All too soon, he felt a hand grasp his foot and shake him awake. Rolling over, he pushed himself out of the small tent, and a damp chill cut through his light sleeping clothes. Mir’am Trilim knelt next to him when he emerged. Bobbing his head and stifling a yawn, Arderi motioned for the man to go and that he would follow. The old man smiled down at him, stood, and walked toward the cook fire’s dim glow in the pre-dawn gloom. Reaching over, Arderi grabbed his boots and checked for creepy-crawlers in each. When he found that none had taken residence in them during the eve, he pulled them on.
By the time Arderi arrived at the fire, Trilim had it stoked back to a respectable blaze. He helped the cook lift the large pot onto the spit. Grabbing a bucket, he trudged down to the small stream that babbled nearby. Thus the day started, as each before it since the troop had set up the permanent base camp. The remainder of the day passed like the rest—free time spent with Sier Deln, serving and cleaning up halfmeal, weapons training with Master Gartin.
Later that eve, after lastmeal, Arderi busied himself cleaning the dishes in the same small stream from which he fetched their water. A commotion back at camp caught his attention, and leaving the dishes in a pile next to the brook, he hurried to investigate.
The sun had sunk below the mountains, casting the valley into a muffled darkness as a group of scouts rode into the camp. One of the shabby mountain horses they rode pulled a crude litter made of sticks strung between two large branches. A large black lump rested in the middle of the litter. At first, Arderi thought it might be a man’s body.
It is the right size for a man, yet not the correct shape.
A small crowd of men had gathered around the newly arrived scouts, and Arderi had to shove his way between more than a few of them to get close enough for a good look. The black lump resting on the litter looked like a pile of broken, shredded leather thrown into a rumpled pile.
“All right! Make room, you maggots!” The men parted as Alimia shoved her way through the crowd. “Tylin, what in all the Nine Hells is going on here?”
Tylin was one of Master Hindar’s scouts. Thin and wiry, he held an easy grin on his face. Vaulting down from his mount, a shabby gray mare like the one pulling the litter, he sauntered over to the leftenant. “Me and my crew snagged us a Drakon!”
“This little pathetic lump of meat?” Alimia poked at the pile with a toe.
“Aye, it fits the tales, and that is so!” The put-off scout scowled at the leftenant.
Arderi worked his way to the front of the crowd and now stood next to the makeshift litter. The pile of leather did seem to fit the pictures painted by the bard’s tales. Stab wounds covered the cat-like body of the creature. Two large leathery wings sprouted from its shoulders—one slit near in half lay draped over the edge of the litter. A long serpentine neck extended out to a bony head adorned with tiny spikes. A black tongue flopped out of its maw between rows of tiny, razor-sharp teeth.
It is just like a bard’s tale… except…
“Except it is much too small!” Arderi’s face flushed with the realization that the crowd had turned to look at him.
“Oh, look everyone, the stowaway is a master huntsman now!”
Arderi dropped his head and took a step back as a ripple of laughter resounded through the troop.
Leaning over the body of the creature, Alimia peered into its dead eyes. “Nix, the boy is correct, Tylin. It seems to me you have bravely killed a baby Drakon.” This time the laughter that resounded through the men lifted Arderi’s spirits and he found himself giggling as well. “No matter, Tylin. Master Rillion will still be pleased. Mayhaps this will serve his purpose and we can leave these accursed mountains. If not, you can show him where you found this. Its mother should be close at hand.”
A shrill shriek pierced the air causing everyone to flinch. The horse pulling the litter started to prance nervously and one of the men reached out and grabbed its reins to settle it.
“What in all the Nine Hells was that?” Blade in hand, Alimia spun half around to gaze out at the now dark forest.
As if it had materialized out of thin air, a large black creature slammed down onto the back of the horse pulling the litter. The mare shrieked as the force of the blow crumpled its legs and sent it crumpling to the ground. Men scattered and chaos seized hold of the camp. The massive creature, easily twice the size of the dead mare it now stood upon, flexed the bat-like wings that sprouted from its shoulders. A long snake-like neck stretched out, ending in an immense spike-lined head.
