Complete In the Service of Dragons

by William Robert Stanek

  Nijal looked sympathetically toward Vilmos; instead of a much-needed rest, Vilmos would practice. He shrugged his shoulders and then ambled over to his bed, looking sympathetically to his comrade just before he plopped onto the soft, quilted covers.

  Vilmos didn’t mind the practice; rather, he looked forward to it, and at first Nijal tried to stay awake to watch and listen. But despite his fascination, he slowly fell asleep. Teacher and apprentice settled in for a long conversation, both knowing neither would get much sleep this night. There were things the shaman needed to impart to the youngster before it was too late, lessons that needed to be learned and practiced, and lots more.

  

  Noman had left to take a bath, leaving Amir and the other alone. She looked so incredibly beautiful as she lay on the bed staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, hair brushed back and draped, still damp, over the fluffed pillow beneath her head. Amir could only watch her, wanting to say something to her, yet the words would not come out.

  Amir’s attentions were not lost on the Little One, and after a time she turned and stared at him. She wondered why he cared so much for her. She had done nothing but avoid him. Despite herself, a smile touched her lips, which Amir mistook as a sign. He went to her and knelt on the floor beside her bed, reaching out and taking her tiny hands into his.

  “Amir, no!” she cried out, tears flowing down her cheeks.

  She turned and faced the opposite direction. “Leave me alone!”

  Amir walked over to his bed, slumped onto it and soon fell asleep.

  The Little One eventually turned over and found herself staring back at the grim-faced warrior. “Why do you think you love me?” she whispered into the empty air, wanting to understand the strange infatuation.

  Noman had returned from his bath and was standing in the doorway when her whisper broke the empty air. Instead of entering, he continued past the door, entering the next room along the short hall. Xith and Vilmos were still avidly discussing magic, and so he joined in.

  “Noman,” said Xith looking up, “good. I was just about to discuss your art with Vilmos. Now I have an expert to do that for me.”

  “I was more interested in hearing you teach Vilmos magic, but I will if you are interested.”

  “Yes!” exclaimed Vilmos.

  “The art of creating illusions is a shading of the arcane arts. Once there were many principal forms of the mystic arts, so many wonderful shadings.” There was a genuine affection held in the spoken words that brought a smile to both listeners’ lips as the emotion touched off fond remembrances. “Times are changing and most have been lost. Of the multitude that once existed, only three forms remain.

  “Will and Magic are the two basic forms from which all the others stem. Will uses the mind as your center to channel the natural energies of the world, the power of the trees, the strength of the wind, the rain, the flow of a river, the call of the land, of all nature. In this form, you focus these energies through yourself.

  “As with all things, the amount of energy you may focus at any one time is dependent on the strength of your individual will power.” Noman said this as a sort of note.

  Neither listener minded; both had come to understand through their many talks together that the diviner sometimes tended to ramble and follow tangents. Yet they weren’t prepared for the ominous ring of the words that would come next.

  “Magic is quite different. Magic uses the energies of creation. Wild energies once proliferated. The Northern Range once held volcanoes that spewed new life continually, wild and fierce, and utterly devastating. The northern mountains now lie dormant, awaiting a return to the beginning. The energies of creation spring from the heavens, the stars, and the nether realm. The user of such powers is a thief.”

  Xith couldn’t resist the temptation to interject, “Thief is such a strong word.”

  Noman glared and then smiled, continuing on as if the shaman had never said a word, “Stealing, devouring the energies of creation, robbing the future of new life, forever tied to the wild energies of creation and destruction, positive and negative you could say—of fire and earth, and of water and air. It is true that these forces seem similar to those that a user of will shapes; but, you see, the user of will shapes these forces as with a tool that is his center, bending them and molding them only temporarily. Yet the user of magic taps the destructive powers, the wild energies. These energies, once used, are spent.

  “Yet the amount of energy you may use is also dependent upon your center. Only few are able to tap into this. You are one and the watcher is another.

  “Illusion is similar to both magic and will. A person who creates illusions also has limited use of both will and magic. They combine these two skills, yet they cannot use external energies, only that which is within them, that which is at their center. An illusion is solely in the mind of its creator and by projecting these thoughts into others’ minds they become seemingly real.”

  “Ouch!” exclaimed Vilmos.

  “See, you felt the heat image I sent you. The visage of fire!”

  “Yes, that is interesting,” said Vilmos rubbing his hand.

  “So all three are dependent upon your center?” asked Nijal.

  The three looked to Nijal with evident surprise to find him awake.

  “I thought you were asleep or I would have explained in more detail,” said Noman.

  “That is fine. Vilmos had already explained magic to me once. What do priests and priestesses use then? Is that magic?”

  “No, that is a gift.”

  Nijal didn’t quite understand. “Huh?”

