Dragonsbane

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Dragonsbane Page 49

by Shae Ford


  Crevan hated the swamps. It was a useless plot of land that seemed to exist only to breed insects — great, bloodsucking pests that drove him mad with their needles. They left itching welts down Crevan’s neck and across his back, sipping during the day and swarming to feast at night.

  To make matters worse, the whole air stank like a dead man’s breath. The odor hung so thickly that Crevan began to think there wasn’t any air. Perhaps their lungs simply filled with the stench of rotting travelers.

  No road crossed through the swamps. The land was in a constant state of decay: its skin rotted and festered with such vigor that any paths they might’ve built would’ve been swallowed up immediately. Instead, Crevan’s men were forced to travel along a few narrow pathways of solid earth.

  Muck and slime oozed from the stringy grass at their every step. The mire grasped wetly at their boots, sank its jaws across the carts’ wheels — always trying to drag them to a slow and murky death. It was with no small relief that Crevan and his soldiers finally made it to the mouth of the northern seas.

  The great river that cut through the Kingdom split at the seas’ mouth, forming two smaller currents. They flowed on either side of an island caught between them and disappeared into the icy blue beyond.

  Countess D’Mere waited for him at a camp along the northern riverbank. She wore a deep green tunic and tight-fitting black breeches. Her boots came up to her knees. Crevan was alarmed to see that they were covered in mud.

  “You should’ve brought a horse, Countess,” he said as he dismounted. He patted the creature’s warm, muscled neck and smiled. “If the swamp muck begins to drag you down, their sacrifice will give you a moment to escape.”

  “A clever ploy, Your Majesty. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  The Countess kept her smile sharp. Her lips could charm like a serpent’s eyes — Crevan had seen it done. And he’d promised that if she ever tried her tricks on him, he’d lop off her head. “Where’s the shaman?”

  “Here, Your Majesty,” Blackbeak crowed. There were gashes on the side of his warped face and a number of his feathers were missing. “Unfortunate! I had an unfortunate accident, Your Majesty,” he explained.

  Crevan was certain that he’d had gotten whatever he deserved. He might’ve looked like a monster, but the crow shaman was clever: there was little his beady eyes didn’t see. It would’ve been dangerous to let him wander around the fortress of Midlan. So Crevan had left him in the charge of Countess D’Mere.

  Blackbeak approached from the river, hemmed on either side by young men dressed like the Countess. Both of the guards carried swords at their hips and had the golden, twisting oak of the Grandforest stamped upon their chests. Crevan glanced at their faces — and then he had to glance again.

  From their dark eyes to their frowning lips, the boys were identical. Both had their hair cut close to their scalps. They even had the same knot on their nose, as if both had been broken and healed at the same crooked angle.

  “I hope you’re well, Your Majesty,” D’Mere said, her eyes searching.

  Crevan shook his head. “I’m more concerned for you, Countess. I should’ve realized that Titus would use a treaty with the chancellor to lure you in — he knew I would send you to the seas on my behalf. I don’t know what I would’ve done, had you shared the same fate as my envoy.”

  She returned his smile with a hardened one of her own. “I was pleased to serve, Your Majesty — and I look forward to paying Titus back.”

  “As do I, Countess.” Crevan smirked again as he signaled behind him. “Bring the boy, Ulric.”

  So many of the mages were unwilling to use their magic for anything other than simple tasks — and the few who had gifts for battle were often cowards. But Ulric had seized the opportunity for greatness.

  No sooner had the crown been settled upon Crevan’s head than he’d offered Midlan a mighty gift of allegiance: a spell that would bind any creature with magic in its blood to Crevan’s will. Ulric had bound himself in homage, and all he’d asked for in return was to serve Midlan in the ancient ways — as the mages had served the Kings of old.

  So Crevan had gladly granted him the title of archmage.

  “Good to see you again, Countess,” Ulric called as he strode forward. The archmage was a desert man. His head was completely bald and he wore gold robes with the dragon of Midlan embroidered across his chest. His voice was charming.

