Drachenara

by T. G. Neal

  “Archpriest Isthrillian was excommunicated from this Minster, many, many years ago when his extreme beliefs began leading those who followed him to believe in other gods besides the Maker. They prayed to them. And now you tell me that the Maker has left us? He has forsaken us? You would tell the people this?” The Protopriest waved his hand at the book. “And that the Banished One is not banished at all, and that he exists, trying to make his way back? You would tell others this?”

  “I would have them know the truth.” Mikael said.

  “What do you know of the truth, boy? A book you found in Alfendul.” The Protopriest scoffed and turned away, looking at the fire.

  Mikael realized, then and there, that the Protopriest knew where Isthrillian had been when he died. “I didn’t tell you that.”

  “What?” The Protopriest asked, turning as swiftly as his old body could, to face Mikael. “What did you say?”

  “I didn’t tell you that we found them in Alfendul. How would you have known, unless you have always known it was there?” Mikael now grew stone faced and he stepped toward the Protopriest.

  “Guards!” Shouted the old man. Immediately, Paladins came through the doors and rushed toward Mikael.

  Mikael wasn’t having any of it. He wasn’t the person he once was, and though he firmly believed in the Maker, he knew these men and woman no longer represented Him. He stanced himself for combat and slid back, clearing his mind. As the first Paladin stepped within range, he reached out with two fingers, passing between the plate armor on his side and fracturing a rib. The sudden pain caused the Paladin to yield, but only gave Mikael a greater chance to attack. He grabbed at the chest armor of the Paladin, and using his body weight, threw the Paladin into the other. He then took that opportunity to run. Sprinting at full speed to the door, he prepared his escape tactic, grabbing the handle and yanking it open. In the light that appeared, so did another Paladin, this one he was not prepared for. He took the pommel-end of a pike directly to the chest and knocked him off his feet.

  More nearby Paladins ran into the room, surrounding the now-stunned Mikael.

  “Haul him to his knees, Paladins.” Called the Protopriest who neared Mikael. “Call the Overseer.”

  Mikael was still reeling from the hit he took, and his chest felt as if it wanted to cave in. Each heartbeat caused it to hurt worse, and he was barely able to think past the pain. When his senses returned to him, he could see the Paladin Overseer approaching him, and he knew what it meant, but he already couldn’t resist.

  The Overseer was the chief Paladin inside the Cathedral. He was one of the highest in the command structure of the Paladaeis, and he was the Protopriests hand of physical power in the Minster. The Protopriest was sworn to use no violence to achieve a goal – only prayer and supplication. However, the Overseer was held by no bounds except that which the Protopriest limited him to. As he stepped toward Mikael, the Protopriest simply said “Do it.” And the last thing Mikael saw before the brilliant flash of light, was the Protopriest walking away.

  The King’s men, perhaps thirty strong, marched into Giltshore at dusk. The sound of the chainmail rattling, plate armor clanking, and synchronized boot steps was a sound reserved for drill. People, laughing together in the city circle, stopped what they were doing to turn towards the approaching soldiers.

  The Sergeant who led the team stopped and held up his hand to signal the men behind him to halt. As the silent onlookers watched him, waiting, he unrolled a piece of parchment he held tightly clenched in his hand. “Here in my hand I have a royal decree. This decree is a rite. A rite of conscription. On this day, the King has summoned the people of the land to forfeit their most able-bodied men and women in service of the crown, and to do so immediately.” The soldier held the parchment up in the air. “Who among you is the recordsman of this town, Giltshore?”

  No one answered. In fact, the silence was almost deafening. The sound of the small waves from the lake could be heard washing up on shore.

  Again, the soldier asked, “Do you have a recordsman?”

  And again, nothing.

  Finally, he shouted and raised his voice walking through the small town, turning to look at the faces of each and every man, woman, and child he saw. “Let it be known, that those who do not submit will be tried of treason against the crown and will then be forced into indentured servitude of the crown and will not receive payment!” Amongst the faces of the soldiers with him, were men and woman who joined of their own volition, who had never imagined that they would be forcefully recruiting their own friends and family. The discomfort on their faces was evident.

