The Dragon's Fury (Book 1)

by D Mickleson

  Alden nodded, taking the leather scrap, then gripped Triston by the arm. “You don’t have to do this. They’re not worth it, Bildad and Winchie I mean. Not by long shot.”

  Triston shook his head. “Not for them. Don’t you see? The villagers need time. This is for everybody.”

  Silence fell between them. Triston was thinking of his mother’s reaction when her coughing knocked her down for the first time and the telltale bloodstain, a sentence of death, appeared on her handkerchief. She had got up without a word and finished baking their bread.

  His thoughts returning to the present, he found Alden gazing down at the forest, his eyes hard.

  “Don’t even think about it, Ald,” he said quietly. “You can’t help me. But you can help them. See everybody safely to Luskoll.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do, dragon boy.”

  They watched as the tattered remnants of Wyrmskull shuffled past, led by a red-eyed Gorbald. The Chief clasped Triston’s hand, weeping and shaking his head, but finding no words. Anyon bent and hugged him tightly, muttering “Just like Trinian,” as he walked on. Many others stared at Triston as they passed, some calling their thanks, others looking too lost and scared to speak. One of the last to leave, Kara broke free from her father’s grip and ran up to them.

  “Triston, I . . . I heard what you did. How you saved us.” She spoke shyly, sweetly, her eyes redder than the Chief’s. “You’ll come back to us, Trist? You’ll fight them off and come back?”

  He forced himself to stand, facing her. He was a full foot taller than she, but somehow felt very small as he stared down at her breathtaking face. Taking her shoulders in his hands, he bent and kissed her dirt-smudged forehead, and felt her breath catch at his touch.

  “Goodbye Kara,” he whispered in her ear.

  Pulling back, he saw her eyes, full of intensity, flicker toward Alden. Then, stifling a sob, she turned away and hurried down the hill. Traven sighed wearily and followed after her.

  Triston sat back down and watched without really seeing as the last of the villagers disappeared behind the east side of the hill.

  “So you heard me break-up with her?”

  Triston frowned. “No. When did you do that?”

  Alden’s eyes widened for a moment, then he shrugged.

  “You’d better get going,” said Triston, standing again.

  “I haven’t decided which way I’m going yet.”

  “Well, decide quickly, because they’re coming.”

  Alden leapt up. “He’s breaking the deal.”

  “Of course. He only wanted to get me by myself. He probably knows I’ve got no strength left. Why should he give me a chance to recover?”

  Triston grabbed Bloodprice with both hands and stepped determinedly toward the horde of Wildmen now swarming up the west side of Magog’s Rise. For now at least, the weariness was dulling the edge of his fear.

  “Triston.”

  He turned. Alden, who hadn’t moved, already appeared far away. He seemed to be struggling for words.

  “Go, Ald,” called Triston, turning his back on him. “Go protect the others.”

  Halfway down the hill, when the Farthians were still a hundred feet away, those in front of Triston stopped, while the throng on either side pressed on, surrounding him. Triston resisted the urge to seize the Relic and fight. Wielding the dragon power in his present state just might kill him. It certainly would kill Bildad and Winchie.

  The mass of axemen broke and the herald stepped forward, calling in a loud voice. “Drop the Relic there and lie down twenty feet away.”

  Triston did as he was told. In a few moments rough hands seized him and dragged him forward until the hated figure towered over him. Sarconius laughed, placing a crushing boot on Triston’s chest and pressing hard.

  “A fine effort, child. But you were overmatched.” The herald handed Sarconius the sword and the Fury, and for a moment the lord stood speechless.

  Then he spoke. “Bind him, hand and foot. We will unravel the mystery of this infant sorcerer. Kill the prisoners.”

  FIFTEEN

  THE BLACK HELM

  Often Argyle withdrew to his stronghold Hargrave, and often I set a secret watch. But though we never witnessed a soul pass his gate, he always wielded full knowledge of our doings. How the necromancer gathered news I never discovered.

  —Sir Athant the Wise, Chronicle, 227

  The lamp’s glass casing shattered and its flame grew, flaring outward. Morphing into a long arm capped by a clenched fist, the fire pummeled the air with a triumphant whoosh. Growing ever longer, it groped toward Triston, the fiery fingers opening wide. He shut his eyes and winced as the hand caressed his face, scorching off his eyebrows.

