Realms of the Dragons vol.1 a-9

by Коллектив Авторов

  Someone was just outside the door!

  Drakken crept toward the opening, careful to keep out of anyone's line of sight should they be peering into the cell from the hallway. Though he didn't want to frighten a sleepy cleric on his way to the garderobe, the half-dragon was not about to allow anyone to offer him a knife to the back. Years of peaceful service did little to erase the warrior's habits. A moment more of waiting…

  And he pounced-only to grab empty air.

  The hallway stood empty. Only the muted rumble of distant snores registered to his sensitive ears. He was alone.

  As the half-dragon turned back to the empty cell, something caught his eye. A small piece of paper lay crumpled on the ground. Drakken swept the paper up and quickly unfolded it.

  What he saw forced him to catch his breath. There, written on paper clearly torn from Arranoth's journal were the words:

  Meet me two nights hence in the Upper Cellar

  — A Friend

  The half-dragon's heart raced. There, perhaps, was some proof that he was not personally responsible for the noble cleric's death! But if so, he thought soon after, then darker wheels were turning within the abbey's slumbering walls.

  Drakken hurried out of the room, barely shutting the door, and sped off into the darkness. He was halfway to his own cell when he realized" that he had forgotten his lantern.

  Mid-morning sun bathed the courtyard in rosy radiance.

  Drakken inhaled the early spring air, tinged with the aroma of flowering buds and the sharp spice of frost. Around him, gray-robed clerics and abbey servants went about their business in dignified chaos. Livestock and wagons laden with nuts, grain, and barley crossed paths with burly men, sweat dripping from thick beards as they labored beneath earthen jugs of water and wine. Off in the distance, a cock crowed, undaunted by its lateness in announcing the sun's presence.

  Drakken, however, paid none of it any heed. Despite a morning spent in fruitless search for anything or anyone connected to the swath of dyed wool he'd discovered in Arranoth's room, the half-dragon felt little frustration. He'd slept undisturbed the previous night-the first time in tendays-after returning to his cell. Perhaps, he thought as he continued on his way, he was finally free of the anger that had plagued him for so long. At that moment, a thick gray cloud passed overhead, hiding the sun. Despite himself, the half-dragon shivered.

  Moving away from the main courtyard that functioned as the heart of White Willow Abbey, Drakken followed the small alleyways between several stone and wood buildings. After morning prayer, he'd walked quietly among the Ilmatari, inquiring about the possible origins of the dyed wool. Since no one could provide him with anything other than generalities about the quality of the dye and the craft-worthiness of the wool's spin, he'd decided to visit Brother Phenotar in the healer's workshop to see if the man had any more information on Arranoth's death.

  Well known for his noxious potions and noisome unguents, the young brother set up his workshop against the south wall of the abbey, farthest away from the chapter house-to the approval of all the brothers. It took Drakken a few more minutes to arrive at the small wooden building that housed the abbey's resident herbalist. He knocked once and entered.

  It took the half-dragon a moment to adjust to the riot of sights and smells that greeted him. Clumps of dried and drying herbs hung from every rafter, while a number of small, soot-blackened pots bubbled and boiled in the corner. The tables-old battered trestles burned and scarred with the remains of the herbalist's experiments-looked ready to buckle beneath the weight of countless thick librams, weathered alembics, and the detritus of tools for which Drakken had no name. A cloud of conflicting smells made war in the low-roofed structure, nearly choking the half-dragon.

  He waited a few moments until it was clear that neither the cleric, studiously observing something in a small dish with a hand magnifying glass, nor his bustling novice herbalists had noticed his arrival.

  "Brother Phenotar," he said somewhat softly, not used to his normally eye-catching appearance going unnoticed. "Brother," he said again, more forcefully.

  White Willow's Brother Herbalist looked up in obvious surprise at his visitor, still holding the magnifying lens up to one eye. He gazed imperiously at the half-dragon, though the effect was somewhat mitigated by the cleric's abnormally enlarged eye peering from behind the glass.

  "Hmmm… hmmm…" came the herbalist's response.

