The Swordmage Trilogy: Volume 03 - The Pegasus's Lament

by Martin Hengst

  “As you wish, Nerillia of the Lamiad. You will have possession of the Deep Oracle. For however long you survive after releasing it from its prison.”

  Zarfensis stalked off and Nerillia watched him go. The Xarundi might not be openly hostile to the other races of the Shadow Assembly, but they certainly didn't go to great lengths to hide their general disdain for anyone not of their lineage. No matter, she thought, once the Lamiad have control of the Oracle, they'd learn their true place in the grand scheme of the Assembly.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The rock tower on which Stryne perched was the highest peak in the range of mountains that protected the human capital city from attack from those outside its borders. He had driven his claws deep into the stone like a climber's pitons. His wings were folded to his back, the muscles along his great shoulders bunched, ready to provide the first all-important down sweep of the wings. The air was thin and cold at such a height and any other creature on Solendrea would have succumbed to suffocation long ago. Only the air stored in his lungs and the diligent beating of both fore and tail hearts kept him awake, alert, and alive.

  Not moss, nor lichen, nor a single intrepid blade of grass crept up the bare rock face of this lonely pinnacle of stone pointing toward the sky. During the Age of Empires it had been known as the Dragonlord's Spire. It was the symbolic seat of power for the draconic empire long before the disease of man spread across the world, consuming and laying waste to everything they touched. A disease responsible for the travesty that was laid out before him. In the distance, at the very limit of his vision, he could make out the great cavern by the sea that had once been his demesne. Even the name the humans had given the city, Dragonfell, was an affront.

  As the youngest of seven nest mates by a day and an hour, Stryne had been forced to fight for everything. His sisters were larger than even his biggest brother and each of his four brothers dwarfed him in size. Therefore, it had been to the smallest dragon's advantage to rely on guile and deceit to gain what was denied to him. He became so adept at scheming that his siblings didn't realize he had been turning them against each other until it was too late. Their sire and dam had long since left the nest, leaving their offspring to fend for themselves. Eventually, between being hunted for sport by men, challenged in the air by the meddlesome winged horses, and terrible fighting amongst themselves, their numbers dwindled dramatically.

  Eventually only Stryne and his eldest brother, Dominus, remained in the East. They ruled the land along the seacoast, Stryne controlling the northern half and Dominus the southern. By that time Stryne had amassed a great cavern full of treasure from selling information and his magical services to the lesser races of Solendrea. As his treasure grew, he gave in to the ingrained hoarding instinct that ruled all dragons. When Dominus discovered his brother's stronghold, it was the most basic draconic instinct for him to drive the younger dragon out and take the hoarded trinkets, gold, and baubles for himself.

  The battle was long and bitter, with the sound of their fighting echoing along the valley for several days and nights. Though Stryne fought valiantly, Dominus was larger and stronger. Eventually he could stand against Dominus no longer and Stryne renounced his claim on the cavern and his hard-earned treasure. Slinking away into the night, he had vowed his revenge on his brother. The humans had stolen much from him. First in taking his right of vengeance against his brother. Second, in moving into the cavern he, himself, had built up over many years and claiming it as their own. Dominus's skull hung on the ridge above that same cavern. It was sacrilege and Stryne would see that the humans paid for their arrogance.

  Wrenching his claws from the rock, Stryne threw himself backward, his wings tucked tight against his body. He fell toward the jagged rock peaks several thousand feet below the wind screaming around him. As air became thicker and warmer, scented with the touch of spring, he opened his jaws and filled his starved lungs. He felt a tingle deep in his chest, the innate power of his soul seed feeding on the sudden return of air. At the last moment, his wings snapped out and he threw himself nose over tail, checking his descent and hovering over the sharp rocks which were now only a hundred or so feet under his broad wings.