  A low chuckle sounded from across the pavilion and the heat vanished. “You can open your eyes, my lad. We’re just having a little fun.” Triston didn’t bother to obey. There was nothing worth seeing inside this overgrown tent anyway. A silence hovered for an instant, then—“I said open, boy.”

  The command struck his eyelids. Invisible fingers yanked them open with irresistible force. Triston stared unwillingly at the gloating lord who, for all his bravado, remained safely on the far side of the canvas room. “I have to make sure this prize you’ve so generously provided is the real thing. So far I’m more than gratified.”

  “Really? I’d say you seem just a little bit scared of me.” Triston forced a derisive laugh he didn’t feel and looking pointedly at the gap between them. Four knights, two on each side, stood at attention in the middle of the room. On his side of the pavilion, Triston was chained to an extravagant cabinet that must have weighed half a ton, his hands shackled behind his back. On the far side, Sarconius was sitting at a mahogany writing desk beside a matching four-poster bed. He wore Magog’s Fury and a look of deep satisfaction. A look which faltered at Triston’s words. “You have the Relic, old man,” Triston mocked, shaking his chains for emphasis. “Not me.”

  Sarconius rose, the color running out of his already pale face. But when he replied, his voice was steady. “I keep my distance for the same reason you are still alive. You’re something of an anomaly, Triston—I believe dear Winchifred said that was your name. You’re a, well, an unknown threat, if I may be allowed to offer the compliment.” He gave an ironic bow. “And I want to find out more about you before we part. Tell me, how long did you possess this dragonbone?”

  Triston looked at Sarconius’ eyes, pitiless, hungry eyes, and felt . . . nothing. I’m already dead. It’s just a matter of how.

  He knew of only one way to insure a quick end. Provocation. Make the lord lash out before he had time to devise a long, cruel death. “Oh that? I just got it this morning,” he answered in a would-be helpful manner, flashing a cheerful smile.

  “I see. This morning.” Sarconius took a step forward, a hint of menace in his voice. “That would be just before you burst into your village and savaged three hundred Farthians with the dragon’s power, hmmm? Found it in the wild, I daresay, and thought you’d put it to good use?”

  “Uh, yeah, that sounds about right. Pig.”

  The lord’s eyes flashed for an instant, but almost at once he mastered himself, regarding Triston in cool silence. Then he laughed softly, appreciatively, and through his numbness Triston felt the first pangs of dread. “A worthy adversary, as I said. But please believe me when I say such juvenile tactics will only prolong your misery. We have hours, Triston. Days. Weeks! And I know ways to make every second seem an eternity in the lowest pit of hell.”

  “You mean like when you chain boys up in your bedchamber? That is hell, sick old man. I’m really glad you’re too scared to come over here, but if you can’t even threaten me to my face it’s kind of hard to take you seriously.”

  “You will regret very much—”

  “Look guys!” said Triston to the four knights, “I called your boss a coward and he doesn’t deny it. How’s it feel to work for human scum with less backbone than the contents of a chamb
er pot?”

  Sarconius made a sudden gesture. A white blur streaked across the room. Before he had time to blink, Triston felt something hot gushing from his left cheek. The white thing hovered, now stained with red. Focusing his eyes as his cheek began to sting, he found he was staring at a dagger hanging in midair three inches from his face.

  He remembered Sarconius boast of this weapon, the first day he’d seen him. “A gift from the emperor . . . only one other like it in the world.” That was the day of his duel with Gorwain. It felt ages ago. Counting back, he was shocked to realize it hadn’t been much more than a week. Hot blood spilling over his upper lip brought his mind back to the present. Sarconius was pacing closer.

  “The dragon’s spirit is bound to its carnal portal, an object by design too small to hold so great a force,” he whispered in reverent tones, his right hand outstretched toward Triston. With a twist of his wrist, the blade turned and began to wipe its flat on his forehead. “And so the spirit extends beyond, inhabiting whatever is nearby, infusing the mundane around it with otherworldly potency.”

