Dragon's Tongue: Book One of the Demon-Bound

by Laura J Underwood

  As much as he wanted to chance forms and feed on the irritating fowl, he dared not. His magic would just catch the attention of some nosy mageborn, like as not.

  He was forced to perch up under the rim of the tower’s eaves. There at least, the real ravens could not get at him, and he was able to use beak and talons to fend them off without fear of a posterior assault. Eventually, they tired of the attacks, though it might have been the fact that yet another raven began circling their territory. Vagner didn’t care what reason drew them elsewhere. He was just pleased to see them go away and leave him along.

  So now he was crammed under the eaves of the tower, bored and hungry. He hoped the mageborn bard would come soon before demon tendencies took over and forced Vagner out to see other prey…

  If wishes were fishes… A line from some ballad, he thought.

  But then, fate proved, that sometimes, it could be kind even to demons. Vagner sensed the sweet essence of his intended approaching from the keep. Two familiar figures stepped into the practice yard.

  Ah, now all he had to do was wait for the right moment to pounce. The thought made Vagner giddy enough with joy that he risked qworking strains of “When the Old Wife Fell Down…”

  ~

  Alaric felt just a little uneasy being out in the open like this. He could tell they were outside the protection of the mages wards, for the sense of security he had felt indoors now faded. That lack of magical protection made him almost feel exposed…that and the fact unfocused hints of the demon lay everywhere. But looking around, Alaric saw nothing more than a flock of ravens doing battle about the towers of the outermost gatehouse. And he would have sworn one of them was qworking the melody of a vaguely familiar song…

  “Alaric, over here,” Fenelon called, and Alaric started. With a groan, he began to check his practice padding and helm as he ambled across the courtyard. “You really won’t need all of that,” Fenelon had insisted just moments before, but Alaric felt like his body had been punished more than enough over the last couple of days. He was taking no chances.

  Alaric stretched a bit to warm his muscles against the Keltoran damp that seeped through his woolens. They started with simple drills, and that gave him a chance to see how swift Fenelon was with a blade before the actual matches began. The light blunted weapons were moving at a fair clip when Fenelon suggested they try a bit of freestyle work. By then, Alaric was warmed up and felt confident enough to agree.

  Confidence, however, was of little use after that. Fenelon was fast on the attack, and equally skilled at the defense, and he had that longer reach to his advantage. While Alaric was no poor hand with a blade, he recognized when he was heavily outclassed. Still, he strove to keep up, feeling every light touch of Fenelon’s tip as it found a target. Alaric’s own blade managed a few good shots, but he was starting to attribute those more to luck than skill as the bout wore on.

  Finally, Alaric realized his lungs could manage no more, and he signaled for a halt to catch his wind. He stepped back, pulling off his helm, and glanced around the yard. Horns, they had quite an audience now, he noted much to his chagrin. Several of the Keltoran guards who were off duty had gathered to watch the bout. One tall fellow wrapped in many ells of plaid grinned and jerked his head towards them.

  “Hey, sassenach,” he called. “May I have the next dance?”

  “Me?” Alaric asked, looking puzzled. What in the name of Cernunnos was a sassenach?

  The Keltoran shook his head. “Nay, laddie, you’ve much to learn. I was speaking ta the peacock…”

  Fenelon merely smiled. “Why certainly, I would be happy to have a go at you, sir.”

  “Excuse me,” Alaric began, not sure if he felt affronted because he’d been refused or because of what the Keltoran called Fenelon. “Are you aware of whom you are speaking to?”

  But Fenelon clamped a hard hand on Alaric’s shoulder and shook him to stop his speech. “It’s all right, Alaric. No harm’s done. It’s just a Keltoran manner of speaking. You’ll get used to it.”

  “Your young lad’s in a wee bit of a blether far naught,” the Keltoran said. “I’m Sargeant Rory MacRae of the Outer Bailey. And you be?”

  “Fenelon Greenfyn at your service, sir,” Fenelon said with a bow. He patted Alaric’s shoulder a little more gently this time. “Go get some water, Alaric. This won’t take long, I imagine.”