  One man in the crowd stepped forward. “I will need to go to the city to retrieve our books.” He cleared his throat. “We have no official record here. Only there.”

  “In such cases, then, it is at my judgment who will and will not come with me. If you so choose, you may make this easier, and step forward if you are between the age of fifteen and fifty, if you are not pregnant, and if you have at least had your first blood.” The Sergeant said, rolling his parchment up again.

  Amongst the crowd, a hooded old woman moved, nonchalantly. She kept her hunched-over head down, hidden behind the shadows of the gathering crowd. As she walked, she held her hand down by her side, and slowly released ashes from her palm. She stopped for a moment and whispered, “How can you do this?”

  A man shouted, “How can you do this?!” from where he stood.

  She brushed the arm of a woman, who began sobbing immediately.

  The Sergeant raised his hands, “By Royal Decree— “

  As the woman whispered to another man, he shouted back and cut off the Sergeant who spoke. “Damn your royal decree! Damn the King! The bastard can come and take our children himself!”

  Another man shouted, “You’ll take my daughter over my cold dead body!”

  One of the men walked up to the Sergeant and reared back and landed a hard punch right on the jaw of the soldier, sending him back a couple of steps. The Sergeant drew his sword, as did most of the rest of the soldiers with him. “Now, hear this! Given the circumstances, I can forgive your anger. But understand, that if you do not submit to royal decree, you will be held in treason which can be punishable by death, at the expense of the nearest garrison. As of the current decree, I am commander of the border garrison. I do not wish to harm you!” He shouted.

  “You break our hearts! Our families!” Shouted a woman through tears. Children cried around the circle of gathered individuals.

  “Please don’t make this difficult.” Begged the Sergeant.

  The old woman placed a dagger in the hand of another man, whispered, and emptied her had of ashes. The man whose hand she placed the dagger in burst forward in a fit of rage, almost stumbling blindly toward the man. As he gained his footing, though, he roared and lunged, driving the tip of the dagger into the plate armor of the Sergeant. The sergeant yelped and turned, pummeling the man with the back of his armored forearm, sending the man flying onto his back. Still lodged in his side, the dagger was removed, and the white-hot pain of injury became just the warm flow of blood down his stomach and leg.

  People rushed to the man who lay on the ground, murmuring. “He’s dead. Oh, Maker, he’s dead.” Others whispered and backed away in fear of the sergeant who stood before them, making demands.

  “What?” asked the Sergeant. Then he realized as he looked through the crowd of people around the man that his armor had hit him in the temple, and clearly broken the side of his skull.

  “You killed Jamison. You killed him!” They shouted.

  “He assaulted a solder of the King!” The Sergeant said as the other soldiers began gathering near him. “Stand down!” He shouted to the people. “Stand down and submit!”

  The old woman grinned as she walked away from the altercation. She pulled the hood back from her head, and slowly her face changed from the weathered and worn old hag, to the face of Miliria Drache, who now strolled off into the dark forest.r />
  Amid the turmoil, one man spoke up. “I’ll go.”

  The Sergeant, holding his blade in one hand, and a hand over his wound with the other, turned toward the sound of the voice. “Aye? Come forward!”

  Robert, the Fishmaster of Gilt, stepped forward. “I’ll go, if it will get you to leave us be.” Robert stiffened. “I am but a fisherman, but I can wield a bow fairly well. I have but one son, and he is too young, and a wife, but she must stay to care for my boy.” He cleared his throat. “I will serve if it is necessary.”

  The crowd began to simmer down to a dull roar instead of the mob it was becoming. The Sergeant nodded and gestured for Robert to join.

  Before Robert stepped in, he turned back to the people. “Remember, folks, the troubles we’ve had recently. Losing the Bren and Brenness, the taxations, the fear. Perhaps, if we join without a fight, we can end whatever this is and return things to normal before we lose everything.”

  Robert’s words rang true in the ears of some of the citizens of Giltshore. They looked as if they had been told a grand secret, and the realization of the truth of his words brought them to a state of acceptance. Several of the men and women of proper age and who held no sole responsibility of rearing stepped forward. They began agreeing to go.