  Stryne hung there a moment, his sharp eyes searching, cataloging every crack and crevasse. Every boulder that an intruder might hide behind. Every rock fall that could hold a complement of archers. Satisfied that the Dragonlord's Spire was safe from human defilement, he turned on a wingtip and winged into the warm wind blowing from the west. The current pressed against him, but lifted his wings, which carried him along toward the cavern that he had claimed for himself in the mountains overlooking Dragonfell. It wasn't as grand as the one he had lost to the humans, but it would do until he could reclaim his home.

  It took time for him to reach his destination, but as the sun was slipping beyond the horizon, he folded his wings and dove toward the entrance, black against the twilight sky. He back-winged with just the right amount of force to land on the rock lip that surrounded the cave. Powerful claws caught the ridge, checking his momentum. His violet eyes sparkled as he surveyed his refuge. Satisfied that no living creature hid in the shadows to challenge his claim, he nestled down into his wallow and curved his long neck around the small pile of treasure he had amassed in the center of chamber.

  Most of it was useless. A battered shield he had taken from a solitary knight, surprised to find a dragon in his path. A broken wagon wheel. A handful of gold coins pilfered from travelers along the desert trade road far to the west. The only item of any great importance was a ruby as large as a man's fist that Stryne had kept hidden before he was driven into exile under the ice and snow. He had found it in its hiding place, a narrow cleft in the northern mountains that had been covered over by hundreds of years of ice and dirt. It had taken him the better part of a day to find it and dig it out. In the end, though, he had wrested it from its safe place and it felt good to have something that truly belonged to him once again.

  The day's warmth was draining from his body and Stryne felt the suggestive siren's call of sleep spreading through his body. His eyes closed and he was just drifting off to slumber when he heard it: the sound of rocks and loose scree sliding down the side of the mountain where he kept his refuge. Convinced, in his half slumbering state, that it was Dominus returned to take his sanctuary from him once again, Stryne's eyes snapped open. They blazed in the dim light and a low rumble of warning shook the rock of the cavern and loosened a fine sifting of dust from the ceiling.

  However, it wasn't Dominus, or any dragon, that appeared over the lip of the cave. It was a woman. Not a human woman, but the exotic grey skinned curves of a Lamiad. She stopped just inside the cavern and presented herself with a respectful bow. Stryne snaked his head forward, protecting the meager, almost laughable, treasure he had amassed. Still, the treasure was his, and instinct was a powerful thing.

  “You may enter, Nerillia,” the dragon said, his mind touching hers.

  “Thank you, My Lord.”

  Nerillia responded in the same way she had been spoken to. Stryne much preferred direct mind-to-mind communication with the species who were capable of such a feat. There was much less opportunity for misunderstanding, or deception. True, a skilled telepath could still influence either their own thoughts, or the receptive thoughts of the other party, but Stryne felt that he was as skilled in that arena as any.

  “What have you to report, Nerillia?”

  “I was able to smuggle the High Priest into the city without incident. Likewise, the girl you recommended we recruit has been found. How did you know about her, My Lord?”

  “Her essence is a blight on the Quintessential Sphere,” the dragon replied. “The forces of death, darkness, and disease are drawn to her like moths to a flame. The Ancient Dyr seeks to make her its avatar.”

  Nerillia's eyes widened. He could feel her uncertainty. She wasn't sure whether or not to believe what he said about the Ancients. She was still young enough to know that there were forc
es in the Deep Void more powerful than any mortal could comprehend, but old enough to be skeptical when another invoked those primordial powers.

  “Is it wise to meddle in the affairs of an Ancient, My Lord?”

  “If we were to truly anger the Ancient Dyr, none of us would survive long enough to worry about it, Nerillia. Our task remains the same. To eradicate the human pestilence and recover what they have taken from me. In return, your soul will be made whole again.”

  Stryne felt the pleasure spill out from her, a cup filled past the point of overflowing. Though he wasn't certain exactly how long the other half of her soul had been trapped in the cavern under the Xarundi's adopted home, he knew that it was long enough that the desire to be made whole would override all other concerns that might arise.

  “You honor me with your assistance, My Lord.”

  The dragon snorted, blowing Nerillia's hair out behind her like a bridal train.

  “I assist you because it benefits me to do so. Remember that, tiny creature.”