The creature opened its maw—rows of shimmering teeth lined the dark chasm of its mouth—and bathed the area with another piercing shriek. The noise bore into Arderi’s skull forcing him to his knees. He covered his ears with both hands trying to block out the sound. When the noise subsided, Arderi opened his eyes. The creature was gone, the horse it had perched on lay still, blood oozing from large tears in its side and neck. Someone grabbed his arm and yanked him roughly to his feet.
“Get out of here!” Alimia pushed him toward the wagons. “Take cover under a—” A blur of shadow passed before his eyes and Arderi stood alone. A sickeningly wet thump sounded behind him and he spun. At his feet lay the remains of the leftenant’s body. The woman’s head, left arm, and shoulder—gone. Blood and bits of flesh splattered the dirt, and in the fading light of dusk it shimmered crimson before turning black.
Without thought, Arderi backed away, spun, and ran. His foot caught the edge of the litter and he fell to the ground hard, forcing the wind from his lungs.
Arderi could do nothing except lay there, staring at the thing on the pallet behind the dead horse. Finally, revulsion of the dead creature overpowered his mind-numbing fear to move, and he pushed himself off the litter. Standing over it, he saw it was a carbon-copy of the larger one that now terrorized the camp. With a heavy thump, a large black mass landed on the other side of the litter so hard the ground beneath Arderi vibrated. In the darkness, he could make out little detail save for a row of gleaming teeth under two eyes that caught the light of the campfire and reflected it back at Arderi. The creature opened its maw and an ear-wrenching screech blasted forth, slamming Arderi to the ground. Scrambling up, he launched himself into the darkness. Fleeing blindly, his heart pounding to escape the confines of his chest, he cared not where he ran so long as it took him away from the horror of a bard’s tale come to life. A flash of light lit his vision—a burst of stars not of the sky, yet of his eyes—and Arderi fell.
Fell into nothingness.
Dawn had crept upon the land before Clytus Rillion crested the small hill that separated him from a hot meal and a warm sleeping mat. He had been out for well over a tenday, and the days spent alone amongst the peaks of the Nektine had taken their toll on him. His back ached, his limbs felt like lead, and the chill of the high mountains had seeped into his very bones.
And all this time I have still not gotten any closer to finding one of those damnable beasts! At least I will have a decent eve’s rest in camp…
Looking down at the camp below, his mind reeled. Digging his heels into Starborn’s side, he galloped down the small slope, reining hard at the edge of a smashed tent. Numbness fell over him like a fog. Starborn jerked to one side, becoming skittish of a dead body, congealed blood pooled below a large gash in the man’s side. Without thought, Clytus slipped from his saddle.
Everywhere his eyes fell, death surrounded him.
Men and horses, or the remains of them, lay strewn amongst the shattered remnants of tents and wagons. Black carrion birds had already found their morning meal. They feasted upon the bloating corpses of man and beast alike. Walking aimlessly through the carnage, Clytus thought he recognized the clothing of Alimia on one such body. Thin of waist and hip he knew of no other it could be. The body was missing much of its upper half, however, and he would need to roll her over to be sure. He did not think he could stomach the task. Pulling his eyes fro
m the corpse, a clump of broken wood, barely recognizable as the remains of several wagons, drew his attention. In the center of the rubble, he found the body of Master Gartin, sword still in hand, upon a heap of half a dozen men.
At least you had your last stand, my old friend. I hope you made it count.
Not far from the pile, the body of Trilim Grith lay crumpled next to the scattered remains of his cook fire. Clytus fell to his knees next to his old friend. A tear traced its way down his cheeks. The old cook’s lifeless eyes bore into Clytus. Whatever had caused the man’s death had torn through flesh and bone alike. Reaching out, he gently closed the lids.
Sleep well, old friend, your travels have been long. I will miss you.
Clytus remained on his knees as a rage swept into him like the waters of an icy-cold river. He let the current of pain and loss, of anguish and grief, fill him till it overflowed the banks of his mind. His grief turned to tears that spilled from his eyes and poured down his cheeks.