  The alchemist snapped his fingers. At once, the young novices scurried out of the room, not making a single sound.

  "You have them well trained," Drakken said as the last white-robed boy left the workshop, closing the small door behind him.

  "Rascals all of them," Phenotar sniffed. "And not one of them with the brains necessary to tell the difference between purging buckthorn and celery, if you must know.

  "Still," he added with a crooked smile, "I've grown quite fond of them. But don't you be telling them that I said so! They'll be impossible to deal with."

  He turned back to the small dish in an obvious huff.

  "Brother Phenotar," Drakken said again, caught between amusement and a growing sense of frustration, "I've come to see if you can tell me anything more about Brother Arranoth's…" he stumbled over the word,"… murder."

  "Hmmm… hmmm…" the herbalist replied, and broke off from whatever it was that had caught his attention. "Murder… oh yes, Arranoth. Terrible thing that was," Phenotar put down the magnifying lens. "Brother Abbot asked me to examine the body."

  "Yes, I know," the half-dragon replied, the frustration finally creeping in to his voice. "That's why I've come. The abbot asked me to investigate the events surrounding the sub-prior's death."

  "Well, why didn't you say so in the first place?" the herbalist asked.

  Drakken stifled a thick-chested growl. The morning's newfound equilibrium vanished in a flash of anger.

  "What have you found?" was all the half-dragon managed between clenched teeth.

  "Something, to be sure," Phenotar replied, oblivious to Drakken's mounting rage, "but it's too soon to draw any conclusions. I need to verify a few things."

  "When will you have something definite?" Drakken asked.

  "Later this evening, perhaps…" the herbalist paused. "Tomorrow morning to be sure."

  The half-dragon turned to go, a curse on absent-minded clerics already coming to his lips. When the herbalist asked him if he had uncovered anything in his own investigations, Drakken nearly didn't stop. Something in the cleric's voice, however, held him there.

  Taking a deep breath, Drakken faced the inquisitive herbalist and relayed what he had discovered in Arranoth's room. He surprised himself, however, when he did not mention the mysterious note.

  The half-dragon's surprise deepened when Phenotar asked to see the wool swatch. The herbalist studied it for a moment and grabbed the magnifying lens. With the fingers of one hand he spread out the wool fibers and peered intently at them through the instrument.

  Drakken held his breath, for a moment all anger forgotten.

  "Hmmm … hmmm…" said the herbalist after a moment. "A very fine dye, but not local. It is difficult to get this depth of saturation and this color with the indigenous plants we have here. I seem to remember…" The cleric paused, drumming long, stained fingers against the table in obvious thought. "Yes," he said after another moment. "There was a merchant- Valerix I think his name was. He came to the abbey several months ago seeking an ongoing agreement to supply us throughout the year. He had several bolts of wool exactly this color."

  Drakken sighed, cursing his luck. Whoever it was probably traded throughout the region. He'd never find him.

  "Worst case of winter fever I'd ever seen," continued Phenotar.

  "What?" Drakken nearly shouted. "You mean-"

  "Yes," the herbalist said with a smile. "He's still here. Recuperating in the guest house until his caravan comes through here again."

  Drakken offered his thanks to the cleric, any earlier anger forgo
tten in his desire to follow up on his next lead. The half-dragon took his leave and went in search of the recuperating merchant.

  It didn't take him long. Smaller than the chapter house, the abbey guest house stood to the west of the Ilmatari chapel that served as the spiritual heart of the monastery. Its two-story stone frame offered shelter to weary travelers, sick villagers, and any who called upon the brothers for aid. A quick word to the guest master and Drakken discovered that Valerix took his morning repast each day in one of the house's sitting rooms. The young cleric in charge of abbey hospitality led him through several short corridors, eventually stopping before an entryway covered by a thick blue curtain. Calling out a greeting, the guest master ushered Drakken through the curtain into an open, sunlit room before taking his leave.

