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

by Laura J Underwood

  Alaric sought to sit up as well, but in his concern he forgot the fog that possessed his own head. Then, pain exploded behind his eyes, plunging him off balance. He fell back, but because he had shifted angled, he suddenly went over the edge of the cot, gritting his teeth as he hit the cold floor.

  “Oh, horns,” he heard Etienne growl as darkness embraced him.

  ~

  Alaric awoke to the faint throbbing of his head and the strong sense that he was not alone. Opening eyes to learn who was there was no simple task. At least, he wasn’t being battered by sunlight. The only glow visible was a single mage globe of mute amber hovering over the table not far from the bed. He squinted, for the effort of focusing threatened to push pain to the forefront again.

  Shona stood at the table, the light softening her features. She was a pretty lass. She hummed softly, and he realized she was carefully leafing through sheaves of parchment spread across the surface, smiling at them in a tender way.

  Alaric shifted cautiously so he could see better, but the motion was detected. Shona looked up, her face flushing slightly.

  “Oh, you’re awake,” she said. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have been looking at your things…”

  “S’all right,” Alaric said with a deep breath. “They’re only songs…”

  “But they’re very good,” she said and came over to the side of the bed. “Are they yours?” Her hand touched his forehead before he could comprehend what she was doing. “I mean, did you write them?”

  “Yes,” he said as the warmth of her flesh drew away.

  “Good. No sign of mage fever in ye,” she said. She sat down on a chair by the bed and reached for a pitcher and cup. “Would you like some water?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Alaric said, and realized his throat was feeling parched. His head thundered softly as he made an effort to sit up. Shona quickly set the water containers aside and offered to assist, adjusting his pillows for a brace. “Thank you,” he said again. She nodded and reached for the water once more. “So you can read music?” he asked, wanting something to distract him from the threat of pain hovering in his head.

  “Oh, no,” she said and smiled, handing him the water. “I was just reading the words. They’re very nice.”

  Alaric smiled and took a sip of water. He swallowed. “You’re just being kind,” he said. “Some of them are absolutely rotten.”

  “They are not,” she said, and briefly, she reminded him of the youngest of his three sisters when he worried about playing for guests. Fiona would have chided him in that very same fashion. “They’re very lovely words, and you’re very good. I’ve heard you sing and play, remember?”

  “Thank you,” he said. “But I don’t think I’ll ever be as good as my old master.”

  “You’re still young,” she said, and he almost laughed aloud. She thinks I’m young? Why she was hardly past her sixteenth summer… “Does your head still hurt?” she asked.

  “It’s trying to,” he admitted. “Where are Etienne and Fenelon?”

  “Fenelon finally fell asleep,” Shona said, and looked just a little disappointed that Alaric had asked. “Etienne is probably with him now. He has a touch of mage fever, and she wants to make certain it didn’t get worse.”

  “Is Fenelon all right?” Alaric frowned.

  “Oh, he’s fine,” Shona said. “But I dare say you’ll be a bit woozy for a day or two.” She rose as she spoke. “I’d better go fetch Etienne now. She said she wanted to see you as soon as you were awake to make sure you were all right.”

  Shona quickly headed for the door, and Alaric sighed. She seemed like a nice enough lass. Somewhere in the last day or so of babble, he vaguely recalled Fenelon saying Shona was a sheep farmer’s daughter whose father was quite relieved at not having to gather a dowry for her when the mage sign blossomed. A good solid girl was Fenelon’s assessment, and Etienne’s favorite pupil.

  Alaric could see why. He was considering this when Etienne suddenly entered his room.

  “Ah, good,” she said as she fluttered over to the bedside and claimed herself a seat on the edge. “Awake and no mage fever, I hear.” She looked into his eyes, turned his head side to side, felt his forehead and his throat as though testing for her own satisfaction. And he could not help but notice her clothing had been reduced to the thin linen under dress and vest. The laces of both hung loose, giving him a long deep view within. Her breasts were quite full, and he wondered if Fenelon had been addressing their beauty this evening.

