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

by Laura J Underwood

  “Relax, lad,” Gareth said, and one corner of his mouth tugged into a good-natured smile. “I just want to see the damaged Tane and Ronan have done.”

  Alaric swallowed his unease. The warmth slipped in and out in a moment. Gareth let go and leaned back.

  “You’re a brave young man,” Gareth said. “If Tane had done this to one of mine, there wouldn’t be a corner of the world in which he could hide.”

  “Then you believe me when I tell you I had no choice but to bond with Vagner.”

  “Have no fear, lad,” Gareth said with a nod. “Granted, we still have a bit of a problem here. The laws by which we mageborn live these days by are rather plain as to what we do with those who consort with demons.”

  Alaric paled.

  “On the other hand, as my son so aptly points out, you are rather important just now. Tane Doran is a much bigger problem in my own opinion, one that must not be allowed to escape justice. His kind of vermin is much worse than a demon lover any day.”

  Alaric sighed. “Then on that, we agree, sir,” he said.

  Gareth’s attention turned to the demon once more. “A fine looking form you chose for him. I’ve always been rather partial to owls.”

  “Why, thank you,” Vagner said and puffed his feathers.

  “If it wasn’t for the demon stink of his essence sitting on my tongue like bile, I suspect he would make a fine familiar,” Gareth added with a grin.

  Vagner tightened his claws on the chair back as a sign of his disapproval.

  “Alas, it’s apparently against the laws…” Alaric managed a twitch of a smile.

  “Aye, well, not all our laws seem fair to some,” Gareth said. “And not all demons are bad. Some can be quite useful. Unfortunately, some of them have exceedingly large appetites, and bloodmages have long put them to ill use, giving the art of demon mastery a bad reputation. There was a time when the Old Ones were thought to have used demons, mostly the elemental and more ancient ones.” His eyes narrowed again and though some thought had disturbed him.

  “And look at what they accomplished,” Fenelon said with a smile. “Total destruction of themselves and their world.”

  “Not total,” Gareth said. “Your grandfather found evidence of Hidden Folk still living within isolated pockets of the Ranges.”

  “Hidden folk?” Alaric said.

  “They are thought to be similar to the Old Ones,” Etienne quickly supplied. “Ancient Haxons called them Aelfar. However, they were not so friendly towards mortals and stayed hidden from the eyes of men…unlike Dvergar, who were also called Stone Folk and considered men their friends as long as ale was as plenty as gold.”

  Alaric raised his eyebrows in wonder. Hidden Folk, Old Ones and Stone Folk…Just how many old races were there before the Great Cataclysm?

  “Father,” Fenelon said, looking thoughtful. “All this folklore aside, who do you think would be most knowledgable in the matter of finding ways to break Alaric’s bond with the demon without hurting him?”

  Gareth’s brows slid together as he glanced at Alaric. “Do you want to do it now?”

  “Well, no,” Alaric said. “Not right now, anyway.”

  “Why not? It would end Turlough’s excuse to persecute you.”

  “I know, but Vagner is also stilled bonded to Tane,” Alaric said. “As long as he is attached to me, Vagner may be able to help us find Tane and I may be able to free Vagner from Tane as well.”

  Gareth nodded. “Quite right,” he said. “But when you are ready to be rid of the beast, I might be able to assist you. My grandfather has that knowledge. I’ll check his old journals. I know where he keeps them.”

  “Your grandfather is still alive?” Alaric said.

  “Aye, as is my great grandfather who is Turlough’s younger brother.”

  “And how old is Turlough?”

  “Too old,” Fenelon quipped. “Which is why his wits have withered.”

  “You watch your mouth, my boy,” Gareth said. “I can still take a stick to you.”

  “Now you know why I learned to cast spell gates so quick,” Fenelon said and grinned at Alaric.

  “Now I know why you are like you are,” Alaric said.

  “Flatterer,” Fenelon said.

  Gareth looked from one to the other and rolled his eyes.

