by Lana Axe
“Now we climb,” Zamna said, motioning them forward. Instead of climbing the rocks, he led them around to a winding staircase of smooth bamboo planks. It was a long walk and a steep climb, but at least the risk of slipping and sliding back to the bottom had been eliminated.
Trudging along, a knot formed in Taren’s stomach. What if Imrit’s research was wrong? Did these Cultists practice dark magic? Before they reached the shrine, he had to know. “Imrit,” he began, “the symbol, rather my symbol, seems impatient to reach the shrine. Is it trying to get to the Cultists? Will they murder us and claim these artifacts for their own?” He wondered if his arm would give him a sign, but it felt normal, the marks on his arm nonreactive.
“Why would they do that?” Imrit asked. “They don’t even know we possess such power.”
“Won’t the dragon know?” the herbalist asked. “Surely she can sense her own craft.”
“I doubt that as well,” Imrit said. “Unless,” he added, placing a finger to his chin. “Unless she happens to be the dragon who forged it. But surely they don’t live that long.”
“You don’t know, do you?” Taren asked.
“Not really,” he replied. “But what else can we do? We need the dragon’s help. We have to try. Life isn’t worth living the way it is.”
Stunned, Taren paused on the steps. Things had been difficult, and his magical abilities were a mess at times, but life was certainly still worth living. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” Concern echoed in his words.
Sighing, Imrit placed his hand on his former apprentice’s arm. “Torment,” he said. “Constant torment. I haven’t had a moment’s peace. My mind never rests. I force myself to sleep with enchantments, but the dreams persist. Fire and death.” His eyes pleading, he beseeched the herbalist. “This must end.”
Feeling nothing but compassion for the old man, Taren reached for him and squeezed his hand. “It’s all right,” he said. “We’ll see this through to the end.” Silently, he hoped that didn’t include either of their deaths. Imrit seemed willing to die to unlock the symbol’s potential. It took a moment for that realization to sink in, considering the man’s lifelong obsession with immortality. The symbol had undoubtedly changed him, and Taren felt great pity for his former master’s suffering.
Projecting his mind to the symbol, he said, You have yet to bend to my will, but where this man is concerned, you will obey, or I will feed both of us to the flames. Clenching his teeth, Taren fought the wave of pain that erupted in his arm. A thousand knives pierced his skin, striking bone and twisting. He did not flinch. Where Imrit was concerned, he would never back down, not even against the symbol’s might. After a moment, the pain subsided.
“These Cultists practice all sort of magical rituals,” Zamna said, as they continued their climb.
“Do you know if they have a specialty? Is it elemental magic?” If Taren knew what to expect, he might be able to defend himself and Imrit.
“Fire, of course,” the La’kertan responded. “They eat, sleep, and breathe it. But they don’t clear their minds like I’ve seen you do when you summon magic. They’re irrational and act purely on impulse.” With sincerity, he added, “I doubt they’re a match for your skill, symbol or not.”
Taking comfort in his friend’s words, Taren allowed himself to relax somewhat. His stomach still fluttered, but his mind was more at ease.
By the time they reached the top, the sky was faint purple without a single cloud. Beyond was the sea, emerald and calm, a vision of tranquility stretching on toward eternity. A sheer cliff dropped down on the far side of the shrine, a row of heavy boulders the only barrier between life and death. It was a twelve-hundred-foot drop to the rocks below. Escaping in a hurry would be impossible.
Peering over the edge, Zamna commented, “Not a good place to go swimming.”
His companions leaned over to look. At least a dozen dorsal fins stood out of the water. They circled and skirted along the coastline, likely hunting for their favorite prey.
“Don’t worry,” Zamna said. “The fall would kill you instantly. You wouldn’t be alive when they ate you.”
“You have an interesting way of looking at things,” Imrit commented.
Turning away from the sharks, Taren studied the shrine. Stone dragons sat at either side of the entrance. Rising ten feet high, their red eyes gleamed with fury. Their open mouths revealed flames of red magic. Voices called out to the herbalist, tempting him. Slowly he reached for the dragon on the right, heat radiating from its stone surface. Immediately a flash of pain ran through his arm, the symbol’s marks churning in response. Twisting and turning, they formed into the shape of a dragon’s head. Taren pulled his arm away, his hand throbbing.