  Alaric sighed and nodded. It would be a short match, considering the odds. Sargeant MacRae was a good stone heavier than Fenelon. Either one of those strapping fists was probably able to make short work of the master mageborn with a single blow. With a sigh, Alaric headed towards the water barrel set to one side where a number of the guards stood drinking. And as he approached, one of them dipped him a mug of clear liquid and offered it to him. Alaric accepted it with an embarrassed, “thank you.” Perhaps Fenelon was right. Alaric was not used to Keltoran ways. They seemed brusque and rough mannered to him, yet they did not act like he was less than their equal. Nodding, Alaric stepped away so he could watch the match.

  ~

  The young mageborn was stepping away from the crowd of Keltorans. Vagner leaned forward on his perch with the eagerness of a predator. As soon as there was enough open space, he would fly down and snatch up the young bard, and be well away before any of them could toss as much as a magebolt. The demon bunched his muscles and prepared to launch and shift forms…

  ~

  Does he ever get winded? Alaric wondered. Sargeant MacRae was clearly the stronger man, and he was swift for his size and possessed an envious skill. There were a number of his attacks that left Alaric wincing, though Fenelon never flinched. Alaric had always heard Keltoran’s were fierce fighters and few men wanted to see one of them behind sword and targe, but this was the first time he’d had the opportunity to witness that legend for himself. Horns, he would have been on the ground begging for mercy long ago and suddenly realized how fortunate it was he had not been selected as the next victim.

  Even so, Fenelon’s own actions remained just as impressive to Alaric. MacRae did not let up, and Fenelon was having to work for every touch he got as well as to keep his own hide intact. Many of his attacks rarely found their intended target, but he continued to smile and move about with little effort. Nor did the fight stay in one place. It ranged about the practice yard like a full-scale battle. One moment, Alaric had a clear view from his place near the water barrel, and the next he was suddenly being blocked by a wall of bodies much larger than his own as some of the guards shifted to follow the bout.

  Alaric cursed to himself and sprinted aside, eager to find open ground. The space on the cobbled path that led from gatehouse to gatehouse seemed his best option now. He dashed around behind the crowd and stopped in the center as the fight pulled his way.

  But the battle quickly lost his attention, for Alaric felt a shift in the air. Magic swirled about him, and on the wind, he tasted that familiar, bitter taint. Horns! Movement flashed from the corner of his eye. He spun towards the source and froze. A raven was speeding straight towards him, filling the air with bitter demon essence. Alaric swore as those spreading wings grew wider and the black creature shifted and grew into some hideous cross between man and bat, a mass of fur, scales and wings with murderous eyes and large jaws…the very vision he had seen in his dream.

  “No!” he shouted and started to back away, only to catch his heel in a rut between the rough cobbles of the path. Flailing his arms for balance, Alaric fell.

  That sheer twist of fate was a blessing in disguise. Tripping actually dropped him out of harm’s way. Claws raked past the point he had previously occupied and snatched only air. The demon uttered a very human curse as it sought to gain altitude before it could be thrown into the next gate where wards of magic burned in protest of its proximity. It flew upwards, then circled and spun back towards Alaric. He would not be able to get to his feet before it would have him.

  “Gath saighead buail!” a voice shouted.

  The dem
on shrieked as a magebolt slammed into the side of its head, throwing it off course, and Alaric was once more saved. He could hear a number of boots thundering across the ground towards him. Other men were shouting similar spells. The demon’s essence rose high into the clouds, briefly fading only to come back full force. Gouts of fire fell from the sky, and the guards were forced to swiftly disperse before they could be burned.

  “Alaric, head for the inner gate,” Fenelon shouted. “Go on! Dealanach buail!”