  He gestured again, and the knifepoint floated to Triston’s right cheek, penetrating the skin just below his eye. The emperor’s golden crest loomed large on the handle as the razor-sharp tip tore into his flesh. “The Dragon. The Sea-serpent. The Shadowmare. The Septacephalus. The Cyclops. The Chimera, and”—he gave an evil grin—“one other, an abomination. Seven Relics of unthinkable power. How the ancients captured such mighty spirits we may never know. Their knowledge ran deep in those days, far beyond our own meager craft, and few of their manuscripts have survived centuries of fire and war.”

  He lowered his hand, and the blade cut slowly downward. Triston stifled the cry that formed in his chest, but a low gasp escaped his lips.

  “Hurts, doesn’t it? You do but taste the first fruits of the harvest you’ve sown for yourself. But if you would have an end to your suffering, hear me. Legends of old tell that the rise and fall of many kingdoms turned on who possessed a Relic. Their greatest power was not yet known, and when it was discovered, men deemed the Relics’ potency too terrible for human use. They were hidden and dispersed, and darkness fell on the world of magic.

  “But before that marvelous and . . . mortifying discovery, and the subsequent veiling of the Relics, we know the most powerful sorcerers, the Relic Lords, had already learned to dominate the minds of hundreds at a time. A feat the world has not seen in centuries.” Sarconius stepped forward until he stood only a few feet from Triston.

  “Until now,” he whispered.

  The dagger pressed ever harder into Triston’s cheekbone. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, praying the end would come soon.

  “It all happened very quickly, and I didn’t believe what I was seeing at the time, but I believe it now. I believe just hours ago many dozens of my mercenary army, against their will, against every instinct they possess, dropped their weapons and sat. Sat in obedience to your will.”

  Sarconius’ face was inches from Triston’s now. His eyes shone with unconcealed lust for power and his breath stank. “You will tell me how you did this. You will tell me who trained you. I want a name. And most of all, I want to know how you, a mere child, could so wield this Relic.”

  Triston pressed his head against the cabinet behind him in a futile attempt to shrink away from the lord and his dagger. What could he say that would end this pain? Sarconius would never believe the truth—Triston had just found the Relic, and he had no idea how he did those things. He had to break Sarconius’ self-control or the man might be as good as his word. The thought of being tortured for weeks could not be borne . . . .

  Triston raised his bound wrists as high as he could manage and wiggled his finger in a “come closer” motion. He saw Sarconius’ eyes narrow suspiciously, but with a meaningful glance at the knights behind them, Triston bent his head painfully toward the Meridian’s ear. Sarconius leaned in.

  “Well?” he demanded impatiently after a pause. “How was it done?”

  Triston whispered something inaudible.

  “What? Speak up fool!”

  “I said,” he whispered again, and then shouted “WITH MAGIC!” And he spat in the lord’s face.

  Sarconius’ eyes widened and crimson blotches ripened on his cheeks. The pressure against Triston’s cheekbone doubled, and with it, the pain. Triston gritted his teeth against the agony, forcing his eyes shut and willing his mind to blackout. Suddenly he heard a rustle at the tent door and the dagger flew out of his cheek.

  Triston opened his eyes to see who approached, only to find Sarconius’ irate face just inches away. White astonishment on his skin warred with his red wrath to create a mottled, cream and currant hue. The dagger was back in its belt sheath. “How?” he growled. “Your eyes. I commanded them to remain open. Just now—how did you close—WHAT IS IT, BERIDIUS?”

  “My lord, you commanded me to bring you my report at once,” said the same man who had served as herald earlier.

  “Well?” demanded the lord brusquely.

  “Sir, the bulk of the Farthian force is looting the ashes of Wyrmskull. They’ve found a great deal of your gold in the villagers’ lodgings.”

  “And the barbarian whore?”

  “High in her tree-dwelling, my lord, not far from here. From what my men could gather, she still seeks to unravel the powers of the Dragonslayer’s sword.”

  Sarconius barked his cruel laugh. “By the time she realizes the sword is nothing it will be too late for her.” He glanced sidelong at Triston, as though still preoccupied with him. “If she only knew what we have here,” he mused out loud a moment later, “the very spirit of the dragon her people worship.”