  “They are linked to the Father and the Mother. They get their powers in a totally different way, unrelated to the powers of any magic.”

  “These powers do not frighten you?” inquired Noman of Nijal, interested in the response.

  Nijal mulled over the question for a while before responding.

  “I would be a liar if I told you they didn’t, yet while most of my brethren live in fear of things we do not understand, my father taught me to look for understanding first before passing judgment. So I would tell you that I am still passing judgment, and that I have not yet decided.”

  “Your father is a wise man,” said Noman.

  The four sat up talking for a short while more, each in turn retiring when sleep entered their eyes. They would need to get an early start in the morning, and it was getting late. Xith did, however, get in his objection one last time; and having the final say, he seemed pleased enough to be willing to go to sleep. Nijal was the last to fall asleep. He wondered if he would ever be able to do something special like the others; and he couldn’t help but think about the words that Xith had spoken to him: “Even the greatest of Men can fall and often the lesser among you will prove tenfold your greater. Your place is here with us, Nijal of Solntse. You are part of us now; cast your petty fears behind you.”

  

  Startled, Vilmos awoke, a scream sought to issue from his lips, but a man dressed terrifyingly in all black had a hand tightly clasped over his mouth. He strained to break free, yet could not; the man was too powerful and held him pinned in place. His eyes widened and he rapidly scanned the room for signs of the others. He was alone and one of the highwaymen had found him. His first notion was of defense. Could he break free? Could he organize his scattered thoughts? Could he find the magic in time?

  “Calm yourself,” whispered his assailant. “Here, put these on.”

  Momentarily, the voice didn’t register with Vilmos; he struggled regardless.

  “Calm yourself,” the man repeated. “Put this on.”

  Vilmos sighed and shook his head to ward off the sleep-induced stupor, relieved that he recognized the voice.

  “It is only an illusion; look again,” hastened the voice.

  Vilmos started to say something, but the hand remained over his mouth. He peered around the room again, this time less frantically. He saw Nijal across the room hurriedly getting d
ressed and did likewise. He quickly joined the others in the hall, noticing everyone was dressed in macabre hues. Noman restored the illusion then; Vilmos only knew this because he noted a subtle thought entering his mind—the watchword of an illusion’s enactment.

  As before, though, he saw no change in the appearance of the others—Noman had explained that this was because he knew the truth of what they really were, and illusions held no bounds over such truths. In hushed tones, Noman explained that Ayrian had finally returned with distressing news and they must leave immediately and secretly.

  Flight from the inn was made with haste; the final race had begun.

  Outfitted in dreary garb, it seemed they chased the dark wind, which howled unsettlingly. A chill came over Vilmos as they exited the city, the surrounding countryside hung with so many shadows that the land itself seemed utterly dreary and grim. And only then did the desperate flight and the desperate race seem real.

  “One more to gather before we are through and then we have only begun,” were the ominous last word’s that Noman whispered into the wind—words that Vilmos dwelled on even though he had heard a similar utterance before because again they only sounded real just then.

  End Of Book One

  Even now the dark forces gather.

  IN THE SERVICE

  OF DRAGONS II

  BOOK TWO

  ROBERT STANEK

  Chapter One

  Imtal palace and city were somber places over the many days that followed the announcement of the king’s death. Three sisters with long black hair mourned and yearned for their father in the grand gardens. Midmorning found them seated around a table in the gazebo with Sister Catrin and Jasmine.

  Jasmine, Catrin and Midori sat on one side and Calyin and Adrina were on the other. Two of Lord Serant’s men stood behind Calyin. They would not leave even though they had been ordered to do so by Calyin herself. They had great respect for her wishes, yet followed only Lord Serant’s orders where her safety was concerned. They judged the priestesses of the Mother as a threat and as such they would not even drop back a respectful distance where they could not hear the words being spoken.

  “Today is the seventh day; let us not argue this day away,” implored Calyin. “Your fears are unfounded. There is no danger in Imtal. Look around you. What do you see? I see flowers being claimed by the coming of winter, losing their petals and withering to the ground. I see trees filled with autumn colors, bronze and gold and scarlet. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “You are an eternal optimist. You would find good in a time like this,” hissed Jasmine ominously.

  “Calyin, we discussed this yesterday. You agreed then. Have you no sense of loyalty?”

  “You speak of loyalty?” scoffed Calyin, “Loyalty is not something you suddenly find, but a thing that is built up over time. Do not throw it at me as if you have any sense of loyalty to this family. Your loyalty lies solely with the Mother.”

  Midori got a faraway look in her eyes. “You’ll never know the depths of my loyalty,” she whispered.

  She said no more as Jasmine cautioned her.

  “Honestly, tell me, what harm will come of it, Princess Calyin? For I can see none. Several days away will do the girl some good.”

