by James Duvall
***
In the courtyard, Cabor dozed in the shade while a gardener tended shrubs only a few yards away, apparently unconcerned by the dragon's presence. At some point along the way, seeing the dragon had stopped giving him that peculiar and distant sensation of the world turning upside down without thinking to take him along. It reminded him of the first time he'd seen Tarus sprawled out on the library lawn on a sunny spring morning. It was jarring to the eye, the mind suggesting that this was a creature that couldn't exist, but at the same time acknowledging that the very same creature that could not exist was only a few feet away.
One thing he had never felt with Tarus was fear, perhaps it was the sadean man's human face or the lethargic nature of a sunning cat. The dragon, however, hit something primal in him in a way that was hard to completely shake. He found his pace slowing as he approached where the dragon slept, a creature that could easily outmatch any earthly predator. He willed himself not to lag behind Grimlohr, focusing on that sparkle of intelligence that he could always see in Cabor's eyes.
It felt strange, illogical, that Grimlohr could stand right beside him in his human form and not evoke the same edge of fear in him.
Why is that? The disguise?
That seemed beyond illogical. Somehow Grimlohr seemed more... human? No, that didn't make sense, he was just as much a dragon as Cabor. Only, Joshua had never seen Grimlohr in his natural form. Perhaps if he had...
The night seeker stretched languidly, stepping into the sun before he sat on his haunches to watch his approaching visitors. Joshua waved to him like he was an old friend.
“First and foremost, I would like to personally thank you for helping Cabor in locating Princess Talya,” Grimlohr began. “She is very important to us and I understand you were instrumental in her safe return.”
“I'm glad I was able to help,” Joshua said. “Is she okay?”
“We are still trying to determine what sort of poison she is afflicted with, but she is stable and seems to be convalescing slowly on her own. We dragons were forged in fire, her blood will burn this toxin out. Do not let it trouble you, Joshua. Now, I have brought something for Cabor that I would like you also to see.”
Grimlohr produced a small glass bauble from a satchel at his waist and held it up to the sun to inspect its color. Crystal blue liquid sloshed inside, bubbling faintly from a little spot on the bottom as though it were right on the cusp of a rolling boil.
“Are you ready, night seeker?” Grimlohr asked. Cabor stood and lowered his head. Grimlohr plucked a single scale from the dragon's head and dropped it into the oblong vessel. The concoction began to bubble furiously, hissing and steaming as the scale dissolved, darkening the solution until it was nearly black. What little light that made it through the mire came out a dim sapphire on a canvas as dark as a moonless sky.
“Normally this is done in closed ceremony, with nobility from all the great halls and our finest generals and of course the royal family in attendance,” Grimlohr said. “There will be a feast in Cabor's honor, and in yours as well. Brammodar has entered both of you into the royal archive as heroes to our people for your role in Talya's safe return.”
“This is an Honor for Cabor,” Grimlohr explained, replacing the crystalline stopper. The glass plug shimmered and melted, running down the sides of the vessel until it had fused together into a single airtight capsule of midnight blue.
“It is how we preserve our heroes,”Grimlohr said. “It is an old tradition of our people. Should Cabor become injured past the point of our aid, the potion can be used to revive him. It is not something that is done often; we have been at peace for many years.”
Cabor bowed his head, spreading his wings before Grimlohr. Grimlohr touched the bauble to Cabor's temple and Cabor sat back up. The ceremony, it seemed, had ended.
“We do not expect that such an honor would be... compatible with yourself,” Grimlohr continued, “but I have something for you nonetheless. Marreth has offered up this valuable artifact, which will send you back to your home this very day.”
“This is a kyrithspan dagger.” Grimlohr produced what appeared to be an ordinary dagger with a simple handle wrapped in leather. “This can open a portal between our world and your own.”
“I can't go,” Joshua said.
Both dragons looked at him, puzzled.
“Not yet, anyway. The place I come from, Ashcrest? That's where I'd go back, right? What if the portal there isn't working...”