  There, among a stack of dishes heaped with quail and plover eggs, thick bread, cold chicken, and crocks of various jellies, sat the most corpulent human he had ever seen. Bloated, splotchy flesh sagged around a nearly hairless head, running down the sides of the merchant's face to end in thick jowls. Scrag-gly, graying hair-glistening with grease from the morning's meal-erupted in a riot around thin lips. Bright red silks, so at odds with the muted colors worn by most of the abbey, bulged and flowed with the great mass of flesh that shifted as the merchant stood in greeting.

  Drakken caught the man's look of surprise, which was just as quickly replaced by a cold, calculating gaze. The half-dragon felt as if he were being appraised for sale, and the feeling did little to improve a mood that seemed consistently sour.

  "Valerix the merchant?" Drakken asked simply when the man had finally caught his breath from the exertion of standing.

  The fat man lifted a bloated hand in response.

  "At your service," he replied with an uncomfortable bow.

  Sunlight reflected off a thick band of gold wedged tightly around one of the merchant's pudgy fingers. The ring glittered with nearly incandescent flame.

  "It is a fine work of art, is it not?" Valerix asked, noticing the half-dragon's interest. "You have seen it before?"

  He held it up. Two lines of gold, beaten and fashioned into the likeness of serpentine tails twined around each other to form the ring's shape. Drakken shook his head.

  "No?" came the merchant's haughty reply. "Ah well, we are a large trading house. All of my associates wear such trinkets."

  … and you are obviously of no consequence.

  Drakken heard the unspoken message clearly. He felt the familiar anger coil tightly within him. Something about that fat human cried out for a bloody throttling. The half-dragon fought the impulse down. He felt as if he walked precariously on a tightrope-one false move would send him tumbling into a sea of blood. He must be careful. If he had indeed killed Brother Arranoth, he wanted to make sure that no one else fell victim to his irredeemable evil. The merchant, however distasteful, may hold the secret to finding out exactly what happened. He was of no use to Drakken dead.

  "I apologize for disrupting your meal," the half-dragon said at last in a tone that bespoke of anything but apology. "I need to ask you a question about Brother Arranoth."

  Valerix raised his eyebrows at the mention of the murdered sub-prior.

  "The brother recently killed?" he said, covering his mouth with fat, sausagelike fingers. "Whatever for?"

  Drakken thought for a moment before answering, "We are gathering the sub-prior's belongings in order to sell them for those in need, and we had a question about a few of the articles we found."

  The half-dragon gazed intently at the merchant, sure that the man had seen through that thin web of half-truth. If he had, however, the canny merchant gave no indication.

  "I see," Valerix said, stroking his beard with indolent grace. "How can I help?"

  Drakken ignored the man's tone, which clearly indicated that it would be a waste of time. He reached into his robe and pulled out the purple wool swatch.

  "Have you seen this before?" the half-dragon asked.

  Valerix furrowed his brow, causing deep folds in the skin, as he examined the wool.

  "Why, yes," he replied after a moment. "This is part of a sample of product that I give out to prove the quality of my wares. The swatch belongs to me."

  "I see," Drakken replied. "Then can you tell me how it came to be in Brother Arranoth's room?"

  The half-dragon couldn't quite keep the accusation out of his voice.

  "That's easy," came the reply, no less pointed. "My negotiations with Brother Brontheld, the Cellarer, were… let's just say that they were bearing little fruit. So I appealed to Brother Arranoth and offered him samples of my wares. It's that simple," the fat merchant nearly purred.

  "Then you won't mind if I verify that with the Brother Cellarer himself?" Drakken asked.

  "Of course not," Valerix waved at the half-dragon dismissively as he returned to his meal. "Now, if you don't mind…."

  Drakken nearly took a step forward and grabbed the merchant by the collar so angry was he at being dismissed, but a disturbance in the courtyard distracted him. Even inside the guest house he could hear the buzz of many voices.

  "Excuse me," he said abruptly, and left the merchant without another word.

  The courtyard was a riot of activity. Brothers and servants stood in huddled clumps, chattering excitedly, or else they were running from wall to wall carrying baskets full of supplies.

  "What's happening?" he yelled to a passing servant.

  The woman stopped and turned to the half-dragon, terror written clearly on her face.

  "Have you not heard? They've sighted orcs, they have. In the hills not a day's ride from the abbey."

