifting aside to offer more space on the seat opposite him.

  The disgraced commander pulled himself into the carriage with more energy than he’d shown in his journey down the dune, and for a brief moment both soldiers disappeared from the doorway to fetch food and water.

  “Commander what could have—”

  Brustuum leaned forward and tugged his bandage down, revealing the crusted-over scar on his face. At the sight of it, Sallim’s eyes widened and his voice dropped away.

  “We need a word, alone,” he said.

  “You are—”

  “Bearing the same mark that you will wear when the truth comes to light, so unless you wish to receive it now, I advise you to listen carefully.”

  A soldier appeared at the door, a skin of water and a wrapped bundle of dried fruit in hand.

  “Leave it on the floor and close the door. Brustuum and I have matters of great sensitivity to discuss,” Sallim said. “We do not continue forward until I say so.”

  The soldier obeyed, sliding the provisions to the ground and shutting the door behind them.

  “What happened, Brustuum?”

  “A Dragon Rider and some representatives from the north. They came in search of the woman we captured, but she had escaped.”

  “Escaped! Brustuum, you assured me—”

  “Enough! It could not be helped. She was a sorceress of a far higher order than either of us could have imagined. The Dragon Rider determined that we had kept her in secret, and he knows… he knows much.”

  “You did not tell him of my involvement, did you?”

  “I did not, but he is thorough. If he is allowed to continue his investigation, he will learn that you were aware of our capture of the sorceress. There will be no hiding that you allowed this to happen just as surely as I.”

  Sallim’s eyes darted about like a cornered rabbit.

  “This… this cannot be… This cannot happen. I… this is my army. These are my soldiers marching this sand. The horses they ride, the food they eat, it is paid for by the gold of my family. Damn you, Brustuum, I will not have my cheek branded by a dagger I paid to forge!”

  “Keep your voice down, you fool!”

  “What is to be done?” Sallim asked in a panicked hush.

  “They learned from me where we believed the sorceress had been hiding in our land, and I believe they refined that information further. There was a marked map, quite near Lost Shepherd’s Point. I am certain that one or all of them will travel there, likely to see to the spell that the sorceress had been casting. We must go there. We must catch them there. If we find the Dragon Rider, he must be killed. That, at least, will spare you from further investigation and retain your rank and your life. If we find only the Northerners, they must be captured. That will prove that they had the darkest of aims for our land, as we always knew they did. It will prove that what we did was the wisest and best decision. It might well save us both from the punishment I have earned, but more importantly it might spare our land the touch of further Northern treachery and allow us to make a final push to extinguish the Alliance threat once and for all.”

  “Yes… yes, of course.”

  “To achieve this, we will need the full force of your reserves. Every soldier near enough to Lost Shepherd’s point to reach it within a few days will need to be deployed immediately. At best you will be facing a dragon. A worst you will be facing a dragon and two potent mystics. Can you get word to the proper individuals to ensure deployment?”

  Sallim pulled open a case beneath his seat and began to scrawl a message in a shaky hand. “I’ll send the falcon to my quarters with orders to send the messages via mystics. I can have cavalry in place, thirty to fifty men, in less than three days, if the falcon flies fast and true and the mystics do their jobs.”

  “Then send them there, and we should head there as well. If this is a moment of triumph, we should be on hand to make it clear that ours were the minds wise enough to see the danger where others dismissed it.”

  “But from here it will take more than a week for us to reach Lost Shepherd’s Point.”

  “It is just as well. Even if we miss the moment of glory, very shortly it will serve us both if no one knows where to find us.”

  “Yes… yes of course.” Sallim thumped the roof. “I want us heading to Lost Shepherd’s Point, immediately!”

  #

  Myranda lay low to Myn’s body, trying to hug tight to her back just as Grustim did atop Garr. Her mind was tightly focused on the task of keeping the dragon’s energy up. Her eyes were shut, her breathing shallow. Myn could be trusted to find her way, and every last scrap of concentration would be needed to prevent the faithful creature from exhausting herself.

  Only once before had Myn flown so quickly, and it was after Myranda had been drenched with excess power while attempting to destroy the open portal. Now she was casting her spell not only without an overabundance of power, but without sleep. Already the worst of the desert was beginning to give way to the more vibrant farmlands of Tressor’s heart.

  Doubt crept into her mind. What good would she be if she exhausted herself to reach her home? Would any amount of speed be sufficient to be of any use? Turiel had faced and at least survived both Ether and Ivy, two fellow Chosen who were more than formidable…

  She shut it all away. There wasn’t any room for doubt. New Kenvard was her home, and it needed her. For too long she had walked the north, and now the south, as her people suffered. Now she had the power to do something, to change something. Though she was forced to do battle when necessary, in her heart she was a healer. Her purpose for the last few months had been to mend the wounds of her world and to bring her homeland back to its former glory. To her there was no higher calling, and if it meant she had to give the last full measure of herself, then so be it.

  Chapter 9

  Myranda was roused from near unconsciousness by the sudden shift forward and downward. Myn, her motions labored and sluggish, was landing. It was impossible to know how much time had passed. The depths of her concentration made the journey seem like an eternity, and yet she was not cognizant of the passage of time. It was at once an odyssey and an instant.

  There was no doubt she’d reached the north, however. Traveling by air was a brisk, chilling endeavor, but the air of the Northern Alliance had a painful bite that reminded Myranda just how quickly she’d become accustomed to the warmth of the south. Worse, in her haste to leave, she’d not taken the time to don the layers of warm clothing that would keep the frigid air at bay. It was thus a task for her ailing mind to ward off the bulk of the iciness.

  “Myn…” she slurred, blinking away the tears in her eyes and gazing down at the slush and snow coating the fields below. “Are you well? Do you need to rest?”

  The dragon’s pace suddenly quickened, as though she were a
student caught dozing off during a lesson. Myranda knew the poor creature must be at the breaking point. As hard as she’d worked to keep the dragon strong, Myranda knew that the body could only go so long without real nourishment, and there was no substitute for proper sleep.

  Night had come while they were traveling, though Myranda didn’t know if it was the first night, the second, or even the third since she’d departed. She had the vague memory of stopping briefly and only once, somewhere in Tressor she had hoped would be far enough from prying eyes. At the moment, though, that didn’t matter, because two far more pressing things were on her mind. Below and ahead, the city of New Kenvard drew nearer, and it couldn’t be clearer that something had happened there, and likely still was.

  Its streets were dark, the first sign that something was wrong. There was an enormous amount of work to be done to restore the broken city to its former strength, and the people of Kenvard—her people—were more than eager to put their hands to the task. The portions of the city that had been repaired were lively and bustling deep into the night and woke before the sun. There should at least be warm lights glowing in the windows of the homes and businesses nearest to the gate. All was dark and silent.

  Beyond the obvious, there was something in the air that only a wizard could truly appreciate. Compared to how still and silent the streets were, the air hummed with an unnatural energy. The city itself seemed to be restless, anxious. She could feel raw emotion weaving through the very wind: anger, fear, confusion. Some of the feelings poured from the residents, huddled within their homes and certain that the dark history of the city was about to repeat itself. Most came from elsewhere, hundreds of minds and souls that seemed to know nothing else but fear and hate. It was something she’d felt at the edge of her mind on nights when the moon was full and the city was still; her carefully attuned spirit was sympathetic to the lost souls drifting in this place, but never had it been so sharp, so intense. Myranda felt as though a thousand indistinct voices were screaming in her mind.