  The hot breath of lightning hissed through the air. Alaric scrambled to his feet and ran, more than willing to obey. He tore off the armor padding as he fled, eager to shed anything that slowed his escape. The demon’s essence was everywhere now, and Alaric could no more focus on where the beast was than he could hold clouds in his hands. Head for the inner gate, he told himself. Head for shelter. Head for the one place the demon could not follow…

  Fire suddenly spurted down from the sky again, and this time, it slammed into the path before Alaric. With a startled cry, he skidded to a halt and threw himself back, raising his arms against the sting as it splattered. Horns, the demon was casting spells and cutting off Alaric’s route of escape. Its essence nauseated him. He could hear others shouting his name, telling him to run—to drop. If only they would make up their minds for as they added to his confusion, blackness descended from the sky and landed on the path before Alaric. He turned to flee again, but even the ground beneath his feet came alive with demon essence and grew unsteady. The cobbles broke apart and jagged stones thrust out of the ground, tripping Alaric. He barked hands and knees going down, and felt the hot tear as a stone raked hard into his leg, ripping cloth and flesh. With a cry, he was thrown over on his back by the bucking of the ground.

  The demon reared over him. The hideous, bat-like face split with a smile that revealed an under-bite full of fangs. It reached for him.

  “Alaric!” Fenelon shouted. “Horns, don’t lay there like a lump!”

  Easy for you to say, Alaric thought because as he tried to draw his legs under him and rise, the left one burned with blinding pain. Only the proximity of such terrifying death was enough to spur him. Marda may not have known the greater spells, but she knew enough to teach him offensive and defensive ones. He reached into his own pain for power. Stretched one finger towards the fiend and shouted, “Loisg saighead buail!”

  The fiery magebolt caught the demon by surprise, hitting it square in the face. Clearly, the beast had not expected such ferocity from injured prey. It shrieked and jerked back from Alaric, nearly stumbling over its own tail.

  “Loisg mhor!” Alaric heard Fenelon shout, and white fire flashed over Alaric so swiftly, he barely had time to raise his arms and protect his face. There was a hideous scream, and only then did Alaric lower his arms in time to see the demon rising into the sky, engulfed entirely in flames. It disappeared over the wall where screams of human horror could be heard echoing before a great hissing filled the air.

  “Horns, it found water!” Fenelon growled.

  Alaric tried to get up again, but his leg continued to scream in pain. He looked down and found his knee and calf saturated in blood… his own, alas. But suddenly, there were bodies around him, and while he felt the old panic down in his chest, he was also grateful. Voices rose in a shouting match, while Fenelon cut through their ranks to get to Alaric’s side.

  “Lie still,” Fenelon said, putting a hand to Alaric’s shoulder to make certain the younger mage obeyed. “That doesn’t look good…”

  Alaric started to agree. Sargeant MacRae barked an order to let “the lad” breathe. He tore a bit of his own shirt and pressed it to the wound. All Alaric could do after that was grit his teeth and wince. He sensed other mageborn had gathered in the courtyard. Everyone fussed and bickered about what should be done.

  “We’ll follow it,” one said.

  “Not me…You can go after it if you like, thank you very much.”

  “Let’s put the wards further out.”

  “That takes too much effort and you know it. Besides, there a small void in the corner that won’t hold…”

  “Come on lads,” Sargeant MacRae said, ignoring the mageborn as he nodded to his men. “Let’s get this lad into the infirmary.”

  Before Alaric could protest, a number of Keltorans were lifting him as gently as one carried a baby.

  Horns, why me? Alaric thought. What had the monster wanted with him? It was certainly the same one that had crept past the wards inside his psaltery, but didn’t it have what it wanted? Why in the name of Cernunnos did it want to kill him?

  A flicker of demon essence touched the edge of Alaric’s perception. He looked just before the human gurney bore him under the second gate and into the protection of the wards. Floating above, he saw a smoldering cloud letting off hints of steam, and two eyes narrowed in silent rage glared at him before the mist vanished, melding itself into the grey sky.

  ELEVEN

  A demon having a fit was said to be the most terrifying sight mortalborn and mageborn alike could ever behold. Vagner became the perfect example of that as he ranted and raged above the clouds in his true form. Fire! White fire! By the deepest pits, he should have expected the young mageborn to know that much simple magic. Of course, the bard would have known how to defend himself. Vagner should have been ready for such an assault. Never trust anything to chance. Mageborn were full of surprises.