Grimlohr frowned. “Why would it not be working?”
“I was trying to help fix it when I ended up here. It must not be working if it brought me here. I wasn't even in the same area as it. For all I know Tarus and Brian are both here somewhere, what if...” he trailed off, the idea having only then just occurred to him. He hadn't come out at another portal, what if they were just as lost in that forest of golems?
They've both lived here before. They'll be fine. They'll find their way home. They've done this before. You're the one that hasn't. Focus!
“I can't go back without a power focus. Something to keep the fields up. Ashcrest isn't safe without them.”
“Ah, yes, Ashcrest. I have heard of the place; the Ryvarran settlement on Earth.” Grimlohr rubbed his chin thoughtfully, pocketing the kyrithspan dagger.
“Are they hard to get...?”
“Very!” a small voice announced. Rickthicket had come out of the manor house and now stood perched on the balcony above them. “You'll need to go all the way to Andrlossen for a set of those. What are you powering? A portal?”
“More like an illusion field. It keeps the magic in.”
“Not out?” Rickthicket asked.
“Definitely in. We have sadeans, faryians, a few syrrellians, the fields keep the magic in the area up.”
“What kind of power focus were you using?”
Joshua shook shrugged apologetically. “I haven't the slightest. My getting here in the first place was an accident.”
“If they are using illusions to hide among humans there will only be so many varieties of power source that they could be using,” Grimlohr interjected. “What variety would you recommend, mage?”
“Whatever variety he can get,” Rickthicket said. He hopped down from the concrete railing and peered through the gap between two posts. “Doesn't matter to me.”
“I am certain you are correct, Master Rickthicket. We will simply refer then to Master Marreth. He is in such an amenable state today...”
“He's in there with Sil'krath,” Rickthicket said. He slouched against the post and cast a glance back toward the library. “That's why I'm out here. I've had enough fun dealing with dragons this season, thank you.”
He dismissed them all with a flick of his wrist and turned his back to them.
“But you do know what kind?” Joshua asked.
“I don't. Or I'd tell you. Then you'd all leave. Master Marreth can mend then.”
“I cannot leave until I have an answer and a set of crystals,” Joshua pressed.
Rickthicket didn't answer.
“You'll be helping a lot of people?”
The little figure between the rails heaved a sigh. “...fine. Come inside, but leave Master Marreth out of this.”
Chapter 10
Forgotten Places
The Cold
...marks the fourth day of our search, and probably the last. We have (indecipherable) risk of coming to train in the Cold. The benefits from (blood over lettering) outweigh the cost, to have (Blood over lettering) my return I will bring my concerns to the archmage, and by Ilsador's grace we will finally put an end to this practice.
We have found a new place to camp, and will prepare the portal back to Ryvarra tonight, with or without our missing student. May he find peace in Ilsador's Kingdom, for he will surely never find it here. (Rest of page unreadable)
~Transcribed from a blood-soaked journal found in an oasis in the Cold
Beneath a starless sky, biting cold wind whistled e
ternally through towering spires of ice, through desolate valleys, and across lifeless planes. The dreadful cacophony was punctuated only by the unearthly howl of a nightmarish creature never quite far enough in the distance for comfort and the rare hellish scream of some other creature being found by the first. Rumors of monsters and darker entities ran rampant in dimly lit taverns and thrived on the whispering tongues of eager young mages, but none could compare to the stark reality of the Cold. Against all reason, two lone figures crept along the treacherous terrain among a sea of unyielding mist. Gohzen cast a sidelong glance at his fellow traveler. He felt a twinge of disgust as Isthmur's dull eyes turned toward him.
“See anything?” Isthmur asked, yawning. He had a certain lazy drawl that pervaded his speech as though his words were simply coming out faster than his mind could form them. After three days, Gohzen had come to find it extremely grating.
