by Megan Derr
No, bone wyverns were generally used by posturing twits for purposes of intimidation, destruction, and proving superiority. Usually they were all of the one. The last time he'd seen a bone wyvern he'd been… thirty-two? Something around there. Drunk as a ship full of sailors on leave because he was meant to have been relaxing. Last time he made the mistake of thinking that ever happened.
The damned thing had destroyed three houses before he'd finally sobered up enough to use his magic properly, and he'd been mightily fucking pissed off by the end because getting drunk at all was no easy thing for a necromancer and he'd worked especially damned hard to get shore leave levels of drunk.
And it had all turned out to be the work of some egotistical monster angry with the local justice for daring to arrest him for a list of charges Rochus no longer recalled.
He dismounted, removed his saddlebags, and let Fury run off back toward the village. “Shall we?” he asked his remaining three companions, getting a caw, a flap of wings, and a happy growl in reply. “Let's try a trap, then.” Kneeling, he rifled through his saddlebags until he came out with the little wooden box he hadn't touched since putting the Hand's spirit in one of his crystals.
Ignoring the crystals, he pulled out a small velvet bag and tipped out the contents—bone carved into small spheres, etched with necromantic runes for binding, and between them stretched a single spirit so the anchors called to each other and made the trap all the stronger.
He pricked one of his fingers and covered four of the spheres in blood. Sucking on his finger, he gave one sphere each to the Song, Silence, and Memory. “Go.” He kept the fourth for himself and tucked the rest away before walking quickly down the hill to where Tilo was barely moving anymore and the bone wyvern was prowling like a predator who knew it had won and was dragging out the thrill of victory. That meant it had been animated long enough the spirits within were merging, become the worst sort of twisted, contorted semblance of life.
Which in turn meant it had been made by a strong necromancer who had intended for the bone wyvern to last, and that was a problem of the highest order.
It was also a problem to be dealt with later.
For the present, he went to the spot that would form the northern corner of the trap—a spirit trap, also frequently called a graveyard because people liked thinking they were clever. He felt it when the other three fell into position. He softly whispered the spell, casting out the binding lines between the anchors. When it was nearly done, he looked up and bellowed, “Tilo! Run!”
Tilo, to his credit, went still only for the barest moment from surprise before he moved in a sudden burst of energy, running full tilt toward Rochus. The bone wyvern chased after him, roaring so loudly it resonated through Rochus and made his chest vibrate.
Tilo only just barely managed to stay ahead of it, but that was all the time Rochus needed to close the trap. The bone wyvern crashed against the walls of the trap just as it slammed into place, snarling and screeching—but bound by the will of a necromancer and the power of a captured spirit.
Rochus let out a heavy sigh and fell back in the grass, landing hard on his ass. He took off his spectacles and wiped sweat from his face. “Suck on that, you piece of shit.”
A soft, pained whimper drew his attention, and he was abruptly reminded that Tilo was severely injured. “Hold on!” He surged to his feet and back up the hill to his saddlebags, annoyed with himself for not carrying them with him. He tossed stuff as he touched it until he finally reached the small bundle all the way at the bottom: a roll of heavy fabric, at the center of which rested a bottle worth more money than he could count without wincing.
Carrying it down the hill, he cradled Tilo’s enormous head as best he could and dumped the contents of the small bottle down his throat. “You'd better keep that down. I don't have another; they're too fucking expensive.”
Tilo gave a low, sad rumble, his blazing eye slipping closed. But he was breathing evenly, and after several minutes, his smaller wounds began to close up and the larger ones began very slowly to lessen in severity. Tilo was too big for the potion to work one hundred percent, but it worked enough.
Rochus turned to the ravens and Memory. “Keep an eye on the wyvern. Come get me if something starts to go wrong. Memory, do not go into the trap and fuck with it.”
Memory lifted one paw and began to lick it clean.
“I mean it,” Rochus said and shoved her head playfully before going back up the hill to gather his things. He slung the saddlebags over one shoulder as he returned to Tilo. “On your feet, you useless dragon. For the record, this is not how you treat a new spouse. You should wait until at least the one year mark to start dragging your spouse into battles and forcing them to use expensive healing potions on your sorry ass.” That got him a half-hearted growl, but some of the fire had returned to Tilo's eyes, so Rochus decided to count it a victory. “Can you walk?”
Tilo grumbled again but heaved to his feet. Rochus whistled for Fury, who joined them a few minutes later as they walked along a wide road to the end of the valley and up another hill… to a beautiful, enormous lake. It was so clear he could damn near see to the bottom of it, and so large he couldn't see the other side, just the foothills that framed the far end. The path they walked spilled into a long bridge that led to the castle built in the lake.
“Nothing of interest in Rothenberg, my ass,” Rochus muttered. Beyond those foothills were the Creiamore Mountains, which meant the river of the same name. It had enormous value as a travel point through most of the continent, with several tributaries—one of them probably feeding the lake. If it was underground, not much could be done, but if that branch of the river was above ground…
Rothenberg might be a whole lot of nothing, a forgotten territory at the edge of the mountains that divided the continent almost completely in half… but it connected to more important territories, territories that would love to have access to the lake and its connection to the river. It would shave weeks, if not months, off travel time for this corner of the continent. One of those neighboring territories was Morretain, which belonged to Hoffman. How convenient for Hoffman. No wonder the bastard had played so hard at disinterest.