  The news sent Drakken's heart pumping. Perhaps there was still something he could do.

  Clearly, it was time to speak with the abbot.

  A knock at the door pulled Drakken from his nightmares. He groaned and tried to roll over, to ignore the pounding on the door. Despite his best efforts, it continued-each blow resounding in the room like the hammer that would, finally, bind him in chains for the rest of his life. There was no escaping it. He had killed Brother Arranoth.

  The pounding continued.

  Drakken groaned and stumbled to his feet. His small cell lay in ruins. Deep claw marks scarred the length of the stone wall, while a tangle of splintered furniture and torn clothing littered the floor.

  Memory rushed in on him like a tidal wave. Despite three attempts to see the abbot, he had been unable to speak with Meremont. Each rebuffed attempt stoked the embers of his anger. Frustrated by his inability to participate in the abbey's defense, he had retired to his cell, falling at last into a fitful slumber from which he could not seem to wake.

  Images plagued his every moment. The visions were immediate and terrible in their detail. It was as if Drakken wasn't merely reliving the horrifying event, but rather found himself trapped within the moment, tearing out the sub-prior's throat again and again.

  Sometime near dawn, he had struggled free of his nightmarish prison, overcome with guilt arid anger.

  Rage over his obvious complicity in Arranoth's murder met with a deeper, burning hatred fueled in his heart. The beast within had slipped its bonds and he had lashed out at anything near him, until exhaustion drew him once more into sleep.

  The knocking grew more insistent, penetrating the undertow of guilt brought by the evening's nightmares.

  "What?" the half-dragon yelled as he pulled open the door, expecting the abbot and a host of his accusers.

  Instead, he found a young novice in a simple white robe. The boy took a step back, eyes widening at Drakken's wild appearance.

  "Brother Phenotar wants … he wants to see you urgently," the novice's voice quavered.

  When he arrived at the herbalist's workshop, Drakken followed the novice to a back room. The half-dragon was sure that everyone in the abbey knew of his guilt. He had felt their eyes upon him as they walked across the abbey close. Steeling himself, he entered the room, prepared for the worst.

  B
rother Phenotar barely acknowledged his entrance. The herbalist leaned intently over a figure lying on a broad table, running his fingers over something that looked suspiciously like a human arm. Drakken was about to shout his confession to the studious cleric when he realized that the arm belonged to Brother Arranoth.

  The half-dragon began to shake, and was surprised when a voice somewhere within him began to curse him for his cowardice.

  The herbalist, apparently, took no notice of his condition, but rather continued his examination.

  "Take a look at this," Brother Phenotar said without preamble, indicating the sallow track of skin upon the corpse's arm. "Interesting, is it not?"

  Drakken drew closer carefully, sure in his heart that the corpse would leap up and point damningly at its murderer.

  "I don't… I don't see anything," he replied.

  "Hmmm…" came the reply. "Yesterday I mentioned that I needed to study something further. The wounds to our departed brother's throat have bothered me from the beginning."

  "Why?" Drakken asked, bending closer to the corpse despite himself.

  "There did not seem to be enough bleeding for the severity of the wound." The herbalist tilted back the corpse's head, exposing the ruined wreck of its throat. "So, I did some further examination and I found this."

  He indicated a small wound on the inside of the corpse's arm.

  "What is it?" Drakken inquired.

  "At first," Phenotar replied, "I thought it was a simple insect bite. But I ran some more tests. That's when I discovered that someone had poisoned Brother Arranoth.

  "Adder's root," the herbalist added. "Very deadly."

  "Then Arranoth was-" Drakken began.

  "He was already dead when the wounds to the throat were made," Brother Phenotar finished. "I examined the throat wounds further and I discovered tiny slivers of metal. Whatever made the wounds wasn't natural."

  Drakken felt his knees begin to buckle as relief flooded through him. He wasn't the one who'd killed the sub-prior! All of the hours of self-recrimination and hatred seemed like a dream. The Brother Herbalist's discoveries put a part of his mind at rest, while another part began to whirl with dark possibilities.