“Let me see,” Imrit said, gently taking the young man’s arm. “Remarkable,” he whispered.
His heart thumping in his throat, Taren could only stare at his arm. The lines did not return to normal, instead retaining the dragon shape. Before his eyes, a single line of red wove itself among the black. It moved along his skin until it reached its destination inside the dragon’s mouth. Now breathing fire, the dragon tattoo came to life. Lifting its head, its coal-black eyes looked directly at its host.
Heat burst through Taren’s body, every vein alight with fire. His first instinct was to run to the ocean for its cooling relief. But there was no quick way down, unless he wanted to plunge to his death. With no other choice, he was forced to endure the pain.
Chapter 11
Beads of sweat formed on Taren’s skin, his eyes flashing with red magic. Imrit laid his hand over Taren’s head and spoke a quiet incantation. Again and again he repeated the spell, drawing water from the ocean below to cool his former apprentice. Once the young man had steadied his breathing, he sat on the shrine’s steps and retrieved a vial from his bag.
At the touch of his hand, frost formed on the glass. Silently giving thanks to the earth for its magic, he guzzled the entire potion. The fever subsided, his mind no longer aflame. Yet the marks on his arm remained the same. No longer did they resemble the lines of the artifact inside him. Now they bore the visage of a fearsome dragon. The change unsettled him, and he pulled his sleeve down to avoid the dragon’s gaze.
“Are you all right?” Imrit asked him.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Taren replied, “I’ll be fine.”
“It’s the symbol’s torment,” Imrit said sympathetically. “We’ll have our answers soon.”
After a few deep breaths, Taren felt much better. “What now?” he asked. “Do we knock on the door?” Two dragons carved into the sanctuary door gave the travelers a menacing look. They were far from welcoming.
“I don’t think they’ll hear if we knock,” Zamna said. “But if we walk in, I guarantee they’ll see us.” Removing his daggers, he placed them behind one of the dragon statues. “We need to look as nonthreatening as possible,” he explained. “And remove your boots.”
His companions did as they were bid. With a scaly hand, the La’kertan reached for the door’s handle and pulled it open slowly. A quiet creak was the only sound, their steps muffled against a red carpeted floor.
A wide central chamber spread out before them, hallways shooting off to each side. A single dragon, carved of black stone, sat at the center. This one stood taller than those out front, reaching all the way to the ceiling. Its stocky frame and flame-red eyes contributed to its imposing presence. Taren could feel it staring down at him as if deciding his fate.
“Amazing,” Imrit whispered as they neared the statues. Every scale had been carved to full detail, its claws polished to a high shine. As he bent near it, a cloud of red vapor escaped the statues mouth, sending the old man backward to avoid it. “Poison?” he asked, his face twisting in mortal terror.
“No,” Zamna stated. “It’s not poison, but you don’t want to breathe it in directly. It’s supposed to be a blessing from the dragon, and the Cultists will approach it often. Once they’re accustomed to it, they
can handle a full dose.”
“Is it dangerous?” Taren asked. “What is its purpose?” He wanted to inspect it to figure out what the substance was composed of.
“I’m not sure why they use it,” Zamna admitted. “All I know is, if we breathe it in, it will cause a coughing fit and we’ll likely lose consciousness. When we come to, we’ll be dizzy and disoriented for hours. None of us wants that.”
“You’re right,” Taren agreed. Still, he would like to see what effect it had on the Cultists, if only for the sake of curiosity.
A stream of red flowed into the chamber, tall figures hooded and cloaked. Each man held a wavy dagger in his hand, runes of fire set into the blade. Their faces remained hidden as they stood shoulder to shoulder, a gap at their center. Another figure emerged through that opening and stood at the forefront. He appeared to be unarmed and lowered his hood to allow the visitors to look upon him.