And Tilo had apparently been sitting right in the middle of it without realizing just how valuable his land was. Or maybe he did know and was acting otherwise.
Mood souring further at the bitter reminder Tilo was a talented liar, Rochus stifled his questions as they continued on across the bridge and through the gates into the castle.
The silence struck him first. A lord returning to his castle should have merited something. Tilo didn't strike him as the pomp and circumstance type, but still, someone should have come to greet him. But then, there hadn't been guards at the far end of the bridge either. No one else on the roads.
Was the bone wyvern why everyone was gone? That would make sense, but how could so many people afford to just pack up…
Rochus winced as he realized exactly how they could have afforded it. If a certain stupid, stubborn dragon sacrificed all his worldly goods to save the most precious part of his hoard, moving an entire territory to safer areas would be completely doable.
And then Tilo had gone off and gotten married to someone he could only hope would be able to help.
The idiot seemed to forget that he deserved to be looked after and protected and cared for just as much as everyone else.
Ignoring the bothersome emotions fluttering through him, Rochus pointed at Tilo. “Sit. Do not so much as twitch your tail until you're healthy enough to shift, do you understand me? Is there anyone else around this place?”
Tilo gave him a look and huffed.
“Don't get smart with me—you know damn good and well you can move to answer a question.”
Enormous, toothy mouth curving in a way that was unmistakably smirky, Tilo shook his head back and forth.
“No one at all? Idiot. Stay there, I mean it.” Rochus turned and swept off up the stairs and into the ke
ep proper.
Like so much else, it was painfully empty, echoing with every footstep, dust already layered over every surface save where Tilo had been coming and going.
It was a beautiful castle, soft white stone on the inside, vines, leaves, and flowers carved right into it along the edges and even completely across some walls. The gleaming wood of the doors, staircase, and the floors was gold-toned and still shiny. He could see the gaps where there'd once been statues, tapestries, rugs, paintings, and other decorative elements. All that remained were plants—scores and scores of plants, more than he could put names to.
He couldn't fathom how breathtaking it would look when everything was back in its rightful place.
It took some searching since the castle was bigger than it looked, and it hadn't looked small, but he finally found a room that looked like it saw regular use. Not the lord's chambers, peculiarly, though perhaps those were simply too big to use when there was no staff to maintain them. The room Tilo seemed to be using was a small space down a quiet hall. It looked more like a room given to a child too big for the nursery, or perhaps an unwanted guest.
He found clothes in the wardrobe and bundled them neatly together before going back downstairs and in search of the kitchens, which proved to be bigger than the entire length and width of his tower. The pantry was depressing by comparison, nothing but bread that looked a couple of days old and cheese that barely looked edible.
Seriously, of what use did Tilo think he would be if he was constantly exhausted and starving? The moment he was healthy again, Rochus was going to strangle him. Or tie him to a bed until he learned how not to be an idiot. “Song, come to me.”
By the time he was downstairs and back out in the ward, Song had arrived, perched on Fury's saddle playing with his mane.
After depositing the food and clothes where Tilo could easily get to them once he was able to shift, Rochus went to his saddlebags and quickly wrote out a message. He affixed it to Song's foot, then tied a small bag of coins into Fury's mane.
Song cawed, nibbled at his fingers, and then settled on Fury's head and the two of them headed off.
Hopefully he would get the items he wanted and not wind up robbed, though only a fool dared to cross a magus, especially a necromancer.
He checked Tilo over, smiling faintly that despite his grumbling he'd fallen fast asleep. Leaving him to his rest, Rochus wandered back into the castle and located a room for himself—large and well-equipped because no way was he living in a damned closet when there were far better options available. He'd already slept on the ground for a month, which was more than enough unpleasant sleeping arrangements.
Depositing his saddlebags at the foot of the bed, he went to figure out the best way to go about a bath. An hour later, he'd settled on just doing everything in the kitchen. There was a tub in one of the storerooms and a large pot to heat the water. That matter sorted, he went upstairs to fetch his soap, razor, and mirror and then went in search of clothes he could borrow since he was long past tired of wearing his own smelly clothes.
Thankfully it took only trying a handful of doors before he found a room that seemed to have been turned into a storage closet for old clothes—his mother did much the same thing, to his stepfather's despair.
Fresh clothes and cleaning supplies gathered, he returned to the kitchen. The hot water felt divine on his skin and after so long with nothing, the familiar lavender scent of his own soap was the best thing he'd smelled in forever. He used a bucket of warm water to rinse everything away and climbed out of the tub before he succumbed to the urge to do a third scrubbing. He dried off his face and hair, then shoved his spectacles back on his nose before pulling on the rest of his clothes.
They were old-fashioned, just the barest bit too small, but they'd suffice until he dealt with laundry on the morrow. He dragged the tub out to drain it, dumped the clothes he'd been wearing inside, and headed back out to the ward.