  “I said, does your head hurt?” Etienne asked, taking him firmly by the chin and forcing his gaze higher. A rather stern mask stiffened her features with disapproval.

  “Oh…uh…yes and no,” he said and grimaced.

  “Then I will fix you some of my special tea,” Etienne said as she let go. She purposefully snagged the laces and pulled them tight, and her eyes carried a fire that told him he had just earned her contempt. “It will help you to sleep. I fear both you and Fenelon will be light headed for the next day or so. I’ll have Shona bring you the tea. Since I really must stay with Fenelon, and you’re obviously feeling better, I shall let Shona sit with you tonight…”

  “She doesn’t have to,” Alaric said, probably too quickly.

  “I say she does,” Etienne said as she stopped at the door. There she turned and fixed him with a matronly glower. That glance would have sent him scurrying had his mother worn it. As it was, he felt impelled to pull the blankets up to his chin. “And let me tell you this, young Alaric Braidwine. I will expect you to be a perfect gentleman in Shona’s company. She is quite taken with you, and I will not have you take advantage of that. Do I make myself clear?”

  A slap would have seemed gentler in Alaric’s opinion. “Yes, ma’am,” he muttered.

  “Good,” Etienne said. “Sleep well.”

  She shut the doors firmly in her wake. Alaric winced at the sharp echo reverberating on his eardrums.

  “Horns, that was about the most bloody stupid thing you’ve ever done, Alaric Braidwine,” he murmured to himself, and leaned back in the pillows to wait for his tea.

  TWENTY

  The dull ache that drummed in Alaric’s head took nearly two days to ease up. His only consolation came in knowing Fenelon’s head ached even more. The spell wall had lashed at Fenelon more seriously for some reason. Because of that, the master mage kept lessons in magic rather light. Oh, he pressed books on Alaric and growled with frustration when Alaric confessed no familiarity with Forannan’s Rules of Star Divination. Such outbursts hurt Alaric, though he tried not to let it show. Fenelon’s enthusiasm for his craft was darker than usual…almost grim.

  “I almost think he’s angry at me,” Alaric confessed to Shona late the next day. She remained at Eldon Keep so Etienne could travel back and forth between there and Dun Gealach. “As though he blames me for his pain.”

  “It’s just the remnants of the mage fever,” Shona said as they sat in the great hall and played Knights and Crowns the traditional way—no magic—while Fenelon napped. “It always makes him cranky when it keeps him from solving a problem. He’ll be fine tomorrow.”

  She spoke those words with the greatest of confidence, which puzzled him.

  At least Alaric didn’t dream those nights, or if he did, he could not remember. Something to do with Etienne’s tea, he imagined. She made him drink it again, and he fell into a deep, relaxing slumber, for which he was grateful. He wasn’t sure he wanted to visit those dreams again.

  By the next day, Fenelon was closer to his old self. He teased Alaric and Shona alternately, and argued with Etienne that he felt fine. Still, Alaric could not help but notice a hint of tension in the air. Fenelon insisted on going off to his conjuring chamber alone for a time, and to that end, he bolted the door. Curiosity drove Alaric to use mage senses in an attempt to ascertain what was happening beyond the heavy wood, but Fenelon must have suspected such would happen. Alaric quickly learned that a “wall” had been placed about the chamb
er to prevent unwanted spying.

  Out of boredom, Alaric occupied himself with his music. Shona begged for a song as she sat scribbling in bound sheaves of parchment, so Alaric obliged her, first with a pair of humorous ballads, then with a gently song of longing.

  “Oh, maiden standing by the stones,

  What calls you from the gloaming,

  And sings to you of love untrue,

  To fill your heart with longing…”

  “You have such a wonderful voice,” Shona said. “I should say your family must be quite proud of you.”

  Alaric shrugged. “I suppose, considering that as a mageborn bard, I’m not exactly following in my father’s footsteps,” he said.

  “What does your father do?”