  But his face was not.

  Ulric’s eyes sunk deep inside his head — dark, and glittering. He always smiled with an open mouth, letting the sharp edges of his teeth crop out from over his lips. His ears were twice the normal size: the skin was stretched to near transparence. Little blue veins webbed out from their middles, snaking all along the dips and rivets.

  Crevan supposed his ears had grown from the strain of listening to the many voices of his mages and beasts.

  For years on end, Ulric had done little more than sit cross-legged inside his chambers, sifting through the wails of the Kingdom’s slaves. He could hear their every gasp and plea, each desperate thought that bounced inside their heads. He plucked all the useful bits away and handed them over to Crevan. More than once, Ulric’s ears had saved his throne.

  But though his magic was among the most powerful Crevan had ever seen, his archmage had one weakness that kept him tethered to the crown: a love for cruelty.

  He was always trying to create new ways for his victims to suffer, always weaving a more painful, devastating spell. Being able to hear their thoughts gave Ulric a clear window into the fears of the beasts … and so Crevan had given him the authority to break each one.

  D’Mere stiffened under Ulric’s gaze. “Archmage,” she said with a nod. “Shall we begin? I don’t want to keep His Majesty waiting.”

  Ulric turned and stretched an arm out behind him. It was adorned with a silver impetus: a chain that wrapped around his wrist several times and was made up of dozens of tiny links — each one tied to a particular mage or beast. The impetus glowed as Ulric beckoned with a finger, and the strange-looking forest boy stumbled out of the cart.

  His name was Devin — a fact he’d reminded them of every time the soldiers had called him whelp or maggot, or anything that wasn’t his name. He’d squawked about it until Ulric finally sealed his mouth shut.

  With a wave of his hand, Ulric released him. The bonds fell from Devin’s wrists and he stumbled forward as he regained use of his legs. He massaged the muscles of his jaw, wrapping them all up in his stark blue gaze.

  “He’s too stupid to run,” Ulric said in answer to the question on D’Mere’s face.

  Her icy gaze swept over him. “What … is he?”

  Devin’s eyes widened when he saw her, but he didn’t speak. He craned his neck over her shoulder to stare at her guards. His stark eyes traveled between them, and his face fell. “You’re brothers, aren’t you?”

  They didn’t answer. In fact, they didn’t even blink.

  “You look too alike not to be brothers,” Devin went on, speaking as if the twins were the only people in the swamps. “I wish I’d gotten a chance to know my brothers. I would’ve liked to know them, I think.” His eyes widened at Blackbeak. But instead of stepping back, he stepped forward. “Are you a man or a bird?”

  “Yes,” he crowed. Then his neck bobbed to Ulric. “Surprising! I’m surprised he still has his tongue.”

  “His Majesty wished him to arrive … unspoiled,” Ulric muttered.

  D’Mere’s brows arched high. She craned her neck over his shoulder to look at the cart. “You’ve only brought one, Your Majesty?”

  “Yes. I searched for others … but there was only one left. Enough chattering,” Crevan growled before she could ask another question. “Get to work, shaman.”

  The collar around his feathery neck glowed red with the command, and Blackbeak hopped to obey.

  Two shriveled hands curled at the tops of the shaman’s wings. Devin stiffened when one of them latched onto his wrist. Th
ere was a small flint dagger clutched in the other. His stark eyes followed dagger’s path unblinkingly as Blackbeak passed it over his hand. Strange muffled words rolled off the shaman’s gray tongue and out his beak. The wooden talisman that hung against his chest glowed faintly as he spoke.

  Devin yelped when Blackbeak swiped the blade across his palm.

  “Why are you hurting me?” he gasped. “What did I …?”

  Slowly, the blue of his gaze lost its sharpness. He stared at Blackbeak’s talisman for a moment, watching as the light flickered and finally went out. Devin’s mouth parted and his eyes went to the island in the distance — as if he searched for something.

  “Get out of his way,” Crevan hissed.