His slender, pointed ears were unmistakably elven. Given the bronze tone to his skin, he was likely an Enlightened Elf, hailing from the Sunswept Isles. They were known to possess great magic, coveting arcane knowledge above all else. The elf’s eyes glowed bright red, his chiseled face severe.
“Who is it who has come among us?” he asked. His presence was commanding, his air that of a leader. The caution in his eyes spoke volumes. He was in control of these men. One word from him, and they would attack the intruders.
Taren spoke first, knowing he was more diplomatic than Zamna or Imrit. “We meant no offense,” he said, lifting his hands in a gesture of peace. He held no weapon, nor did he attempt to approach the Cultists. “We have come seeking the guidance and wisdom of the dragon who dwells here. That is, of course, if you will allow us into her presence.”
A low, menacing laugh sounded from the Cult leader. “The dragon will not converse with humans. You are too far beneath her. Be gone from this place. Only the dragon descendant may stay.”
Assuming they meant him, Zamna observed the red-clad men. All eyes were focused on him. Though not one to back down from a fight, he felt the urge to move away from their piercing eyes. Their red gaze made him uneasy.
The dragon mark on Taren’s arm burned, and he grimaced at the pain. Realizing they might respond to it, he shoved back his sleeve and raised his arm for the leader to see. Its eyes glowing red, the dragon mark unleashed red fire from its mouth, climbing out onto Taren’s hand before disappearing.
The leader’s face remained stoic, but a gleam in his red eyes revealed his uncertainty. After a brief silence, he said, “Some trickery, no doubt. You are an offense to myself and my brethren.”
“Please,” Taren begged. “We must speak with the dragon. Whatever you require of us, a test, an offering, we are most willing—”
“Out!” the leader shouted. The men behind him stepped forward, raising their daggers to shoulder height and positioning to strike.
Zamna motioned for them to back away. Inching toward the door, none of them risked turning their backs on the Cultists. The La’kertan allowed the other two to exit before stepping out behind them.
“That didn’t go well,” Imrit said, crossing his arms. “I think we should use magic on them.”
His eyes flashing with anger, Taren said, “I will not harm these men. We’ll find another way.” His head dropped toward his chest. “The symbol won’t allow the magic to obey. I’m sure of it.”
Swallowing hard, Zamna said, “You’re probably right. The Cultists are formidable, both with their weapons and with their magic. You’re both master wizards, but I’d bet they are too. You can’t hope to take on that many and win.”
“We can enchant them,” Imrit argued. “Trick them.”
“They’ll see through it,” Taren replied.
With an angry huff, Imrit plopped down on the shrine steps and rested his chin on his hand. “What right do they have to turn us away?” he grunted. “The dragon should decide for herself. These men are nothing.”
“They’re insulted by your presence,” Zamna pointed out. “I’m sure they think the dragon would be insulted as well.”
“Nonsense,” the wizard muttered.
A wild laugh erupted from Taren as he observed the dragon statues.
“What is it?” Imrit asked.
“It’s so simple,” Taren replied still smiling. “I should have realized when I saw the dragon’s eyes.”
“Explain,” Imrit said impatiently.
“The dragon’s eyes glow red, as do the Cultists’,” he replied.
“It’s fire magic,” Imrit said. “What of it?”
“No,” Taren said, “it’s not that. It’s a potion. One I could easily craft. If they think we’re like them, they’ll let us in. Simple.”
Imrit shot a look at Zamna. “What do you think?”
“It’s worth a try, I suppose,” he said. “But they might be enraged by your reentering their shrine, and kill you before they see your glowing eyes.”
“A valid point,” Taren acknowledged. “That’s why you’ll be the one going in.”
“What am I supposed to say?” Zamna asked. “I’m not much of an orator.”
“Tell them you need to speak with the dragon,” the herbalist replied. “It doesn’t have to be poetic. They’ll revere you because of your scales.”
Imrit added, “We’ve come all this way for nothing if you won’t help. There’s no other way in.” To Taren, he said, “How long will it take to craft the potion?”
“Not long,” he replied. “I recognize the scent of the gas they’re using. It’s also a hallucinogen, so they aren’t as sharp-minded as they think they are. I can craft one that will make Zamna’s eyes glow but without any negative effects. A ruse, pure and simple, with no risk at all.”