  FORTY FOUR

  Ronan looked displeased to see Gareth Greenfyn invading Alaric’s mind. Alaric noticed how the bard kept his distance. Ronan walked outside the edge of a circle of menhirs, wary as a deer that scents a predator. In fact, Alaric could not help but notice there seemed to be something almost inhuman about the bard just now. Something in the way his eyes shifted and refused to meet Gareth’s gaze. The way those thin shoulders hunched under the bardic greens. Fear filled Ronan’s eyes, and scented the air like strong cinnamon and cloves. Alaric stood at Gareth’s side in the center of that circle of stones and followed the bard’s uneasy moves.

  “You’ve no right…” Ronan began.

  “Would you rather talk to my son?” Gareth said, and Alaric detected a hint of sarcasm. Fenelon had wanted to be the one to come here, but Gareth thought it unwise and Alaric agreed. Fenelon had the look of a man who wanted to wring Ronan’s neck.

  Ronan shook his head and looked at Alaric. “I would rather talk to Lark alone, old man.”

  “No,” Gareth said. “If we are to stop Tane Doran then I or Fenelon must be here.”

  Ronan hesitated then took a deep breath. He behaved as though he wanted to leave, but he could not. Alaric was not about to let him. Gareth had instructed Alaric as to how to hold Ronan’s presence, and he could see Ronan was no more pleased to be a prisoner of Alaric’s will than he was to be facing one of the Greenfyns.

  “Very well,” Ronan said and entered the circle of menhirs. “What you seek is a valley which lies on the northern edge of the Ranges between the headwaters of the River Rune…”

  “That’s a rather large area,” Gareth said. “Could you be a little more specific?”

  Ronan narrowed his eyes slightly, then turned from them and waved one hand. Visions filled one of the archways which grew and swallowed the horizon. Alaric saw a pair of mountains buried under ice and snow. As he stared at them, he felt certain he had seen them before. He could not fathom how or why. Only that they held a familiarity he could not shake.

  “That is as close as I can get you,” Ronan said. “Lark will know them when he sees them. He has been there, though he does not remember.” A sly smile dressed the bard’s lips, and Alaric shivered. “I will let him keep this memory.”

  Those words stirred unease in Alaric. Another secret buried in his subconscious he had no power to control. Horns, how much deeper had Ronan’s spell gone? Just what had he buried in Alaric’s mind?

  “The way is not so clear,” Gareth said. “I would know where the artifact lies…”

  Ronan sneered. “Only Lark can tell you that,” he said.

  “Me?” Alaric said. “I don’t know…”

  “Let him lead the way…” Ronan said abruptly. “I will not stop the memories.”

  Gareth concentrated on the peaks for a moment then nodded. “‘Twill serve,” he said.

  “But how are we to get there?” Alaric asked. “I…can’t use a gate spell yet.”

  “I will open the gate that will take you to this place,” Gareth said. “But you had best get Fenelon to teach you the gate spell soon. Ronan could probably teach you, though under the circumstances, I don’t think it would be wise to ask him to do so for you would have to give him total control…if you haven’t already done so. And all the more pity if you have…”

  Ronan said nothing, but Alaric felt the bard’s anger all the same. He and Gareth traded looks, and Alaric was under the impression a challenge was taking place. What secrets were there between them that Alaric could not know? Then Gareth slipped out of Alaric’s mind with such gentle ease. Alaric blinked and opened his eyes.

  The others stood about him. Fenelon h
ad his arms crossed and wore the disappointed pout he had sported since Gareth’s decision. Shona looked eager, Etienne calm. Alaric took a deep breath and started to rise, but his head was just a little too light.

  “Not so fast,” Gareth said. He sat on a stool at Alaric’s side. “Maelwyn, a bit of wine and perhaps a meal for this young man.”

  Maelwyn rang for a servant. The wine and a supper were promptly served. Gareth used the time to regale Alaric and Shona with tales of his own travels to the Ranges, and Alaric found himself warming to this elder Greenfyn. He wondered how a man who seemed as stable as Gareth Greenfyn could have fathered such a rogue for a son.

  At length, they all grew tired. Fenelon and Gareth agreed morning was the time to set out. Besides, Gareth wanted time to prepare what he referred to as his ruse.

