Sword of Draskara (Casters of Syndrial Book 2)

by Rain Oxford

  The dragon’s roar was so loud I was sure he didn’t hear Painter, but after a moment, he stopped. “Are you a healer?” he finally asked. The dragon had a strong voice, though it was laced with pain and suspicion.

  The point was that the dragon spoke in the first place.

  I wanted to say something, but I didn’t want to be eaten.

  “I am not a healer,” Painter said, “and I may not be able to help you. If I can’t, however, I know someone who can. The first step is removing the spear.”

  The dragon snarled. “Stay away!”

  Painter didn’t stand. “Of course,” he said calmly. “Nathan, do you want to help me out?”

  “What do you need?”

  “Write that the spear shrinks so that it can come out easily and painlessly. I will do the rest.”

  “How do I spell the dragon’s name?”

  “V-e-r-j-a… friðr.”

  “You’re so much help.”

  “You’re the one who won all those damned spelling bees.”

  “Would you shut up and let me help the dragon?” I asked. He rolled his eyes and I pulled out my book. Without wasting any more time, I got to work. Fortunately, Verjafriðr held still, so I didn’t have any problem describing it. I also really wanted it, but the strange part was that I wanted it for Painter’s sake. Park of me wanted to help the dragon because Painter did. Although I was against animal cruelty, I wasn’t the kind of man who would walk up to a crocodile and pull its painful tooth.

  At least, not without it being sedated.

  Apparently, Painter was that kind of man. Luca Irving, Defender of Dragons.

  As soon as I finished writing, the spear began to shrink. Painter was already at work on the next step. He painted for a few seconds and then said, “Djekrat.” The spear levitated out of Verjafriðr’s eye and the eye instantly started healing.

  I definitely couldn’t have done that without Luca.

  * * *

  Verjafriðr was appreciative and deemed us allies, but he made us promise that we would find out who stabbed him and present the culprit before Verjafriðr alive. We agreed, but said we had to take care of another enemy first.

  Painter restored the doorway and I transported us to Roman’s shop. At least… I thought it was the shop. It wasn’t quite like the previous two times I had been in it, as it was always clean despite being a workshop. It had been cluttered, but there was no trash anywhere. This time, it was destroyed.

  Shards of metal, stone, and glass littered the floor. Every weapon had been torn from the walls, including Roman’s “fantasy” collection. Most of the tools, like the anvils, tongs, hammers, and saws, had survived the destruction. The kiln had been bashed with something hard, but it would probably still do its job.

  Without a word, Painter and I started searching for the dagger. First, however, I found Roman unconscious, buried under glass and metal.

  Roman was six-four with dark brown, graying hair and a sun-weathered face. He wasn’t originally from Syndrial. He was born in Russia and ended up trapped on Syndrial. He was in his late forties or early fifties, and I thought he was pretty well-adjusted to this life. While he wore a dark blue robe over a brown tunic and pants, he hadn’t given up his motorcycle boots.

  Painter and I dragged him up and sat him on the stairs before brushing the debris off him. By then, he started to come around. His eyes locked on Painter and he blanched, instantly alert. Painter smirked. “Someone remembers me.”

  “Cool it,” I told my brother. “We need to get the dagger you wouldn’t sell me.”

  He shook his head. “You’re too late. It was stolen.”

  Chapter 14

  How long ago was it stolen?” I asked.

  His eyes focused on the doorway, probably judging the time of day. “It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes ago.”

  “Did you see who it was that attacked you?”

  “No. Everything happened right in front of me, but I didn’t see anyone.”

  I helped Roman upstairs. The main upstairs room was twelve-by-sixteen with too many windows. The bed was across the room and covered in lavish maroon blankets. Aside from that, there was a metal armoire and a load of scrap metal, leather, and carving tools strewn about the room. It looked a lot like the shop.

  “You need to get a little time off work,” I said.

  He scoffed. “You work or you die here.”

  There were two windows on each wall, but the largest one overlooked the courtyard garden. The only door was on the far wall next to his bed. I assumed it led to his kitchen/bathroom area. Although the priests had indoor plumbing and even heated showers, I didn’t know if the commoners did.

  “Do you need water or anything?”

  He shook his head. “I just need rest.”

  “I have to ask you about the dagger and the ring, but I will wait.”

  “Thank you.” In the doorway, I paused. “How did you recognize Painter? When you first saw me, you confused me for him, yet you didn’t seem to think I was him. That means he was in disguise when he took the ring. However, downstairs, you instantly recognized him.”

  “You may be identical on the outside, but you look quite different.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m very tired.”

  “Alright. We can discuss it another time.”

  I left and found Painter outside in the garden. Along the edges of the garden were colorful flowers, while the middle consisted of a black stone slab with a magic circle painted on it.

  “How do we find the weapon now?” Without answering me, he pulled out his book and started painting. I wasn’t used to being left out of the loop. “What are you doing?”

  “Summoning the dagger.”

  “Why didn’t you do that with the weapon from the very start?”

  “Because I didn’t know what it looked like.”