  It was good fortune there had been a large public well just over the wall, though the washerwomen Vagner disturbed as he plunged into its cooling depths would hardly have agreed. White fire was dangerous to demon flesh, though it would have taken much more than that single blast to kill Vagner. Had the demon not been so familiar with the outer area around Dun Gealach—had he not fled when he did—he would have suffered serious damage.

  Such generosity on the part of fate was the last thing on Vagner’s mind. He wanted revenge for this humiliation, and he would have it in time.

  For now though, the young bard was safe inside those warded walls, and Vagner still had enough fury in him to scorch the land to a desert. With a roar, he flew northward, searching for something—anything—on which to spill this wrath.

  He found a small farmstead on the moors, the perfect place to spill his anger. Sheep fled as Vagner increased the hideousness of his visage as well as his size. He dove on the panicky herds. Humans came running only to flee when they saw the monster in their midst. A few bravely took pitchforks to the fiend who snatched up their livestock and tore off the heads to drain the blood from their necks before gobbling them down.

  Vagner was in no mood for their company. He swept them aside with tail and claws. One man fell dead when the poisonous black ichor from Vagner’s tail barb drove into his chest. Others tried uselessly to defend his corpse, only to be knocked away. Vagner snagged one man and bit off his head. The demon was too furious to care what the consequences of this slaughter would be. These puny mortals would be too fraught with fear and grief to even remember what had attacked them…

  The cold that suddenly burned into Vagner’s limbs brought some vague sense of sensibility back. He knew immediately that what he felt was the raw thread that bound his essence to that of the bloodmage. The sweet string of Vagner’s True Name was being plucked harshly by Tane Doran’s rough hand.

  By the darkest pits of the Void, Vagner knew he should have cloaked his rage. Too late now. Tane Doran knew, and his summons was filled with the threat of hideous pain. Vagner had no choice but to cease his tantrum. He dropped the body he clutched in one claw and lunged skyward to answer that dreadful call.

  Tane Doran was more than a little angry, the demon winced and reflected. This was not going to be a pleasant encounter.

  ~

  They kept telling Alaric he was fortunate the cut ranging up and down his left leg was the work of mere rocks and not demon claws. He, however, did not see how those ragged gashes could be fortunate. They hurt, and that pain was made all the more obvious by
Mistress Miranda Ni Tobin, the chief healer of Dun Gealach’s infirmary, whose probing fingers and instruments were finding their way into the smallest crevices of his tortured flesh. “Wheesht,” the woman would say each time Alaric yelped and jerked. “The sooner I get this filth out, lad, the sooner I can stitch this and heal it…”

  Alaric wanted to tell Mistress Miranda what to do with her bedside manner. The men who carried him into the surgery had treated him more gently than this tall, auburn-haired creature with the thick streaks of white running from each of her temples to blend with the long braid that ranged down her back. She was handsome too in a raw sort of way, usually when she ceased to scowl at him for moving again. In a moment of impatience, she finally gestured to a couple of the men, and silently, they seized Alaric’s limbs and shoulders to subdue him so the healer could finish her work.

  “Blessed brother, I’ve ne’er seen a grown man behave as such a wee bairn,” Mistress Miranda groused and probed yet again, causing Alaric to nearly bite his tongue. “Ye’ve a bit of stane lodged doon in here which I must remove first. I canna wait to see what happens when I take needle and thread to ye, lad…”

  Needle and thread? Oh, Horns! Alaric thought. He’d been stitched once before, when he tore his arm climbing in the barns and slipped, and he remembered all too well how much it had hurt. At least, the village healer at Gordslea Hold had given Alaric wine to dull the pain. This barbaric Keltoran she-wolf had yet to show him any such courtesy. He bit his tongue and tasted blood as her small ivory probe hooked something that raked a raw nerve before drawing away.