“I can’t leave Portia,” Finn said. “If she could come with me you could—”
“No,” Lusive’s voice was suddenly cold. “Women are weakness. They make fine playthings, but you should never get too attached to one. They only slow you down. And your enemies, people like these Horned Circle fellows, they’ll exploit them to your ruin.”
“Portia is my sister. She’s not—”
“She’s a chain around your neck,” Lusive’s voice grew harsher, more strained. “You should be rid of her. She is to marry soon, is she not? Let her. Only without her can you achieve your full potential.”
“I have money.” Finn plucked a bag of coins from his belt and set it on Lusive’s desk. The old man eyed it, calculating its value without touching it, then turned his gaze back to Finn.
“That’s not much.”
“It’s all I have.” Finn gave a small shrug. “It’s my entire earnings for the past year, what’s left of it at any rate.”
“It’s not enough. Not enough to convince me to bring a woman into our midst. You have a place, if you want it, but she doesn’t.”
“I won’t leave Nachtwald without her,” Finn insisted.
“Then I can’t help you.”
Finn paused, considering. Part of him did want to leave, to run away and start a life somewhere else, far from his father, far from the demands of being a baron’s son. But he couldn’t just leave Portia behind. She was the only person he cared about, and her future was as important to him as his own.
“If money won’t convince you, perhaps what I know will. I’m sure Baron Cedric would give his eyeteeth to know about you and your business here in Nachtwald. How much is my silence worth?”
All humor disappeared from Lusive’s face and his eyes glittered with imminent danger. “You threatening me, boy?”
“I’m stating a simple fact. You could help me, help Portia and me get away from Nachtwald, away from Cedric. We’ll go our own way before any trouble starts, and we won’t interfere with you or your plans.”
“I could just have you killed,” Lusive leaned forward, showing his yellow teeth. “I could kill you myself and who would know?”
“You could try.” Finn remained as still as a stone. “You trained me. You of all people know what I’m capable of. Consider the future. If I disappear, men will come looking for me. Cedric will send soldiers, and they will poke and prod. They’ll look into every nook and cranny. How much time can you afford to lose? How much inconvenience are you willing to put up with?
“And then, you must consider the potential loss of an important ally. You have to admit I’ve been one of your best earners. I’ve learned the trade well, and there is more to gain from my friendship than my death. Wouldn’t you agree?”
The two faced each other over the desk. Out of the corner of his eye Finn could see a long, straight-bladed dagger atop a stack of papers, only inches away. Lusive’s eyes were as cold and deadly as a serpent’s, and his body was coiled, ready to strike. Finn calculated the time it would take him to reach one of his own daggers and considered the best place for his thrust. Most likely an eye or the throat.
Then Lusive let out a low chuckle and relaxed. He slid down into his chair and the moment passed.
“I’m going to miss you, boy. You’re stupid, but you have pluck. If your sister is that important to you, then stay and die with her, but you’re on your own. I have to look out for me and mine. That’s just the way it is.”
Finn let out his breath and relaxed his hands. “I understand. I don’t like it, but I understand, and I could never tell Cedric about you. He would just hate me all the more if he knew about our association.”
Lusive laughed, a rasping sound like sand on wood. “You don’t know how much I’ve enjoyed having a spy right under old Lord Limpdick’s nose. Ah well, nothing lasts forever.”
Finn smiled at the old thief. He was going to miss Lusive as well. The man was as cold and calculating as a moneylender’s mistress, but in some ways more honest than any lord or knight he had ever known. Friend or foe, there was never any doubt where you stood with Lusive.
“I can’t come with you. Not without Portia.”
“As you wish.” Lusive suddenly seemed very old. “You know your own mind. You always have. Truth be told, you’ve learned all you’re likely to from us, but can I give you one last piece of advice?”
“If you must,” Finn said with mock exasperation.
“You should leave Nachtwald now—today if possible. There is nothing for you here. You’ve never been very good at playing the lord’s son, and your path lies in an entirely different direction. Take your sister with you, if you must, but get out as soon as you can. When the orcs come, this city will fall and everyone inside these walls will die.”