  What was once on the edge of total disaster, was now on the turn for the better, or at least it seemed. That night, as the crowd of volunteers grew, Robert returned to his wife and son. He embraced them, knowing that was he was doing might very well be the last time he did it. “Perhaps, if I am close enough, here at the border, I will be able to visit. If not, I shall return when all is said and done.”

  Davit looked up to his father and he frowned. “And what if there is a war?”

  “Then we’ll all have to fight anyway, son.” He took a knee and he looked into the eyes that looked so much like his mothers. “Even you.”

  Miliria sat in front of the mirror mounted to the wall in her and Jorvig’s quarters, brushing her locks repeatedly, rhythmically. Hours ago, she left and returned, and now she sat alone in the room, contemplating her success. As she smiled arrogantly, the door to the room swung open, and in walked Jorvig who stormed over to her. “Your plan failed,” he said, quietly.

  She rose to her full height and narrowed her eyes, snarling at him. “What did you say?”

  He placed his hand on her chin, fingers and thumb pressed hard against her cheeks, and he enunciated. “Your plan failed.”

  She jerked out of his hold, seething at the mere thought that he would put his hands on her in any way besides pleasure. “Don’t touch me or speak your lies. He does not fail.”

  Jorvig stepped away from her and sat down on the bed. “This time he did. Perhaps I made the wrong decision.” In that, she was not sure if it was the demon or his host.

  Miliria started to scream at him, teeth bared, but she held back. The tumult that roared in her insides threatened to tear her apart, to convince her to kill him where he lay, but in the back of her mind she could hear a voice telling her “no.” She calmed down, and instead of saying anything, left the room, slamming the door behind her. As she stormed down the hallway, she called out “Tanys!” Her steps were warm, and bare upon the cold stone floor, yet each step almost seemed to rumble the building to the foundation. “Tanys!” She again yelled.

  “Yes, M’lady Miliria, I apologize. How may I be of service?” The man asked, bowing his head. He was still dressed in his herald regalia, and he listened intently. His service did not end until he was told it did, which often meant that he carried out his duty until early in the morning, or late into the evening, sometimes unending.

  “Tell me of Giltshore.” She said, keeping a steady, swift pace toward the menagerie.

  “Giltshore ended up resulting in over one-hundred new recruits for the King’s army. And they sent word in advance that they plan to come here to conscript next.” Tanys said, holding his leatherbound book under his arm.

  “They come into my city? My lands to recruit for an army to fight me?” She hissed with each word, temper flaring ever more brightly. “Come with me.” She pushed open the stained-glass doors to the menagerie. The birds kept inside twittered and tweeted as she passed through, yet she paid them no mention. She kept walking until she reached an old firepit, surrounded by sitting stones that was in the center of the garden, behind the menagerie. Once there, she began collecting wood from a seasoned pile nearby, and cast it into the shallow pit. Feeling that she’d filled it well-enough, with a simple wave of her hand, the wood combusted into ten-foot high flames. “Tell me, Tanys. Have you seen powers like mine?”

  Tanys inhaled sharply through his teeth. In the back of his mind he could envision her warmth. The fire that burned inside of her. “Never. But I have longed to.”

  “Watch,” she said. She stripped her clothes off, standing there completely naked, and began chanting at the flames. With each string of words that she spoke, her voice became darker, deeper and more frightening. The very light of the of the fire began to change to black, sucking the illumination from the room and drawing it into its core until nothing but embers crackled in the wood. Silence struck the garden with a deafening blow. Miliria turned to look at Tanys, smiled, and stepped onto the smoldering wood. Then, as she closed her eyes, the flames covered her body. She cried out, but not in pain – it was pleasure.

  Tanys had to contain his impulses as her moans stirred within him his own desire. He looked down but was drawn to look back at her. As he watched, the flames died down again, and she stepped off. She gestured for him to come to her – just a single finger – granting him his wish. “Come to me,” she said. Inside his chest, he could feel his heart racing. He tossed down his book, stripped away his clothes, and neared her. “The fire won’t harm you,” she said, rubbing her feet in the coals below, “Have faith.”