  “If you think Turlough is going to give this mad chase up just because you’ve all left Keltora, your wrong,” Gareth said. “I’ll delay him as best I can, but you will need additional protection if you are to evade him.”

  What he had in mind, however, was to wait for morning as well, and that was fine by Alaric who just wanted to sleep. Even Ronan remained unobtrusive in Alaric’s dreams. Oh he was there, but these were more like memories of youthful escapades. Like naming stars. For some reason, Ronan had adamantly insisted Alaric should memorize the location of northernmost star of a constellation he called Epona’s Forelock. And when Alaric asked why, Ronan merely shrugged and said, “Because one day the world will need to know…” and went silent.

  Other dreams came too, some of the unpleasantness of his recent imprisonment, except that instead of Tane, it was Turlough who enacted the torments. And instead of the Dragon’s Tongue, he wanted to know where the demon was, and when Alaric denied knowledge of the beast, Turlough called fire…

  Alaric awoke with a gasp and sat up swiftly. The dull lack of light meant it was still dark. He had sweat pouring off him, and his mouth was dry. Catching his breath, he cast a shy glance towards Fenelon with whom he was sharing a room, but Fenelon was buried under his blankets and lost in enviable sound slumber. Grabbing a blanket for warmth, Alaric crawled carefully off the bed and tiptoed towards the small table. The pitcher was empty. He sighed and set out to find water from another source.

  Maelwyn’s halls were actually lit by a set of dim globes enhanced with magic. They cast soft blue upon the stones. Alaric followed the hall to the stairs and went down. The only source of water he knew about would be the kitchen well.

  He had just reached the kitchen entry when he noticed a warm light of a large fire from the direction of Maelwyn’s hall. And felt the glimmer of spell casting as it sent shivers across his nerves. Frowning, Alaric crept over to the door.

  Gareth Greenfyn was there, hands spread over objects he had laid upon the table. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

  “Yes, that should work,” he said to himself. “Well, don’t just stand there, lad, come on in if you must satisfy your curiosity. It’s perfectly safe…”

  Gareth angled around to look at the doorway where Alaric stood feeling just a hint of unease. Gareth smiled.

  “Come on, I don’t really bite, in spite of anything my son may have said to the contrary,” Gareth said.

  Alaric fluttered a smile and stepped into the hall. “Sorry to have disturbed you, sir, but I was thirsty…”

  “Water and wine on the board over there,” Gareth said with a jerk of his head. He reached for one of the items on the table, and Alaric saw that it was a cloak Gareth now folded. “And you didn’t disturb me in the least. I was just finishing a few final touches.”

  Alaric helped himself to a tankard and filled it with water. “On what?” he asked, then quickly added, “if you don’t mind my asking, that is?”

  “Not at all,” Gareth said.

  He tossed a cloak to Alaric. The moment his fingers caressed the thick bear skin pelt cut and fitted with a hood and turned so the leather side was outward, a tingle shot through Alaric. He almost dropped the cloak in surprise.

  “Magic,” Alaric said.

  “You can feel that, can you?” Gareth said and nodded, admiration masking his face. “I rather thought you were a sensitive.”

  “Sir?” Alaric looked puzzled. Was he being insulted?

  “Mage senses vary in strength and sensitivity from mageborn to mageborn. Like you knowing the demon was about before anyone else did.”

  “Oh.” Alaric felt his face redden once more.

  “The cloak is ensorcelled,” Gareth said. “I made one for each of you…and for you, some additional protection.” Gareth held up a pair of boots. “They’re not magic, just warm, but you’ll be glad of them.”

  “But…what are these for?” Alaric asked.

  “To make Turlough think you are elsewhere,” Gareth said. “I will delay him as long as I am able without arousing his suspicion, but I dare say, he’ll have more than one mage scrying the Fourteen Kingdoms for you and the others. The more time you escape him, the more time you’ll have to stop Tane.”

  “Thank you,” Alaric said, unsure of what else to say.