“Do you see anything?” He snapped and smacked the other man across the back of his helmet. Isthmur staggered a few steps away. “Wake up.”
“It's been three days. We should go back,” Isthmur grumbled. He turned a slow circle looking for the way, but the Cold's mercurial landscape had already changed as though washed away by the ripples in the mist they had left in their wake. It was a broken world, made up of leftover magic thought lost to the void. It was as safe as an afternoon stroll atop a raging thundercloud and not nearly as hospitable. Those that deigned to enter did not often return whole of mind and body.
“You want to get paid, right?” Ghozen asked as he consulted his compass. Isthmur shrugged noncommittally. This time the needle whirled about its axis, slowing and reversing direction without rhyme or reason. He stuffed it back into his pocket and struck out across the plain. Parched, sickly plates of dead soil crumbled beneath his boots. Withering vines snaked up from the ground, flowering and bearing desiccated fruits the color of drying blood. They died as quickly as they had been born, repeating in an endless cycle of life and death, but mostly death.
“What about there?” Isthmur asked, pointing. Not more than a stone's throw away a mighty forest of oak had stood the test of time, a picturesque oasis secluded among the gruesome landscape, vibrant with life. A bird chirped, drawn to the apparent sanctuary. It screeched as it crossed the threshold, caught up in the magic of the place. Fire blossomed from its wings. It fell to the ground like a burning meteor, twisting and reshaping, its body contorting until a tiny dragon was all that was left. It stretched alien wings, rising unsteadily. Its first snarl was cut short, echoing across the plane as its body flashed to lifeless stone.
“Life means magic, magic means death,” Ghozen explained, shaking his head in dismay. This was the first rule of travel in the Cold. An oasis might provide a thirsty traveler respite, or it might draw all the moisture from his body, leaving only bones and dust swaddled in desiccated rags as a warning to the next weary soul. The only reliable aspect of the unnatural environment was the chill in the air, from which it drew its name.
Gohzen cut across a patch of particularly infertile looking soil and mounted another hill. He waited with limited patience for Isthmur to listlessly wander up to him. Three starless nights and three days indistinguishable from those nights had taken a toll on them both. Gohzen knew it, so he tried to restrain his frustrations with his companion. Anxiously he pulled the little case of tobacco from his jacket. The dinged up old box was the only constant companion on his journeys. Today it felt a little too light. He quickly remembered there was only one smoke left and shoved it back into place.
“Give me the spyglass,” Gohzen said, holding out an upturned hand. Isthmur fumbled through his pack and produced it. In the distance he could see storms and mountains, and at long last, the old stone keep.
“There it is,” Gohzen said, lowering the lens. “Get the beacon ready. Tonight we're going home.”
They found the keep in a state of sad disrepair. Snow had caved in the roof with its crushing weight. Unnatural vines had risen up on all sides, seemingly trying to pull the man-made structure into the ground.
“The door's gone to rot,” Isthmur said, giving it a kick. The softened wood crumbled into fine powder and fell in sheets to the mossy floor.
“Draggus thinks he'll have kept,” Gohzen said. He felt his way through the dark and into the blistering cold of the inner sanctum. Soft puffs of mist came with every labored breath. Through a gaping hole in the ceiling he could see the starless night and the endless blackness tainted with the subtle, shifting color of magic light that drifted through it like thin, hazy clouds.
“Get a torch,” he called back. Isthmur rummaged frantically through his pack. When the light finally came, it revealed a column of ice from floor to ceiling, glinting with gold and streaked with blood from within. A royal dragon lay within, living and not living, his murderous eyes locked unblinking on a long-vanished foe.
“I'll light the beacon off on the roof,” Isthmur said excitedly. He shoved the torch into Gohzen's hand and hurried off to find the stairs.
Gohzen was comfortable alone with the sleeping monster, so long as it stayed a sleeping monster. He held the torch up close to the ice to get a better look. The dragon's wounds were severe. Crimson trenches ran along his side, no doubt inflicted by claws as massive as his own. One paw clutched at an open wound on his broad chest. Ghozen could faintly make out torn muscle and sinew through a cloud of frozen blood.