  “Why didn’t you summon our mother?”

  “I don’t have her true name.” I looked over his shoulder to see the dagger he drew just as it faded from the page. “Someone is shielding it from me.”

  “Does that mean he has more magic than you?” I asked.

  “Not necessarily. If he already put it somewhere with a magic lock, then he doesn’t need to be as powerful as me to stop me from getting it. Think of it like he put it in a safe. He doesn’t need strength to stop me from breaking it open with my bare hands. He could have had months or longer to design the perfect lock.”

  “So how do we get it?”

  His eyes widened. “Why are you asking me?”

  “You are the expert in magic.”

  “I’m the son of Set, and I’ve been practicing since I was seven. I wasn’t professionally trained until years later. I’m not an expert.”

  “You spent years trying to become as powerful as you could be.”

  “And my Painter power is unmatched, but I can’t paint a plan. That was always your thing. I don’t make plans; I act on the first thing that comes to mind. Right now, I want to kill everyone until the dagger falls into my hand.”

  “You’re brilliant, though.”

  “Yeah, I can read books and remember everything anyone has ever said to me. The only thing I really planned was to make you accept me by creating Luca and changing your memories, and you know how that turned out. I am good at manipulating people.”

  “We need to go to the dagger if we can’t bring the dagger to us,” I said after a few minutes of awkward silence. “Can I write that a beam of light or something led us to it?”

  “It depends on the type of magic he used to hide it. If we had something that is connected to the dagger, then that is contagion magic, which is pretty powerful.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “It’s not something the priests teach, but we know it because it’s Earth magic. Langril taught me that when two people or objects are connected, they stay connected magically. For example, if Langril wanted to find someone, he could use that per
son’s hair or nails.”

  “As opposed to true names, like Syndrial uses.”

  “Yes, but true names are similar to contagion magic.”

  “Then since the ring and dagger are made from the same asteroid and were created to work together, we should be able to track the dagger with the ring.”

  Painter nodded. “But what’s the best way to do it? It could be on another world by now.”

  I mentally skimmed through my favorite fantasy movies and series. When I came up with the plan, I told my brother to paint a map of Syndrial. He nodded and got to work without asking questions. Instead of painting it in his book, however, he painted it on the stone ground.

  After a few minutes, I asked, “Have you seen all of Syndrial?”

  “No, but our father had a map of it in his palace, which was how I knew the north was safe for sand people.”

  When he was done, it showed the kingdoms all lined up around the equator with the north and south poles being covered in ice. Although the majority of the world was desert and there were no oceans, extensive forests surrounded the poles.

  “Just out of curiosity, why didn’t you suggest the sand people go south?” I asked.

  “I always got a bad feeling about those forests,” Painter answered.

  I pulled out my book and pen.

  The Sword of Draskara, made from the Asteroid of Rakma, was created of two parts. The ring, which is worn by the Painter, calls to its dagger counterpart that was stolen from its maker. It makes the location known to the Painter and the Writer by illuminating a spot on the map.

  The last sentence faded, but the first two remained. “Okay. Do you have something else in mind?” I asked the book. Not to my surprise, there was no answer.

  “Tell it to make the location known, but don’t write how,” Painter suggested.

  I did. This time it didn’t fade. Unfortunately, nothing else happened. “Should I add a ‘now’ to it?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Our magic often knows more than we do. Let’s try it the way Langril taught me.”

  “What do we need?”

  “A bigger map.”

  I went upstairs and woke Roman to ask him if he had a map of Syndrial or a banner of any type. He said he didn’t, but there was a notebook full of paper in his desk. I cleared a spot on the floor while Painter summoned tape and laid out the papers. Then he carefully painted on them. When it was done, he held his ring in his left hand, hovered his right hand over it, and said, “Maelpereji elasa.” Red flames formed between his hands. When he moved his right hand to the map, the flames followed.

  “Is this reliable?” I asked.

  “It was how I found Merlin the second time.”

  The flames caught the paper, but didn’t burn it. Instead, it spread to the edges and burned it from the outside in. It wasn’t evenly burning, though; the paper was reduced to ash quickly, leaving only a small patch of land left with the title, Temple of Ettekosah. “Do you know where that is?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “What about your book of portals?”

  “We could waste all day looking in it. Let’s go back to the historians. They might know.”

  “Say the magic words, Dorothy.”

  “We really need to change the phrase.” I said the phrase three times and we appeared in the old library, in front of Homa.

  “Back again so soon?”

  “Yes. The dagger had been stolen right before we could get there,” I said.

  “That’s strange.”

  “I know. We have a location, I think. We’re looking for the Temple of Ettekosah. Do you know where that is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you take us there?”

  “Unfortunately, it is lost.”

  “Do you happen to have a painting or drawing of it?” Painter asked.

  “Yes, but how would that help you?”

  “I can repaint it with Nathan and me there.”

  “I thought you needed portals?”

  “I need a portal to travel between worlds. I only need a painting to transport us to somewhere on the same world.”

  “Then I didn’t need to say the dumb phrase?” I asked.