  “As you say, My Lord.”

  “Have you obtained the Chalice of Souls?”

  “Of course, My Lord. The information you provided was invaluable. All proceeds according to your plan.”

  “Very well. Then leave me and continue to carry out my instructions. I will summon you as necessary.”

  “As you wish, My Lord.”

  The Lamiad bowed deeply and backed out of the cavern. Stryne listened to her descent down the mountain, following the sound of her feet on the loose earth until it was outside his senses. Then he turned his eyes toward the Quintessential Sphere, stalking her until she reached the foot of the mountain and turned back toward the city. Satisfied that she was well away from the cave, he closed his eyes and slept.

  #

  “Where in the nine hells have you been?” Faxon demanded as Tionne entered the common room of the Dirty Magpie Inn.

  The raw fury in his face gave her a moment of panic, her heart racing like a startled rabbit. Though she was mostly devoid of normal feelings for a girl her age, the dread that settled into the pit of her stomach was visceral. She wanted to run. To turn and run from the inn and not have to explain anything. Even in her panicked state, she knew that if she ran, he would follow and where would she go? Back to the safe house? That'd be even more dangerous than Faxon at his worst.

  “Out,” she replied, with far more confidence than she felt, and tried to brush past him toward the stairs.

  As she passed him, his hand flashed out and he grabbed her arm, hard. His fingers dug into her flesh and tears of pain sprang to her eyes. He spun her to face him, his fingers dug into the muscle and her arm started to go numb.

  “You're hurting me,” she managed to gasp. The confidence was gone and now she was just a terrified girl in pain.

  “You think this hurts?” Faxon backed her up against the wall near the staircase.

  He was apparently unconcerned by the stares of the few patrons who were in the common room. It was still early in the afternoon and the common room wouldn't get busy until later. Tionne wondered why none of them would come to her rescue. No one ever has before, she thought bitterly. Why should they start now? Another squeeze of her arm snapped her out of any conscious thought.

  “This doesn't hurt,” Faxon snarled, giving her a little shake. “Can you imagine what it would be like to be cut off from the Quintessential Sphere? You know that is what's waiting for you if you abandon your training, don't you? An inquisitor will come for you. They will hunt you down, find you, and tear out the part of your soul that makes you special. Is that what you want?”

  The rage that welled up within her was sudden and engulfing. It coursed through her, replacing the pain with the fire of her own indignant fury. She wrenched her arm from his grasp, ignoring the flare of pain.

  “What difference would it make?” she screamed at him. “My soul is mostly empty anyway! So what if an inquisitor takes the rest of it?”

  Faxon spoke quickly. So quickly that Tionne almost had trouble making out the words. She was aided by the fact that his invocation was impeccable for the speed at which he was speaking. Too late, Tionne realized what he meant to do. She couldn't defend herself against what was coming. She'd heard the call to power for the censure ritual before, in the School of Academics. There they were taught the theory behind the complicated and ancient words. That was the spell Faxon was casting on her.

  Something snapped deep within her and there was an emptiness unlike anything she had ever felt. Tionne had thought that she was as empty as she could be. She'd been wrong. Horribly wrong. The feeling in the back of her mind, the feeling that told her that she was a part of all things and the energy of the Quintessential Sphere flowed through her, was gone. Now she knew, with the clarity of experience, why most censured mages went mad or killed themselves. No one could exist this way and remain sane. Her knees went weak and she slid down the wall until she was slouched on the floor.

  Tionne was vaguely aware of Faxon crouching down beside her. She heard a few words, then screamed. The pain that coursed through her was unimaginable. Her blood was fire in her veins. Then as quickly as it began, it was gone. In its wake was the subtle, subliminal hum that reminded her of her connection to the Quintessential Sphere. Faxon had severed the connection and held the ends of the cut thread that linked her to her power. Then, somehow, he'd made it whole. Focus was difficult, but she saw one of the men in the common room get to his feet and start toward them. Now he finds a conscience, for all the good it does me.