  “He’s a smith…or was. He retired from that profession when I turned seven. He inherited a keep with a lot of land, and became a gentleman farmer. Up until I was seven, I was learning to be a smith. I used to help father in the smithy, and he’d tell me about metals and about the pots he’d mended and the swords he’d made. He liked to boast that a number of the nobles of Tamnagh carried blades forged by his hands. That they came from far and wide to seek his work…of course, he was good.”

  “So how did you become a bard?” Shona asked.

  “Well, I was always singing. Father’s pet name for me is Lark…” Alaric’s face warmed. “Little Lark when I was small. I just seemed to come by the skill naturally, so when Father became landed gentry, he hired a musician to teach us. I learned to play the lute back then, and my eldest sister Meg can pluck a harp quite well. Sine and Fiona had tin ears, however, and couldn’t so much as carry a tune.”

  “You have sisters, then?”

  “Three,” he said. “All much older than I. I’m told there were six daughters in all, but two died at birth and one died of fever at the age of two…Before I was born, my father had almost given up on ever having a son. Mother said my birth turned Father into a giddy fool. She says he spoils me too much…” He sighed. “And now his only son has left home to learn to be a proper mage, and he shares the running of Gordslea Hold with his only son-in-law, though I have heard that my sister Sine is being courted by a crofter these days…and that Meg is with child.”

  “Are you no longer your father’s heir?”

  “Actually, I will inherit all he has, or so he says, though I wonder if it’s fair,” Alaric said. “I started to show mage sign around nine, and while Father has always encouraged me with my music and my magic, there are times I think he’s a little disappointed that his only son is not quite the heir he hoped for.”

  “Surely not,” Shona said and sighed. A moment of silence passed. “I say,” she suddenly said in a cheerful voice. “Would you please show me how to pluck a psaltery…I’ve always wanted to learn.”

  “All right,” Alaric said, and he did just that.

  They were sitting side by side in the great hall, giggling over wrong notes and colorful lyrics they were making up off the top of their heads when Fenelon returned from his conjuring.

  “Well now, isn’t this a lovely scene,” Fenelon said. “The pair of you look rather sweet together.”

  Shona blushed, and Alaric glared at Fenelon’s grin.

  “Well, at least I’m the one who found you first,” Fenelon said. “After what Etienne said about you, Alaric, I would expect her to haul both of you across that bench for a sound thrashing if she thought you were being anything less than virtuous. Just what did you do to upset her the other night anyway?”

  Alaric continued to glower as he rose from the bench and packed his psaltery into its case. “Well, I can see you’re feeling better today.”

  Fenelon crossed the room and clapped a hand to Alaric’s shoulder. “Much better, thank you, now that Etienne’s not roaring at me for taking foolish risks. That spell wall in your head packed quite a mule’s kick.”

  “So we’re no closer to knowing anything about it, are we,” Alaric said.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Fenelon said. “At least one of our eggs is hatching. I just got a summons from Dun Gealach. Our map is out of the deep and waiting, so we’d best head back there and fetch Etienne to be our translator and escort the lovely Miss Shona back to safe quarters with her virtue intact.”

  Alaric frowned and bit back a response as Fenelon opened a gate.

  Hopefully, Alaric thought, he’ll be more forthcoming about what secrets he was conjuring in there when we are alone…

  Hopefully.

  ~

  They left Shona at the entrance to the women’s quarters, and Etienne sent a message that she would meet them at the door of the Inner Library very shortly. Fenelon said nothing of his morning conjurations, and there was not time to press him about the matter. Etienne promptly arrived, and together, the three of them entered “Scholar’s Hole.”

  As before, the magic of the wards washed Alaric like a veil of cold mist, but he had expected the sensation this time and was able to ignore its tingle. Silently, he trailed behind the pair as they made for the desk. The librarian, in turn, led them to one of the alcoves where on a table lay a large wooden cylinder. Alaric saw runes like the ones Etienne had translated before carved up and down the mahogany length. Out of curiosity, he fingered one and felt a crackle of static on his skin. The sensation so delighted him, he started to touch it again, but Fenelon firmly caught Alaric’s wrist.