  And he did. He stepped onto the coals with her, ready for the gift she would bestow upon him – her body. He ran his hands over her form.

  “I know what you want,” she said, laying down on the hot coals and across the wood at her feet. “Take it,” she commanded.

  Tanys did as she said and fell to his knees before her. His desire burned strongly within him, every inch of his soul trusting in her power, her ability. As soon as he began to close the gap between them, he suddenly stopped, not feeling pain, but pressure. When he looked down, he could see Miliria’s hand, sunken to the wrist inside his chest.

  Miliria looked up at him and smiled. As she reached deeper, she used her other arm to pull herself up closer to him. “He has made sure it would not hurt. You are a sacrifice to the greater good. You are a sacrifice to the Burning One. You will be in His army now.” She said, barely a whisper. Then she snatched out his heart in one fell swoop, the bright red of his blood glistening on the still-beating organ. She pushed him away and stepped out of the fire as it began to consume his flesh. Then, as he burned, she watched his heart turn black and she crumbled it into the flames. In a burst of ethereal power, the flames again turned as black as night and became a pillar of black fire that climbed hundreds of feet into the air, dissipating into the sky.

  Whispers came to her, now, suddenly. They surrounded her. She looked to the flames and quivered, listening at each one. She fell to her knees and bowed. Within the flames stood the Burning One, Ifris, appearing to her only. “You have power. Give him power.” Ifris said in plain words. “Give it to him.”

  Ifris disappeared now, as did all remains of Tanys’ body. She dressed herself and threw his clothes and book atop the flames as they died out.

  When she returned to her room, Jorvig sat shirtless on the bed with a young Elven slave tending to his needs. She smiled and looked at the young girl, maybe eighteen, and walked to her, holding her hair back. “If you needed attention, why did you not call for me?” Miliria looked at Jorvig, then pulled the slave girl away.

  Miliria then took Jorvig in a way unlike he had never been taken before. She bit him, gnawed at his fle
sh, and tore at him with her finger nails. And then, when she was done she whispered in Jorvig’s ear “You told me, long ago, when I first bedded you, that you wanted power. Power beyond measure.” She drew circles on his chest with her finger, pushing hard enough for it to be uncomfortable. “Do you still want that?”

  Jorvig’s mind responded to the discomfort, but he lay still, nonetheless. “Of course. I want even more power than I have now.”

  “I can give it to you. But you have to give yourself to me.” Miliria said, sitting up on her knees.

  “I already have.” He said, now, opening his eyes.

  “No. More. I need more.” She ran her hands over his hard and scarred body. He was a true example of warrior royalty and a prime example of prestigious attraction. “I can give you unmatched strength and stamina, and immortality.” She rubbed his thigh.

  “What more can I give? I’ll give it.”

  Miliria motioned the slave girl over to him and she stood up next to her. She ran her hands over the slave girl's body. “So young and pure. Innocent.” She lingered on her stomach, “Not so innocent it seems.” She placed flat palm on the stomach of the young girl and suddenly she quivered in pain, eyes welling tears. Then as she stood there, her body began to wither. First, the skin around her eyes darkened and then the eyes themselves sunk into her head. Her dark ebony hair began to silver, and the sharp-pointed ears began to droop. “Good. I can feel your magic dying.” Miliria said, channeling the youth, power, and the life of the slave girl's womb into her own being. Then, as the slave girl collapsed, Miliria put the tip of her pointer finger directly over Jorvig’s heart. Where her finger touched turned black, as if it were a linen shirt absorbing ink.

  “I don’t feel any differently,” he said, sitting up, looking to the fallen form of the Elven girl, who now lay mummified on the floor.

  “You will,” Miliria said, kissing him with her red-hot lips. “I promise.”

  On into dark, after dusk fell, and the final song fell silent outside the Cathedral, Mikael had still not left the doors. Rolyat insisted on remaining behind to wait on him, while Keneya, Vaelen and Aurelia left to find boarding in the nearby tavern and stabled their horses at the adjoining stable.