  “What do you think, Adrina?” asked Calyin.

  Adrina had her eyes turned out into the garden. She knew they argued over her as if she were some prize catch, yet she did not care.

  “I am numb,” she whispered, “I feel nothing.”

  She turned back to the fading greens of the garden. Calyin wrapped her arm around her shoulder and hugged her.

  “It will pass,” she said, “it will pass. Just let it all out. Go ahead, cry, cry until there are no more tears. Tears are good for the soul, they cleanse it.”

  “I can’t cry; I don’t feel,” returned Adrina, wriggling away from her sister’s hold.

  “Do you see why a short respite will do her some good?” asked Midori in a stern voice. “She needs to get away from this dank place.”

  “Perhaps she will; perhaps she will return to the North with me when this is all cleared up and Prince Valam returns home.”

  “You are a fool!” shouted Jasmine. “The prince will not return!”

  Calyin threw back her arms to restrain the guards, who had just pressed forward. Jasmine glared at the two men, unafraid.

  “I am not afraid of death, you sons of mongrels. I would welcome it as surely as I welcome the night. Only good will come of my passing, only good. If you wish to take me now, do so, or back away, back away now, before I lay a curse upon you with my next breath that will blight your life until its end!”

  The two took only one step back at first and then another as Jasmine continued to glare.

  “Have you no respect?” asked Calyin. “This night we will lay my father to rest. Let us drop this paltry argument and talk no more of it until tomorrow. Tomorrow you can argue to your hearts’ content.”

  Catrin whispered the only words she had said in days, words that only Jasmine and Midori heard. “The ignorant always believe tomorrow will come as did today,” she said.

  Midori was quick to find words. “Yes, perhaps you are right, sister. Perhaps we should wait and discuss this later. I think it is a good time to find lunch. Is anyone else as hungry as I?”

  Adrina turned back.

  “Let’s not take it in the hall,” she said, “there is a balcony in the tower beyond the wall. Father would often sit there at about this time.”

  The day passed slowly and it seemed that afternoon would never come. Some hours later, Calyin and Adrina were still on the balcony above the tower; remnants of a heavy, half eaten meal still rested on the table in front of them. Once the meal had been served, Adrina had chased off the attendants, telling them not to return until they were called, and so the uneaten food sat.

  “High Province is grand this time of year,” said Calyin. “I know I have told you this before, but I will tell you again. The choice is up to you. You needn’t do anything if you don’t want to. But please look at yourself. Your hair is a mess, you haven’t bathed, and you hardly eat. Father is dead, Adrina. Nothing can bring him back and nothing that you could have done would have prevented his death.”

  Adrina averted her eyes as tears started to flow.

  “Adrina,” said Calyin, “it is time you mended your own soul. You cannot go on like this. I cannot go on like this. Cry, cry until there are no more tears within you. Let it all out, let it all out.”

  “You don’t understand,” said Adrina in a pathetic sounding voice, “you did not see his pain.”

  “Did you ever think that he is happier now? Can you truly say that he was happy since mother passed on? There was life and at rare times there was joy, but true happiness that runs deep within the soul was gone, long since gone. She was his life, his source of life, and without her life was void. No, I assure you, he is much happier now. He rests in the hall of the great ones, the kings and queens of all the lands that ever were, and she, his beloved queen and wife, rests beside him. He is happy, Adrina, he has found peace. Cry your tears of lament, but let go your remorse.”

  Lord Serant came looking for his wife and joined her in comforting her young sister: “You are young and you have a full life in front of you. Find inspiration in the day, joy in the light of the sun. Such sweetness in your beauty, such tenderness and grace. Find wonder in the simple pleasures of the world, in the wonders of youth.”

  “Find a young man’s face and melt your heart within it,” added Calyin, greeting her husband with a warm embrace.

  “Oh, Calyin, I am so sorry,” said Adrina, “it’s just, it’s just—”

  “Shh, shh, hush now, dear. Say no more,” gently soothed Calyin.

  “So much happening at one time; it just overwhelmed me,” Adrina said. “Do you think Valam is coming home?”

  “We will have to wait and see; and if he does not, we can cope without him.”

  Adrina wiped the tears
from her eyes. She thought of the irony of her father’s death as the land was being reborn in spring and the flowers were returning to the gardens. She thought with bitterness of her upcoming nameday—a nameday that meant nothing without her father there to celebrate with her.

  “Shall we find the bathhouse and put it to good use? A hot soothing bath would feel good about now, would it not? When father looks down from the heavens this night and sees his funeral bier pass through the city streets to the central square where he will be laid to rest, let him find us with our heads raised proud and our hearts filled with love, but our eyes void of tears. Then he will know that he can rest peacefully and without concern.”