“Except the risk that the Cultists will see through it and kill me,” Zamna said.
“Well there is that,” Imrit replied. “You’re a crafty fellow. I’m sure you can handle anything they throw at you.”
“There were fourteen of them,” Zamna reminded him. “At my best, I could never take on so many and live. Remember, I have to be unarmed to enter, or they’ll attack immediately.”
With pleading eyes, Taren said, “Zamna, we need you. I know it’s a lot to ask, but neither of us can do this.”
“Bargain them the lophophora,” Imrit said. “They won’t refuse it from you.”
“No,” Zamna said. “I’m going to tell them the gift is from the two of you. I’ll try to convince them that you’re blood kin to the La’kertans. You said they weren’t sharp-minded, so we’ll try to exploit their weakness. Maybe if I talk too fast they won’t catch on.” He didn’t feel as confident as he wished he did. He hoped they would believe anything he said, especially if his eyes glowed with the fire of a dragon. “Mix the potion.”
Taren set to work, pulling several dried herbs from his pouch. With a word of magic, he placed fire inside a stone and held a vial over it. Pouring an ounce of orange tincture into it, he waited until it began to bubble. Then he added a few dried leaves, one at a time, all the while speaking incantations to the brew. His eyes flashed green then white followed by red. The tincture took on a dark green hue. Removing it from the heat, he called upon the wind to cool it, drawing heat away from the mixture. Running through the list of ingredients once more in his mind, he made sure nothing was left out.
“This should do it,” he announced, offering the vial to Zamna.
Taking it in his hand, the La’kertan said, “You don’t sound very confident.”
“It will work,” Taren replied. “And it’s perfectly safe. You might feel a slight dryness to your eyes, but it will pass.”
“Have you ever tried these herbs on a La’kertan?” he asked. “Our physiology is different, you know.”
“True,” Taren said. “And no, I haven’t medicated any La’kertans lately. But it’s safe, I swear it.”
The potion’s scent was off-putting, a pungent odor forcing Zamna’s nostril slits to slam shut. “Ach,”
he said.
“Don’t smell, just drink,” Taren encouraged him. “It doesn’t taste as bad as it smells.”
Tipping the vial to his lips, Zamna swallowed the mouthful of green liquid. Surprisingly, Taren was telling the truth. It had a strong mint flavor to it, with a hint of pine and something else underneath. Not the La’kertan’s first choice of beverage, but for a potion, it wasn’t the worst he’d ever tasted.
Clutching each side of his head, Zamna tried to block out the wave of heat that came over his face. His sinuses on fire, his tongue lolled out to douse the flames. In a flash, the discomfort was gone, but his eyes felt as if he’d just had sand kicked into them.
“I thought I adjusted for the fire spell,” Taren said. “Sorry.”
Tossing him a hateful glance, he gave the others a chance to inspect his eyes. They were deep red where they were once white, the original yellow iris mixing to form an orange blaze at the center. His angry expression only added to his ferocity.
“Amazing,” Imrit said, his mouth hanging open.
“I wonder if I can craft something to make you breathe fire,” Taren said. “It only has to work once.”
“Enough already,” Zamna said. “No more potions.” With his luck, he’d be belching fire for weeks.
“Quite right,” Imrit commented. “Those Cultists won’t deny him now. He’s far more frightening than any dragon.”
Ignoring the comment, Zamna said, “Is there anything special you want me to tell them?”
Imrit shook his head. “Get Taren and me an audience with the dragon however you can. If they won’t allow us both, at least get Taren in. Don’t give them the lophophora for anything less.”
Sighing, Zamna knew that drugs would get him only so far with these elves. They likely had a supplier, but Imrit’s gift would save them a great deal of money. Unfortunately, Zamna didn’t know enough about them to say whether such a gift would sway them. Imrit seemed to think so, and he’d done his homework. Zamna’s last visit hadn’t required him to know too much about the Cult. All he had to know was who to kill and the best time and place to find him. When his work was complete, he’d left without learning more.