  Blackbeak leapt to the side.

  Without any words or so much as a glance behind him, Devin began to walk. He reached with his wounded hand as he made his way slowly towards the island between rivers.

  And Crevan held his breath.

  *******

  It was a voice that drew him to the river. A woman’s voice — strong and deep … and kind. The words she whispered reminded Devin of his mother.

  She hummed the same songs his mother used to sing, speaking with the river’s roar and along the whistle of the wind. The earth trembled when she spoke, as if he was standing upon the chords of her throat.

  Closer, child. You must come closer.

  Her voice lured him to the rocky bank. Swift waters lapped the shores, but he was certain the woman wouldn’t lead him to harm. The waters must not have been as angry as they looked. With a deep breath, he dipped his foot among the rapids.

  The whole river seemed to be made from the same foam that covered its top: there was no strength behind the flow. It didn’t try to pull him under. The water whipped harmlessly around him as Devin waded further out.

  It was at the river’s middle that he began to be afraid. The foamy swells came up to his neck, now. If it went much deeper, he wouldn’t be able to breathe.

  Look up, child. My light will guide you.

  Devin’s eyes left the swirling waters and locked onto the woman standing upon the opposite bank. She waited for him. He couldn’t see her face, but her hand was outstretched. He wanted desperately to reach her.

  With a deep breath, he forced his way across the river and pulled himself up the rocky slope of the bank. He didn’t realized how the journey had weakened him until he collapsed on hand and knee.

  Closer, child. Closer.

  He was nearly there — her hand was almost within his reach. The fresh cut on his palm stung as he dragged himself across the pebbly shore. His skin burned against the many little rocks that ground into his flesh. With his last ounce of strength, he stretched out and grasped for her hand.

  When he looked up, he realized it wasn’t a woman that’d been calling to him: it was a tree. Its trunk was made of two smaller trees, twisted tightly around each other and spiraling towards the sky. They mingled at their branches — forming one great canopy of leaves.

  Fear twisted inside Devin’s throat. It shoved until it burst from his mouth in a panicked cry. The Braided Tree! His mother had sung of this place before. She’d shown him the picture carved into his father’s talisman.

  No. No, he couldn’t be here. He wasn’t supposed to be here — the draega weren’t allowed! He tried to pull himself from the Tree, but his hand wouldn’t budge. It was as if his fingers had melted into the roots.

  Peace, child. Peace.

  A great light began to pulse from within the Braided Tree. It went from blinding to dim in slow, steady breaths. Devin filled his lungs along with its rhythm and felt something like cool rain wash over his head. But his peace didn’t last for long.

  His arm went numb and his hand burned as the Tree sucked a great amount of blood out through his cut. The light in the center grew brighter — so bright that Devin had to shut his eyes.

  “Let me go!” he cried.

  The woman’s voice was gone. A new sound came from the Tree — a sound like the thud of footsteps across a wooden bridge. It grew faster and louder as Devin tried to pull away.

  “Let me go!” he said again. “I’m not supposed to be here — I didn’t want to be here!”

  Thump thump thump thump thump.

  “Please, let me go!”

  He shouted, he cried. He beat a fist against the roots. He tore at his palm with his other hand, trying to pull himself free. A few desperate minutes passed before he realized it was hopeless. He was trapped.

  Thump thump … thump thump … thump thump …

  The pounding quieted as Devin gave in, slowing to a rhythm that didn’t frighten him so badly. As he lay there listening, he realized the thudding within the Tree matched the noise inside his chest.

  He hears you, child. He accepts your challenge.

  “No! Please, I didn’t mean to! I didn’t want …” But Devin couldn’t finish his words. He collapsed, every bit of him finally spent.

  Hot tears welled in his eyes as he realized what he’d done. It was the one thing he swore he’d never do — he’d broken the oath that every draega pledged to protect. He’d promised his mother, promised her that he would stay away from this place. He promised that no matter what, he would keep the draega’s oath.