  “Don't.” Faxon's voice was low and menacing. Though he didn't turn around, it was obvious to everyone in the room who he was talking to. “This doesn't concern you.”

  He leaned over Tionne and pressed his fingers against her neck. She wanted to pull away, but couldn't muster the strength.

  “You're traveling a dark path, Tionne.” Faxon rocked back on his heels, looking at her. “That was the merest taste of what awaits you at the end of the path. The darkness at the end of that path will consume you. It will consume you and there will be nothing left. Whatever you're involved in, whatever you think you know, you don't have the experience to temper your passion. Let me help you. Please.”

  “I'll think about it,” she lied. “Now I just want to be left alone.”

  Faxon took her hand and she ignored the link shock that jumped between them. He stood and helped her to her feet, stepping away from the stairs.

  “I can help you.”

  “I don't want your help.” She started climbing the stairs, every muscle in her body screaming in protest. She stopped halfway up and looked over her shoulder at him. “I hate you.”

  For a moment, she thought he would pursue her and finish the job he'd started. He didn't. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, shaking his head. His face was a mix of sorrow and grief and she hated him for that too. She didn't need his help, and after what he had done to her, she didn't want anything to do with him. Whatever he knew, or thought he knew, didn't compare to what Nerillia had shown her.

  She wanted to run to her room, but her legs wouldn't manage anything more than a slow walk. The temporary cessation of her link with the Quintessential Sphere had had a very pronounced effect on her. Faxon probably thought the experience would make her submit, but he had another thing coming. She heaved a sigh of relief when she reached the door of her rented room and slipped inside. She closed it behind her and leaned against it, regaining some of her composure in the solitude.

  Nerillia hadn't wanted her to leave the safe house and now Tionne wondered if maybe she had made a mistake in returning. She'd argued that if she didn't return, Faxon might come looking for her. The elder quintessentialist had an annoying way of sticking his nose places that it didn't belong and Tionne doubted that either Nerillia, or Zarfensis, wanted him to be snooping around their plans. Not that she was even certain what their plans were.

  Tionne frowned. Nerillia had wanted to fill her in on the details last night in the co
mmon room of the safe house, but the Xarundi had stopped her before she'd been able to divulge anything meaningful. She knew that the success or failure of the plan depended heavily on blood, but she hadn't been able to convince either Nerillia or Zarfensis to tell her who's blood it would be or why it was so important. That was going to change, she decided. If they needed her for their plan, they'd tell her what she wanted to know. They'd have to. Besides, she wasn't coming back here.

  She crossed to the foot of the rented bed and the battered wooden chest that was on the floor there. The magical seal she'd placed on the container was still in place, so Faxon hadn't thought to disturb her belongings in his half-hearted search. Not that there was much there. She'd been rescued, if that was even the word for it, from the ruins of her village with hardly anything to her name. Her current fortune wasn't much better. There were a number of things in the trunk, but few that she actually cared about.

  Stripping off her robes, she dropped them to the floor and kicked them away. Opening the chest, she lifted out the finery Faxon had given her and set the garments aside. She took a pair of black leather breeches and a simple tunic. Dressing quickly, Tionne lifted a thin belt from inside the chest and wrapped it around her waist. To that she added her dagger, a purse with a few crowns she'd scrimped and saved from odd jobs, and a pouch that held the vials of blood and the bloodstone.

  Nerillia had let her keep the bloodstone, explaining that if they were ever separated, all Tionne had to do was feed the stone and it would lead her back to the Lamiad. Tionne didn't feel the same attraction to Nerillia that she felt for Aluka, but whenever the Lamiad was nearby, Tionne found herself drawn to her as if she couldn't help herself.

  Tionne glanced around the room. What was left in the chest would stay here. There was just one more thing she had to do before she could be out from under Faxon's thumb forever. She scooped up the clothes he'd given her and drew her knife from its sheathe. The razor sharp blade made short work of the fine velvet. Soon all that remained of the expensive garments was a pile of jagged scraps. These she spread across the bed. When Faxon came looking for her, he'd surely be able to puzzle out the meaning of that message.