They all trusted me, and I have led them to ruin!
“I led them all to ruin!” His scream snapped the silence of the valley, echoing off the high mountain walls and causing several of the carrion birds to take wing. His words resounded back, mocking his pain and slicing through his very core.
Bowing his head, he ran callused fingers through his hair and grasped a handful in his fist. Clearing his mind, he concentrated on the slight pain he caused to his scalp—felt how each hair hung onto his head, and how, collectively, they rooted themselves firmly in place. The more he tightened his grip, the more he focused on the pain, clearing his mind of all else—trying to wipe away the image of his men who lay all around him—yet knowing he never would.
When a snap of a twig penetrated his mental shield, Clytus launched to his feet, sword in hand. Facing in the direction of the noise, he stood there, unsure if he hoped to kill whatever had done this to his people, or to allow it to kill him and release him from his guilt. There, some thirty paces away amongst the tree line, the young Shaper, Jintrill Deln, stood leaning heavily on a branch. Blood caked the side of his head—his brownish hair matted over that ear. A look of horror filled the young man’s face.
Rushing to the Shaper, Clytus took his full weight from the tree and helped him toward the lakeshore, away from the destroyed campsite. A small rise separated the lake from the camp, and shame filled him even as the relief of not being able to see his dead troop eased his mind.
Setting the young man down on a log, Clytus dipped a rag into the cold water and began cleaning Jintrill’s head wound, trying to determine how serious it was. The young man did not flinch under his ministrations. The Shaper simply sat there, his eyes staring far off into the distance.
“The wound is not deep, yet this lump will take many a day before it fully heals.”
At the sound of Clytus’ voice, Jintrill looked at him for the first time since the boy emerged from the forest. “My thanks to you.”
“What happened here, Sier? I saw no discernable tracks.”
Looking over his shoulder, Jintrill stared in the direction of the base camp for long moments. “Black death—it came from the sky…” The young Sier’s words came flat, without inflection. “…as if the darkness itself had grown fangs.”
Laying a hand on the Shaper’s cheek, Clytus eased the young man’s head to face him. “This was no boogieman, Sier. Something attacked this camp. I need to know what it was.”
A voice sounded from behind Clytus. “I think it was your Drakon.” Further up the beach, Clytus saw the boy, Arderi, clothes soaking wet, limping toward them. The boy’s left arm hung limp to his side. Arderi winced as Clytus took his right arm and helped him over to the log where the young Shaper sat. “The Sier is correct, sir. The thing came out of the dark like a horror.”
“Why do you think it was a Drakon?”
With another wince of pain, Arderi carefully pulled his injured arm into his lap. Clytus could see the break just below the shoulder, and marveled at the inner strength of the lad. “It fit the descriptions of the bard’s tales I have heard, sir. Cat-like body, serpentine neck, large wings from its shoulders.” The boy shivered in the cool mid-morning mountain air.
Rising to his feet, Clytus pointed to Jintrill. “Stay with the Shaper. I will only be gone a moment.” He headed over the small hill that led to the base camp, and was assailed once more by the visage of carnage that he beheld. Focusing on finding what he needed, it took him only moments to rummage through the wreckage of the wagons to find what he sought. Returning to the two young men, Clytus first wrapped a blanket around Arderi, then Jintrill, who’s glossy eyes continued to gaze off into the distance. With a little coaxing, Clytus pulled the Shaper off the log and laid him next to it. The Sier’s eyes never so much as blinked.
Hefting his waterskin, Clytus handed it to Arderi, who gulped down the water. Some spilled out from between the boy’s lips to wet the blanket tucked around his shoulders.
“My thanks, sir.”
Taking the skin back, Clytus made to offer it to Jintrill. Yet, the young Sier continued to stare off with vacant eyes, so Clytus pushed its stopper into the mouth and re-hung it at his hip. “I can clearly see you have been through a lot, yet I must know, boy, what happened here?”
“It all happened so fast, and I was so frightened.” Arderi’s voice trailed off.