Isthmur returned with two men. One was hooded and cloaked. The other was a tall, pale-skinned man with long, wild black hair; a ralian, his employer.
“Draggus,” Gohzen said. His voice caught for a moment in his throat.
“You do good work, Gohzen,” Draggus said. He took to pacing around the icy prison, inspecting its lone inhabitant. His hooded companion stayed near the wall, nearly invisible in the darkness.
“Do you think he's dead?” Gohzen asked. He stole a wary look at the man against the wall and then back up at the bloodied dragon. He could feel the hooded man sizing him up.
Draggus answered with a question. “Why trap a dead man?”
Gohzen considered the response with restrained curiosity. It was a strange thing to say coming from the man whose people called him the Soulthief. It brought many questions to mind that he was unwilling to ask. Questions like those could get a man killed in this line of work, particularly questions asked of a man that looked like he had been dead once before.
“Do you know who this is?” Draggus asked, putting his hand to the crystalline pillar.
“It's none of my business to know,” Gohzen said guardedly. “I just do as I'm paid.”
“An admirable quality,” Draggus said. “This is Venarthiss, a prince among the dragons. He and his brother Brammodar are far older than they let on. Ancient beings, from long before Arcamyn and Ralia became great. Born of the same clutch, both had claim to the throne. Their dispute ended here, violently.”
“Seems Brammodar came out on top.”
“He did,” Draggus admitted. “But that was a long time ago. Once he is healed, Venarthiss will make a powerful ally. Imagine the hatred festering in his soul after years turned to centuries and what light in him turned to madness. Left to wait all this time.” He reached out and touched the crystalline prison, stroking it reverently. “Leave us for now. I have a portal to construct and you must be tired.”
Gohzen nodded. “Of course,” he said, stiffly. Try as he might, he could never get comfortable in the warlock's presence. He was not alone in this condition.
“Call if we can be of service. We'll be right outside.” Ghozen waved for Isthmur to follow and made a quick retreat to the courtyard, eager for that last smoke now more than ever.
***
“Is something the matter, Charles?”
Charles Tamlin pulled his hood back. “They found this place in three days?” he asked. He looked to be Draggus's exact counterpart. He had short hair and skin well-touched by the sun. He was stocky and strong, rough as a mountain, with fists hard as
anvils. He was every bit the picture of the sort of man the humans liked to paint of their generals. Only this man wore a dark cloak and a hood, and walked with warlocks in the forgotten places of the world.
“Nearly,” Morphial said. “Gohzen's abilities rarely fail him. This was his third expedition into the Cold. Experience like that is hard to find in a sane man. He is quite loyal, I assure you. That disguise only serves to draw attention to yourself.”
Tamlin's immutable scowl had become part of his uniform in Draggus's presence. The general found it hard to believe the warlock had anyone's best interests at heart, least of all his. He didn't want to argue with Draggus, not about this.
“You have little to lose from being recognized here,” he said, against his better judgment. “You brought me here to show me this? A dragon trapped in ice?”
“I see you are difficult to impress Charles,” Draggus said, smirking. “You seemed so concerned with your privacy, I thought it best to bring you along. After all, where can we have a more private conversation than here, in the desolation of the Cold?”
Tamlin knew when he was being taught a lesson. Draggus had power here, and he did not. Ignoring the warlock's jab, he stepped up to the ice to give the dragon a closer look. He did not like the idea of the warlock dragging him across the planes to such an isolated place. It was too easy to be left behind and he had no desire to be rescued from the Cold. Lurking in dark places with a warlock was frowned upon by more circles than he cared to count.
Beneath the ralian's calm smile and those placid yellow eyes, Tamlin could see the inklings of a far more sinister nature, and so he avoided looking at them. Instead he focused on the object of their journey, the dragon.