Which was decidedly lacking in dragon. Rochus frowned. Where had Tilo gone? If the idiot had gone back to deal with the bone wyvern, he was going to wish the wyvern had killed him.
The sound of footsteps drew his attention and Rochus whipped around—and stopped short as he saw Tilo standing on the top step cradling a cask of what was probably brandy like it was a baby. “There you are. I thought for a minute you'd gone back to deal with the bone wyvern like the self-sacrificing idiot you are.”
“Bone wyvern? Is that what it's called? I'd never seen one before they showed up here.”
“They?” Rochus's heart felt like it gave out for a beat.
Tilo nodded, casting a glum look at the ground. “Four of them roam around the territory. They never leave it, just stay here, but I've never been able to kill any of them.”
“Why not call other dragons for help? Family? Friends?”
“We don't have friends,” Tilo said bitterly. “My father… well, on his good days he was difficult to deal with. On his bad days everyone hid. Plus, I tried and tried to petition for help, wrote letters… You have no idea how hard I've tried to bring in help. But everything was ignored or they showed up wanting to bargain.” Anger filled his face. “They'd help if I gave them my land, if I sold them rights to the lake. They'd save lives only if I gave them something. So I threw them all out and took care of matters alone.”
Rochus made a mental note to get the names of all the greedy, odious bastards later. “I'm sorry. You've done everything right but were betrayed or let down at every turn. For what it's worth, you did choose the right magus for the job. I'm well familiar with bone wyverns and can clear out even four of them, though it'll take me several days.”
Tilo looked for a moment like he was going to cry. “Thank you. I know you don't want—”
“I think in the grand scheme of things I have very little to complain about,” Rochus interrupted. “Let's take care of the bone wyverns and then we'll sort out everything else. One problem at a time. What is that you're holding?”
“Um. Something that's been in our cellars for almost ten years. My mother bought it when she thought we'd have a necromancer visiting us. I don't remember why now. But the necromancer wound up not coming, and it's a trifle strange for me to sell easily. Then I thought it might be best if I held on to it. For my husband. For you.” He walked down the stairs and held it out. “If you want it.”
Rochus took it, trying not to gawk like an idiot and failing miserably. “Is this blood wine?” It was more like brandy, actually, but 'blood brandy' sounded strange. Extremely difficult to make, a combination of human blood and brandy, and the northern faeries who made it jealously guarded the secret to making it—which allowed them to charge a damned fortune for it. Rochus had been given a glass of it once in his life and had wanted more for as long as he could remember, but even he didn't make enough money to justify such an expense. Healing potions, yes. Frivolous spirits, no.
Tilo nodded jerkily. “I hope it's good. Um. Did you find a room? I can show you to one of the guest suites—”
“I'm fine, at least until whoever actually has claim to my room returns. You should be resting.”
“I just finished resting,” Tilo said, though the shadows beneath his eyes and his washed out skin undermined the offended tone. “Thank you for helping me.”
“Stop thanking me for doing what I should,” Rochus said. “People don't deserve gratitude for not being jerks. I'm sorry about my poor word choice before. I never meant to imply you were a punishment. I was trying to make fun of myself and my hermit-like tendencies.”
Tilo nodded and some of the tension eased from his body. “Um. Are you hungry? I can give you my blood, or find something to drain. I think some of the farmers left their herds behind to fend for themselves since it was too difficult to move all of them.”
“You're not giving blood until you stop looking one step from death,” Rochus snapped, not bothering to say that he wasn't going to take any more of Tilo's blood period. He could still almost taste just how close
Tilo had come to dying. If not for the healing potion, he would be dead. “Come on, you're getting more rest whether you like it or not. If you try to argue, keep in mind that I am fully capable of tying you to a bed and not feeling sorry about it.”
Something hot flashed through Tilo's eyes for the barest second; if Rochus hadn't been watching so intently he would have missed it. He stubbornly ignored the way his own body thrummed in response. Even if it was appropriate, neither of them was in any condition for such activities.
“I'm not a kit, no matter how much you insist on treating me like one,” Tilo replied.
“You are half my age if you are a day and that makes you near enough, especially when you think the best way to help people is by killing yourself!” Rochus snapped.
Tilo's eyes flashed, his hands balling into fists. “I do what's necessary! And you can quit exaggerating. You're not that much older than me.”
Rochus wanted to either punch him or fuck him. “You're what, twenty-five?” Tilo's face flushed, and Rochus suddenly didn't want to know the answer. “How old are you?”
“Twenty,” Tilo replied, trying to look stubborn but really just pouting. “How old are you?”
When was Rochus going to learn not to start discussions he knew he wouldn't enjoy? He surged up the stairs and past Tilo, calling out, “Forty-three,” as he strode into the castle headed for his room. Fleeing to his room was more like it.
Twenty, Goddess above. Rochus had thought he was long past making the stupidest mistakes in his life, but clearly he'd just been getting warmed up. And what in the ten hells had Irmhild been thinking, foisting him on some poor, desperate boy in over his fool head?
The sad truth there was that Irmhild hadn't cared. She'd had a chance to rid herself of a troublesome debt and had taken it.