  He chuckled, then turned to Beridius. “Inform the chieftainess that the emperor’s gold will be awarded at sunset. And in the meantime, arrange for that nephew of hers to meet me here at once. I have a proposition for him. That will be all, lieutenant.” The man bowed, chancing a glance at Triston. Once again Triston thought he saw a fleeting hint of pity. Then he turned on his heels and left.

  Sarconius, too, turned his dark eyes on Triston, letting his gaze linger. Seconds of silence followed, and Triston’s thought flew back to the first day he’d ever seen this man. It was the day of his duel with Gorwain. It seemed to Triston, as he stood enchained and bleeding, that the memory of that time was somehow a happy one despite his many griefs. But he remembered too the shadow of foreboding that had fallen on his heart then, if only he’d had ears to listen . . . .

  “Very well,” said Sarconius to himself, seeming to make up his mind. “Very well.” He snapped his fingers in the face of the nearest knight. “Fetch me the casket there by the bed.” He grinned at Triston. “It’s time for extreme measures, my boy. Thank you, Adavant. I’ll take that.”

  The lord took an elaborately-carved box of dark acacia wood from his knight’s hands and placed it carefully on a nearby end-table. From within he drew out an object unlike anything Triston had ever seen. It was a helm, carved in one piece from a single block of some sable substance. What that was, Triston had no guess, for its appearance was entirely new to him. The helm was darker than a deep shadow. Not the purest obsidian, not the gloomiest shade of midnight, had ever appeared so black as this object. The torchlight had no potency of illumination over it. It was as if the Fates had cut a hole in the fabric of the world, and pure nothingness lay beyond.

  Sarconius’ face was grim now. He seemed to be steeling himself for something disagreeable. Seating himself on a stool near the table, his white-knuckled hands gripped the table-edge. His body taut, his breath short and swift, he slowly forced on the helm.

  Triston watched with growing foreboding. There was something deeply unnatural about that helm. He’d preferred torture by knife-point to this. A presence had entered the room at the helm’s unveiling, a darkness to match its sable color.

  But to all appearances, nothing happened. Minutes passed, and Triston felt his muscles relax. Then his breath ca
ught in his throat as he stared transfixed at the nightmarish artifact.

  It was staring back at him.

  Horribly, eyes had opened where a visor would have been on any other helm. Human eyes they seemed, pained, savage, and bleeding continuously as though punctured, but intelligent and very much alive. They peered around them room, as though looking for something, Then, seeing him, they froze.

  “It is done, master,” intoned Sarconius’ deep voice from within the helm. “Magog’s Fury is ours.” There was a pause and then Sarconius spoke again. “You are right, of course. You warned me against delay, and I nearly failed you. But with your guidance success came in the end. And there is still time for the next step.” More silence, and then “You are merciful, master. I thank you.” Another pause, and still the eyes bored into Triston’s. Now he felt beads of sweat forming on his brow.

  “Yes, that is the boy. Why? I had questions, master. Questions that only he can answer . . . I realize that . . . Yes, you wouldn’t think it to look at him . . . Yes, he wielded it. Master, he fought as a Mindlord . . . I don’t know. At least seventy at once, maybe more.”

  Then came the longest pause. Triston was aware that his heart was thudding audibly in his chest. What was he afraid of? True, it was a strange helm with strange powers, but still only a piece of armor after all. “Yes master. That’s what I thought too. And I’ll make contact again before we set out for . . . of course. Right away.”

  Sarconius removed the helm and stood up, looking relieved. He glanced at Triston, and a smile twitched at the corner of his lips. “Well my lad,” he said in jaunty tones, “you’ve been blessed with an honor few have known. He wishes to speak with you. Are you ready?” Without waiting for an answer, Sarconius stepped forward and forced the helm unceremoniously over Triston’s head.

  He felt the other mind at once and he reeled against his chains. Sharp, probing pains raked his brain like pins in a cushion. Somewhere nearby, someone was laughing. A burden descended on Triston, a weight of guilt and shame far worse than any he’d felt at his lowest moment, as if he’d been defiled by a thousand years of lies, cruelties and murder. He wanted to vomit.