  He frowned with concern and put his hand on my shoulder. “I wanted you to feel useful.”

  “Your Luca is showing.”

  “See? I’m not all about killing. Now, let’s go get this knife so I can kill Maori,” he said. I cleared my throat with disapproval. “Sorry… so we can kill Maori.”

  Homa led us out of the library, through the halls. “How is Verjafriðr doing?”

  “Good, thanks to you two. He is resting again, eagerly awaiting his chance to---”

  He was cut off as Painter crashed into me. We both hit the ground with painful grunts. “Sorry! I tripped over something,” my brother explained, trying to get up. He had scrapped his hand, which probably hurt worse than it looked. “Shit,” he said.

  “You should wash that,” I said.

  “No need.” He took off his ring, handed it to me, pulled out his paintbrush, and started painting over his skin. The flesh-colored paint that flowed from the bristles instantly changed to skin.

  “That’s pretty cool.” I started to hand his ring back to him, but an unexpected prick of pain in my elbow caused my arm to jerk and the ring to go flying.

  “Sjokve,” Painter said calmly. The ring shot into his hand and he slipped it back on his finger. “What was that?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, rubbing my elbow. “Bent it wrong, I guess. Bad luck.”

  Painter rolled his eyes. “You know when something that happens to us is bad luck? Never. Something’s up.”

  I sighed, giving him my best deadpan stare. “Oh. Shit. Sorry. Forgot what personality I am right now. Bad Painter.” Homa stared at us like we were both crazy.

  I didn’t really believe in bad luck, especially since learning that magic was real, but if someone was listening, I didn’t want to give anything away. Someone took the dagger, which meant they would be after the ring next, because if they could find the dagger, they could find the ring.

  I wondered if Roman had given Painter away, but it wasn’t like Roman was friends with Painter. I couldn’t really fault him, I just wished we had been warned. He had said he didn’t see his attacker, but that could have been a lie. In fact, if he was powerful enough, the thief could have removed the memory from Roman’s mind.

  We continued the trip and wound up in another library. The three of us spent two hours going through large scrolls of old temples and cities before Homa finally found it. The temple looked like a pyramid.

  “Go figure,” I said.

  “That’s totally not expected,” Painter added.

  “Pyramids are a good design,” Homa said, missing the sarcasm again.

  Next to the exterior painting was an interior one. It showed a square room with a fire pit in the center. All the walls, floor, and ceiling were covered in carved designs and hieroglyphs. Four panels on the floor illuminated the room as if they were reflecting sunlight.

  “The temple was designed to protect the treasures of Set, so it is full of traps.”

  “Of course it is. I’m getting really tired of everything being trapped,” I said.

  “Get used to it,” Painter said. “It’s big on Syndrial. Bigger than scorpions.”

  “Speaking of which, remind me to grab a can of Terro before we come back here again.”

  Painter pulled out his book and started painting. Five minutes later, he put the brush away and blew softly on the fresh paint. As if we had fallen through another portal, we were suddenly standing inside the temple.

  The painting hadn’t done the temple justice; the room was massive. I steadied myself to be attacked at any second. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “You’re missing out on the fun if you think like that,” Painter admonished.

  “This isn’t fun. It’s work and it’s dangerous.”

  “We do this all
the time in games. Why can’t you enjoy it in real life?”

  “Maybe you can enjoy it; you’re immortal. I don’t want to die today. How do we get to the dagger?”

  “I guess we have to find it.” He studied the hieroglyphs for a while before asking me which of the illuminated panels was north.

  I pointed out the one I was pretty sure was north. “You step on that one while I stand on east.”

  “Why?”

  “It unlocks a secret room.”

  “Of course it does.”

  “From what I can tell, the traps are only meant to keep out idiots who want to steal from Set. We can get through them with intellect.”

  I stood on the northern panel as he suggested and he went to the east one. As soon as we were both standing on the panels, which appeared to be made of glass, the fire pit in the center sunk into the ground, revealing a winding staircase. Luca and I looked at each other. “It’s like Myst.”

  He nodded. “Exactly, so let’s play.”

  “I’m already regretting this,” I said. We descended the steps into the dark. I pulled out my flashlight and looked around.

  We were in a five-by-five room with three doors to the front and sides and the stairs behind us. There were hieroglyphs on each of the doors.

  “What do they say?” I asked. “Is it a riddle?”

  He nodded. “Yep.” He pointed to the one on the right. “Certain death.” He pointed to the one on the left. “Certain death.” He pointed to the one in front. “Possible death.”

  “But what do they say?”

  “No, that is literally what they say.”

  “Oh… can we trust them?”

  “I have no idea.”

  I opened all three doors, and through each of them, we could only see dark tunnels. “Let’s give it a shot,” I said. We chose the “Possible death” door.

  Two minutes later, we came to a dead end and a stone podium. Across it was a white circle and instructions written in Common Syndrial. Place the correct number in the circle to continue. I aimed the flashlight at the wall beyond and saw a list of numbers.

  2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19, 23