“Easy, lad.” Clytus reached out and patted the young boy’s shoulder, yet stopped when a gasp of pain escaped Arderi’s lips. “Start at the beginning.”
“One of the scout teams—Tylin’s group, I think—found and killed a baby Drakon. They brought it in on a litter behind one of their horses. Its parent must have followed, for as soon as they made camp, it struck.” Arderi looked into Clytus’ eyes for the first time since the boy had appeared on the beach. “I am sorry, sir, Alimia is dead.”
Clytus nodded, knowing the boy spoke true, and not just about Alimia. “I know, lad. I know. They are all dead” Standing, he turned to look out over the vast, beautiful lake—a shimmering glass pool, almost a league wide. The far bank, skirted by a thick layer of evergreen trees, created a shaggy green coating up much of the mountain slope. These gave way to a silky, snow-white blanket that followed the majestic peaks up to the very sky. A crystal-clear sky, without a single cloud to mar its beauty, so blue it seemed to have been created by a master artist “There are far worse places to have as one’s final resting place.”
Reaching out to the young Sier, Arderi hesitated, then dropped his hand back to his lap. “Do you think the Sier will be all right?”
Jintrill still stared off into nothing, yet Clytus had seen people in worse shape. “Sometimes what a man sees can be as hard on them as a physical wound. Still, I think he will be fine soon enough. When he is up to it, we will see if he can tend to that arm of yours.”
Pushing himself into action, Clytus busied himself by creating a small mini-camp on the sandy shore. He built a fire, set up two tents, and helped both young men into resting spots near the warming blaze. Turning his attention to food, he built a make-shift spit and hung a pot of water to boil for stew. While rummaging for ingredients amongst the destroyed base camp, he was delighted to find his small store of Oolant drought. Opening the reinforced wooden box his heart sank finding only one vial still sat intact.
It will be enough to heal the boy’s arm, at least.
Returning to their new campsite, Clytus knelt down next to Arderi. “Here.” He helped the boy into a sitting position. “This will mend your arm so the Sier will not have to.” Removing the stopper from the small clay vial, he held it out for Arderi.
A convulsive look racked the boy’s face as the odor of whatever lay inside assailed his nostrils. “What is that, sir?”
“It is Oolant. An Essence enhanced liquid that will mend the break in your arm in much the same way the Shaper would—if he were awake and able-minded.” Clytus
pushed the vial closer to the boy.
Reaching out with his good hand, Arderi took the vial and brought it to his nose. He shot his arm out to push the foul smelling container away, and eyed it with a look of disgust.
“Aye, lad. I know it smells. It is a single dose. Drink it down all at once, it is easier that way.”
A warm feeling filled Clytus as he watched the boy force the thick, bitter liquid down.
My little Sindian hates that stuff, as well.
Pain entwined itself through the dredged up memory of his son, and Clytus’ face hardened. “Now rest, boy. The Oolant is no faster at mending wounds than a Shaper is. It will be several aurns at least until that break mends.” Standing, he turned to walk away.
“Commander Rillion, sir? Are you leaving us?”
The fear in the boy’s voice reminded Clytus how young Arderi really was. Turning back to him, he calmed his features and forced a smile. “Nix, lad. Those men were my responsibility. I will not let them spend eternity under the open sky. I recommend that you rest now. The Oolant will help you fall to sleep, and when you awake, it will have finished its job of mending your arm.”
Cresting the small rise that separated the destroyed base camp from the makeshift one he created on the lakeshore, he steeled himself for the task at hand, and kept walking, knowing that if he stopped, he may not start again.
I will pay what needs be paid.
Days rolled into tendays that had almost reached a moon’s turn, and Alant Cor had achieved a kind of rhythm to his life. Being schooled at the Hath’oolan Chandril’elian was not exactly what he had envisioned in his daydreams during the boat trip over the Great Ocean. Although the work was grueling, he had become more adept at Melding the Essence during this short span than he had in both turns of the seasons he had spent at the Mocley Chandril’elian.
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