“I didn’t know you cared so much,” Finn said.
“I hate to lose a good asset.” A thin smile creased Lusive’s pale face. “Wherever you go, be on the lookout. There are those who would exploit your talents for their own gain, and few of them are as kind and understanding as I am.”
“What about you? Where will you go?” Finn picked up the small bag of coins and tucked it into his belt. Lusive watched it disappear with a faint look of disappointment, but said nothing.
“Midderan, perhaps, or Quince? I haven’t decided yet. Have to see which way the wind is blowing.”
“I hope we see each other again.” Finn touched the side of his nose.
“Perhaps we will,” Lusive mirrored the salute. “The world is a large and uncertain place. Who can say what will come? Good luck to you, Finnan an Nachtwald.”
“And to you, Lusive Picket.”
“Now, get the hell out of my house,” Lusive said, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. “I’ve got work to do.”
Chapter 10
Durog entered the cavernous chamber through a passage that, until recently, had been clogged by fallen rock. Pillars lined the front of the room with a high ceiling overhead, but to the rear the chamber opened up, revealing the remains of a natural cavern, the floor of which had been polished smooth. In the center of the chamber a broad staircase climbed to a stone dais, like a great circular table, situated beneath a shaft that went all the way to the surface of Arrom’s Rock far above.
Climbing the stairs, Durog could see that some pattern had been etched into the floor directly beneath the shaft. There were two concentric circles with an intricate pattern of runes contained within the lines, and others on the floor around it. Inside the circle lay the bleached bones of some ancient monster. The huge skull was large enough that Durog could easily have stepped into its maw. Here, then, was Ashendraugnir.
Looking up, Durog could see the sky above. It was a clear night and the starlight shown down on the monster’s bones, causing them to glow with an eerie light. Beyond the circle and its skeletal horror, was a broad platform that stretched to a doorway in the back wall. Iron braziers had been placed on the platform, and a fire burned in each of them, heating the metal to a bright red luminance. Durog could feel the heat on his skin as he approached. In the middle of the platform was a pool of water, with a dozen dark elf Warchod standing around it. Jankayla lay in the pool, her pale figure ghost-like in the firelight.
As he came near, two of the guardsmen dropped their spears, barring his way. Durog paused, clearing his throat loudly. “Jankayla,” he said, “you called for me.” The words tasted bitter. He did not like being summoned like a common servant.
Jankayla turned and gave him a hint of a smile. “Thank you for coming. I’ve decided the time has come to give you another present.”
She turned away from him and made her way to the far end of the pool. Another brazier burned there, casting her naked body in silhouette as she rose from the dark water. The sight made Durog’s mouth go dry and his fingers twitch. A pair of guards came forward with robe and slippers. She slid into the offered garment, belting it at the waist, then made her way along the edge of the pool to where Durog w
aited.
“Come, I have something to show you.” She gestured with one long finger as she moved away. Two of the Warchod followed at a discreet distance.
Jankayla reached out her hand, twirling her fingers, and spoke a single word. From somewhere in the darkness her staff appeared, flying to her hand. With another gesture she ignited torches, set in brackets on the walls and pillars, filling the chamber with orange light and smoke. She moved past the dragon’s bones, descending the stairs to the floor below. She walked across the cavern to where Durog could now see a second circle, this one smaller and less intricate than the first, but still measuring at least 20 feet in diameter. Jankayla moved around the circle, igniting large wax candles set in tall, wrought-iron holders placed at the edges.
“When the dark elves assaulted Arrom’s Rock,” Jankayla began, “they rode on the backs of wyverns. They attacked from above, their numbers so great that they blotted out the sun.”
Durog could see that here too the bones of some strange beast had been gathered. The creature was dragon-like in its configuration, only smaller, less terrible than the monster that lay on the dais above.
“When the Drakontus, the race of great dragons, died out, the lesser species went with them, including wyverns like this one.” Jankayla drifted along the edges of the circle as she spoke. “I mean to bring them back.”