  “It’s nothing,” Gareth said. “That son of mine is a good lad in spite of himself. I do this because you are his friend, and he has so few of those because of himself. But also because I believe you should have the chance to prove your own innocence…”

  “Not much chance of that as long as I wear this mark,” Alaric said and looked at his hand.

  “Aye, well, something sort of slipped my memory in the company of so many earlier,” Gareth said. “Something you should know.”

  “Which is?” Alaric said.

  “There are ways to disguise that mark…and to hide the demon’s essence as well,” Gareth said.

  “How?”

  “You know his True Name, do you not?”

  Alaric nodded.

  “That’s all you really need,” Gareth said. “The rest is a matter of choice…and a few old spells I will gladly teach you once this is over with.”

  Alaric frowned, still uncertain.

  “You best get on back to bed now, lad,” Gareth said, jerking his head. “Fenelon will be up with the hens wanting to get going now that we have a clue, and I need my sleep as well.”

  Alaric nodded. “Thank again you, sir,” he said.

  “You’re welcome, lad,” Gareth said. “Now off with you.”

  “Good night, sir,” Alaric said and turned for the door, still hauling the cloak and the boots.

  “Good night, lad,” Gareth’s voice drifted after Alaric as he made for the stairs.

  The tenor in it made Alaric miss his own father. He hurried up the stairs.

  The rest is a matter of choice, Alaric thought. Just what had Gareth meant by that?

  ~

  The humans were being rather secretive in Vagner’s opinion. The little master’s sudden rise from sleep was easy enough to understand, for he had been tossing in the throes of dreams. The demon assumed they were dreams of Tane’s manufacture, the result of his cruelty. He knows too much of being cruel, that one, the demon thought.

  But when Alaric came back, he carried a cloak and boots, and the demon felt confused by their presence. He could see the little master, but felt like he was not entirely there.

  The demon pushed this aside. Alaric went to bed and promptly fell back into a comfortable sleep. The demon waited the hours until dawn arrived. Sleep was not a necessity, except when a demon had overtaxed itself, and Vagner had yet to do anything more strenuous than pretend to be an owl. Far worse, he was finding the owl form more acceptable than the child form Tane imposed.

  I must be going mad, the demon mused.

  Something else was bothering the demon. He had noticed a strange essence somewhere at the edge of his perception. A dreadfully familiar essence stirred. The demon was tempted to launch itself into the night and seek the source, but at this point, he felt too closely tied to young Alaric to leave.

  Still, he could not shake some
unease as he perched at the head of the bed and waited for the dawn. He wondered if the four mageborn would sense it as well.

  FORTY FIVE

  Stepping through Gareth’s spell gate felt just like dream walking through his own mind to Alaric. One moment, they all stood in the center of Maelwyn’s courtyard looking at stone walls, and the next, they were standing in a snowy pasture high in some mountain range where the air bit cold on Alaric’s cheeks. He shivered and tightened his bearskin about him. Fenelon had said something about casting warming spells once they were away from the gate. Alaric hoped that would be soon.

  The view before them was two mountains rising just past a valley where everything looked dark and sinister under a thick mist. Greenery cloaked the lower elevations, but this valley was buried beneath a heavy coating of winter that felt horribly unnatural to Alaric.

  Magic. Something ancient and powerful. It was everywhere. In the soil beneath his feet. The mist that hung like dusty drapes and smelled slightly of sulfur carried a taint of power.

  The view was as familiar to him as his own face in a mirror. But how? he thought and shivered again. The demon’s owl form seemed unaffected in spite of the clip of the wind that threatened to knock the beast from Alaric’s shoulder.

  “My, my,” Fenelon said.

  “I have heard tales of such a place where winter is forever,” Etienne said.

  “Long Winter,” Alaric muttered.

  Alaric found Etienne staring at him. “That is an old Haxon story,” she said. “How is it that you know of it…”

  Alaric shrugged. He felt Ronan chuckle. “I guess it’s one of the things Ronan told me before he blocked my memories with that wall,” Alaric said.

  “Good old Ronan,” Fenelon said. “Some of the tales of the Old Ones also mention a long winter that is connected to the Great Cataclysm.”