  “Not wise, Alaric,” Fenelon’s voice invaded Alaric’s head and the older mageborn grinned and winked. Alaric looked up and saw the librarian glowering in disapproval. Alaric took a deep breath, withdrawing his hands from the proximity of the cylinder, and pretended to find interest in the architecture of the alcove instead. The librarian continued to glower as he carefully touched several of the runes in a specific sequence. The end of the cylinder popped open to reveal the cleverly hidden hinge and latch.

  Carefully, the librarian drew the great roll of vellum from the casing and unfurled it with loving hands. Alaric’s eyes widened at the size of the thing. It was more than twice the length and half again the width of any of the copies, and the whole lower section was marked with a large number of runes. Horns that must have been a large sheep. Only then did he realize the color of the vellum was wrong, for it was grey instead of tan…and the shape suggested something vaguely humanoid. As the odor of the skin hit Alaric’s nostrils and he stepped closer to the table, a familiar bitterness graced his tongue. He shot a startled look at Fenelon.

  “Demon hide.” Fenelon mouthed the words, looking equally intrigued.

  Alaric stepped back, eager to be away from the prickling sensation now making the small hairs stand on end. Fenelon put a reassuring hand on Alaric’s shoulder and glanced questioningly at the librarian who nodded. The man turned and left the niche, and as Alaric watched, the librarian touched four spots around the mouth of the alcove. A shimmering curtain sprang up to fill the opening, blocking visibility.

  “Now we can speak,” Fenelon said, “but keep it low. Some of these scholars have very sharp ears and like any excuse to complain.”

  “That’s a demon,” Alaric hissed, pointing to the map.

  “It’s a dead demon, Alaric,” Fenelon said.

  “It doesn’t feel dead to me,” Alaric said.

  “Residual aura,” Etienne said. “I feel it too, Alaric. But Fenelon is right. The creature that once wore this hide is dead, so you’ve nothing to fear.”

  “Demon hide is impervious, and practically indestructible,” Fenelon said with a great deal more delight than Alaric thought necessary. “What better medium to record a map and a key on to be assured they will survive long past the Great Cataclysm. Why, I’ve heard of the discovery of demon-hide armor. The leather is resistant to all weaponry, better than plate mail, some say. Light as a feather and still turns a sword.”

  Alaric shuddered. He would never want to wear the skin of a demon, no matter how light or indestructible. “But if demon hide is so impervious, how did it perish?” He gestu
red.

  “I’d say the maker of this map was either an Old One or a Shadow Lord,” Fenelon replied. “Even the demons feared them. They say the Shadow Lords were gods in their own rights.”

  Etienne had moved around to study the runes, and Alaric noticed she was careful not to touch the hide with her hands. He couldn’t blame her. He felt edgy just being in the same room with it. How could Ronan Tey have stood to possess a map reeking so powerfully of evil? It was beyond Alaric’s understanding.

  “Same as before,” Etienne said and drew some fragile looking sheaves of parchment from within the billowing sleeves of her tabard. “Ancient Haxon runes, but the words are not Haxon. They are written in the Old Tongue…”

  “Old Ones?”

  “Or Shadow Lords,” she said. “They had their own language. The Shadow Speech it was called, and as I recall, it was a mixture of tongues, though I am told by a scholar more knowledgeable than myself that this tongue bore a strong resemblance to the language of the Dokkaelfar, the dark kin of the Hidden Folk and to dragons.”

  “Can you read any of it?” Fenelon asked.

  “Well, it starts as you already know by mentioning the Wyrm Tongue and the Key,” she said, speaking slowly as she scanned the runes. “And it mentions Na’Sgailean…mother of…night, destroyer of light…something I do not recognize follows for a few lines, but I seem something about the sword of the gods here in the middle of it…buried until the end of time… Place of shadows…guard, no, conceal the…” She sighed. “There is more that I do not understand.”

  Her fingers hovered over several rows and she frowned.

  “A ghoath…an lasair…”

  “Wind and flame,” Fenelon said.

  “Yes, but the words between those make no sense,” she said. “The paps of shade…”