“Look. This is all very interesting, but I’ve got murder and mayhem to do, and getting several thousand orcs and goblins to follow the same set of instructions is like trying to teach cats how to swim.”
Jankayla turned, her dark robes swirling around her. “Patience, Durog. I promise you this will be worth the distraction.” She faced the two Warchod who lingered in the shadows. “Bring me the case, and have Grisnal bring in one of the volunteers.”
One guard remained, while the other bowed to his mistress and disappeared into the darkness, returning a moment later with a battered wooden box that he held out to her, reverently, as if it were made of gold. The sorceress lifted the lid and from it took what looked like a shard of dark glass, holding it up in the light of the candles.
“The conflict was long and fierce,” Jankayla said, admiring the shard as if it were some precious gem, turning it so that each facet and edge caught the light. “Aedon and his forces were here at Arrom’s Rock, ten thousand men, along with another five thousand women and children. Tiluren, perhaps the greatest wizard of the age, was here as an ambassador from Ellyldan, and Horgar, the newly crowned King of the Dwarves came with his people. They were all together in this one place.”
Another figure approached out of the darkness. Durog recognized it by its strange lumbering gate. Grisnal appeared, dragging with him a peasant woman from one of the villages.
“The opportunity was too sweet to be lost,” Jankayla continued. “So, we called upon Ashendraugnir and bid him to attack Arrom’s Rock, to lay waste to the fortress and kill everyone inside.”
She motioned to Grisnal. “Bring forth the volunteer.”
Grisnal dragged the woman, who whimpered softly, her eyes wide with fear, into the circle, forcing her to her knees beside the pile of ancient bones.
“But no one knew that Horgar and his people had built this subterranean stronghold inside the mountain. When the dragon came most of Aedon’s forces retreated to these halls, but Aedon, Tiluren, and Horgar went out together to meet him.
“The battle consumed half a day, and when it was over Ashendraugnir was laid low. Aedon cut out the dragon’s heart with a magic sword given to him by the elves. Tiluren enchanted the still living heart, transforming it into a large diamond, an immense gemstone called the Draakonor. Then Horgar, who bore a great war hammer, a gift from Prathos, the God of War, used it to shatter the Draakonor.”
Durog stared at the woman that Grisnal held. Her fear was like an aphrodisiac. He longed to pounce, to take her, there, inside the circle. Blood throbbed in the orc’s temples and his hands were moist with sweat. Despite himself, he was becoming interested in Jankayla’s story, and curiosity and desire waged a silent battle inside his skull.
“The Draakonor broke into seven equal parts, each a different color and type of gem stone, in accordance with the spectrum of magic. Each imbued with a single magical lumen.
“But the dark elves know that there was, in fact, an eighth shard hidden in the center.” She held the obsidian shard like a dagger, raising it above her head as if she meant to plunge it into the frightened woman’s chest.
“The obsidian shard is the antithesis of all the others. It is the absence of light, but in that darkness there is a negative energy, a dark power that can conquer even death.”
Jankayla whispered a few words of Lunovarian and the shard began to glow. She faced the circle, the shard in one hand and her staff in the other. A sudden wind stirred her hair. Durog took a step back, fear clawing at his chest.
“Now,” Jankayla said, “now you will see its power.” She began to chant. The lines of the circle turned to fire and the runes within it burned.
“Now,” Jankayla hissed, “Do it now!”
From somewhere beneath his robes the deformed dark elf produced a dagger, a cruel looking weapon with a twisted blade. When the woman saw it she let out a scream, a high, wailing sound that filled the empty space. Grisnal slid the blade across her throat, in one fluid motion. Blood sprayed out over the wyvern’s bones, spattered the floor and the hem of Jankayla’s robe. The woman made a gurgling sound, her eyes growing vacant as life fled her body.
Jankayla’s words came faster, her chanting more urgent and pleading. Her dark hair clung to her face as rivulets of sweat ran down her pale cheeks and along her neck. The shard in her hand was bright with an eldritch purple light.