  It was the only thing she’d ever asked of him. It was the promise he’d whispered to her when she finally took her Great Sleep … when she’d gone to join his father and all of his brothers and sisters in the green lands across the river.

  And now … he’d failed her.

  “Please … I just … I want to go home.”

  The ritual is almost complete, the Tree whispered to him. Now you must face him in the Arena of Souls … and face him bravely, child. For the victor is two lives, and for the vanquished — none.

  *******

  When Devin looked up, the Tree was gone. The sky was gone. The island and the rivers were gone. He knelt in a strange place.

  It reminded him of home: an open space of land ringed by broken things. But there weren’t any trees. He couldn’t feel the wind or smell the flowers’ bloom. Everything was a mix of gray and shadow. The whole world shimmered like the air above flame.

  A song drew his eyes to the other side of the land. It was the rumble of storm clouds — powerful and deep. It was the music of the wind, the whisper of the trees. The song was exactly the one his mother used to sing. Devin knew the sort of creature that waited for him before he even had a chance to look.

  Curved horns and a long spiked tail, great wings unfurled proudly at its side — blurry like the rest of the world, but still shaped enough. A black dragon watched him from across the Arena.

  Slowly, Devin got to his feet. In the world outside, the dragon would’ve towered above him. But in this world they stood at the same height. “I’m sorry,” he said. The words didn’t come from his mouth. He couldn’t feel his mouth. When he reached up, he realized that he didn’t have a mouth. His face was blank like the dragon’s.

  A low groan came from the depths of the dragon’s scaly chest. It rose slightly towards the end, but never quite climbed from the depths. The song would never rise any higher. It wasn’t meant to. The dragon’s voice stayed low, like the sad tales his mother used to sing — the ones that ended in her tears.

  Devin didn’t understand the dragon’s words, but he understood their meaning: only one of them could leave this place alive. They were going to have to fight.

  Boy and dragon charged each other, colliding in the middle. The dragon raked its claws across Devin’s chest. Tendrils of black leaked from his wound and into the dragon. To his horror, the beast grew larger. The earth came closer as Devin shrank.

  He gasped as the dragon’s jaw clamped down upon his arm. More black leaked away, pouring out in rivers. He tried to run, but by now he was too small: the dragon arched its long neck and bit him without even taking a step. The more it consumed, the larger it grew. Soon it was nearly the size of a hill — while Devin had shrunk to
a child’s height. One more bite, and he’d be finished.

  For the victor is two lives, and for the vanquished — none.

  Devin knew what was happening. His mother used to sing songs of the old days — the age when draega and dragon lived as one, but that time had passed. It was too dangerous a power, too cruel a practice. They’d sworn an oath long ago that man and dragon would never again be joined.

  Now that oath was broken. Whether Devin won or the dragon consumed him, the oath would still be broken. To give up his life wouldn’t change a thing. And so he wouldn’t give up.

  He would fight.

  The dragon’s head shot down, and Devin rolled to the side. He grabbed one of the beast’s curved horns with both hands and slung himself onto its shadowy neck.

  It roared and tried to shake him off, but Devin held on tightly. He wrapped his arms around the dragon’s throat and squeezed hard. Black flowed into Devin as the dragon lost its breath. Soon they stood at equal heights once more.

  The dragon twisted out of his grasp and sunk its teeth into his neck. Devin plunged his shadowy arm through the dragon’s chest. They struck the ground together — so forcefully that it began to shake. Pillars toppled, the air wavered dangerously. They rolled, tearing at each other while the earth crumbled under their blows.

  At last, the world could hold their battle no longer. The ground shattered beneath them — and both Devin and the dragon tumbled into the darkness beyond.

  *******

  Crevan paced a stone’s throw from the rocky shore. He’d watched as the boy’s body crumpled beneath the Braided Tree, but he hadn’t worried. They’d all done that: fallen unconscious as they reached the Tree, only to wake a few moments later.

  But now the sun had climbed on for almost an hour, and Devin still hadn’t moved.

 

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