Durog watched as the bones within the circle shifted and began moving around on the floor, orienting themselves to each other. Sinew and muscle began to form over the bones, pulling them together and giving the creature form. Organs grew inside the pink tissue, and a heart began to beat within the monster’s chest.
Grisnal took a step back, letting the woman’s body fall to the floor, and raised a blood stained hand. In his fist he held a medallion, a small piece of soapstone carved in the likeness of the wyvern, and he too began to chant, his words high-pitched and shrill. Durog saw what looked like wisps of smoke or mist that congealed into a ghostly form that began darting in and around the circle, eventually descending on the creature. Skin stretched over the wyvern’s newly formed musculature, horns and scales erupting along the oily surface, and great wings grew, stretched, and quivered in anticipation. The wyvern’s eyes opened, slowly, sleepily, and a baleful light, dim at first, but growing hotter with each passing moment, grew in the depths of those eyes.
Jankayla and Grisnal each finished their chants at the same moment. They stood facing each other, Jankayla outside the circle, and Grisnal within, both of them shaking from their exertions. Durog found that he had been holding his breath and he expelled it in a gust of fetid air. He felt drained, weary, and it was suddenly difficult to remain standing. But he stubbornly held his position, watching the display in wide-eyed wonder.
The wyvern moved. It shifted and raised itself, shaking its massive body as if attempting to dispel the torpor that had held it for so long. Its eyes burned with malevolence and its midnight blue hide shown like the surface of a lake. It unfurled its great wings, reared back, and let out a roar that shook the walls of the great cavern and carried out far, far into the night.
* * *
In the shadow of one of the massive pillars, 100 feet away, Retch and Pilfer clung to each other as if they were drowning in the middle of a deep and unfamiliar ocean. The two goblins were shaking uncontrollably, gripped by a terrible fear, and stunned by what they had just seen. Their desire to run warred with their desire to remain hidden and safe.
“I told you the kitchens were in the other direction,” Retch squeaked.
“That was me that said that, you idiot!” Pilfer tweaked his
companion’s ear.
“Did you see what she did?” Retch whispered as loudly as he dared. The goblin jester fidgeted and clawed at his face as if he might blind himself in an effort to remove the vision of what he had just witnessed.
“Of course I saw it, fool!” Pilfer spat, and Retch giggled at the reference, despite his terror. “We need to get out of here as soon and as fast as we can.”
“You mean this room?” Retch crawled away across the floor toward the stairs by which they had entered the hall.
“No,” Pilfer hissed, crawling after him. “I mean out of this freak show.”
“You want to elope?”
“No, you idiot,” Pilfer said, more annoyed at his friend than usual. “The word you’re looking for is ‘skedaddle.’ The chief is obviously under the control of that witch, and she’s mad as a troll with a cache of vision-inducing mushrooms.”
“I love mushrooms,” Retch said.
“So do I, and we should really find some. But first, we have to focus. I knew this was a bad idea. ‘Join the army,’ my mate said, ‘go see the world.’ In retrospect, I think she was just trying to get rid of me.”
“Who isn’t? I’ve been trying to get rid of you for years.” Retch scrambled up the stairs to the passage above, with Pilfer close on his heels.
“Why do I put up with you?” Pilfer said.
“I don’t know. Probably the same reason I put up with you—‘cause no one else will.”
“True,” Pilfer scampered through the door. “Come on, the kitchens are this way, and I need something to take my mind off what just happened.”
With a nervous glance behind them, the two goblins sped along the passageway, the sound of their footfalls fading into the distance.
Chapter 11
Portia’s feet ached. The day was hot and her toes felt cramped and moist inside her boots. Throughout the morning she had explored every shop, cellar, and stable. She had been down every street, lane, and alley that Nachtwald had to offer. She had even spent half an hour gazing into the depths of the well in the market square, hoping to discern some secret, some hidden treasure drowned in the dark water below. She had been from one end of Nachtwald to the other and back again, but was no closer to an answer than when she began.
A Way with Magic (The Draakonor Chronicles Book 1) Page 11