by James Duvall
“What are you doing in Nobri?” Joshua asked once the initial surge of excitement had passed and the gears of logic started turning again, but could only reasonably place Syrrus hundreds of miles away.
“Surprised?” Syrrus asked, grinning. She wiped the rain from her face, brushing a lock of tangled hair out of her eyes in the same motion. “I came to see you, actually.”
“Did something happen...? It's only been a few weeks.”
Syrrus stole a glance around, then fell in step beside Joshua, leading him up the road. “It's probably nothing to worry about, but I wanted to talk to you about it anyway.”
“You came all this way to talk to me?” Joshua asked, feeling this was unlikely for 'nothing to worry about.'
“No fooling you, is there? I have a camp set up a mile or so up the road. I'll tell you about it when we get there.”
Joshua glanced back from whence he came. The town was nearly as far away and offered inns with warm fires and hot stew. “Keeping a low profile?”
Syrrus nodded solemnly. “I was passing through the area. Saw how close I was to Nobri and waited for you to show up. It was only a matter of time, after all. You were a few days later than I expected. Weren't you starting to feel weak?”
For a moment Joshua considered lying, as he had to Amanda, soldiering on in spite of the anemic feeling waiting for him in the mornings and near-sleepless nights. He would awaken only an hour or so after falling asleep, restless and anxious. Often he would assume his alter and pace back and forth in the living room. Invariably he would visit the fridge and pantry without selecting anything; the fleeting sense of hunger was a symptom of something no food or drink could sate.
Hunger wasn't exactly the right sensation. Returning to Arcamyn was like coming up for air. The uneasy feeling of the past few nights had faded quickly upon emerging behind Marreth's tool shed. Even the subtle chill coming off his wings had returned after a few minutes. It was a process the young man-turned-dragon barely understood, but his draconic form was panting for the magic in Arcamyn's air, and it felt good to have it flowing back into him again.
“It wasn't easy. If I had known you were coming I would have come earlier, but I didn't. I was testing myself, seeing how long I could go. You were about right. I should have come back a day or so ago, but the weekend was coming up and I thought I could do one more day. Stretch myself, you know?”
She nodded knowingly. “Well at the very least it's good to see you're in one piece and they didn't... what was it you said you were worried about?”
“They call it an alien dissection,” he said and chuckled. The concern had been only half-genuine at first. In reality his worst fear was ending up shot or poisoned by someone “in-the-know” in Ashcrest that was not keen on a dragon for a neighbor. He couldn't imagine being happy about such an arrangement himself, and he was the dragon.
“Yes, that,” Syrrus said. “I'd put you in a circus. There's a lot more money in that than alchemy. I don't know that many alchemists even work with dragon scales anymore.”
At Syrrus's camp a fire still smoldered in the fire pit, but the rain had beaten it back and it produced only the most feeble warmth. She had a tent large enough to fit the two of them, given that Joshua was considerate enough to remain in his more talkative form. He did not often find use for the amulet hanging around his neck, but it was an ever-present aspect of his wardrobe and he fingered the smooth sapphire inset habitually as he stood before the fire to warm himself and wipe rainwater and bits of grass off his hands and onto his breeches.
Beneath the shelter of the tent Joshua unwrapped his bread and found that it had held up well to the rain. He tore a chunk off and offered it to Syrrus. She accepted it gratefully and tore off a bite before opening the tent and tying it off to a nearby tree, providing some shelter from the rain nearer to the fire. With a bit of magic she stirred the fire back to life and the two were soon sitting comfortably, watching the rain fall in the forest. The fire crackled and snapped softly, bringing back memories of all those campfires out in Sangor's retreat. For once, Joshua found himself missing the temperamental mouse mage.
“I don't suppose Rickthicket will be stopping by later?”
“No, I'm sorry, he's been running errands for Grimlohr. I'm on a mission of my own,” Syrrus said. She took a spot next to him, her feline half sprawling out very much like a tired housecat, only much less tidy. “Grimlohr has me looking into the golems that captured Talya last year. I tracked them far to the south, almost to Banida. What I found is concerning. There was one among them that was different than the others. The soldiers in Tavyn call it Kreen. It speaks, and the others listen and obey.”
Joshua nodded slowly, the significance of this lost on him.
“It speaks, Joshua. Golems do not speak.”
“They don't march in formation either,” he said. “But they did, the night I first arrived in Arcamyn. But you knew that, is that what you wanted to tell me about?”
Syrrus shook her head, then looked out over the fire as she searched for the right words. “Joshua, there's a bounty on your head,” she said, plainly.
“Oh...” he said quietly, thinking this over. “Syrrus, weren't you just saying how this was probably nothing to worry about?”
“Yes, and if you're careful it will stay that way,” she answered. “Venarthiss is offering a reward for 'the abomination born of men,' which is you, but they don't know what your Alter looks like. So long as no one realizes you're the night seeker Venarthiss is looking for it's probably never going to be an issue.”
Joshua struggled to make sense of her calm. “Syrrus, there's a bounty on my head!” he protested. To this she shrugged.
“I've got three?” she offered. This revelation didn't surprise Joshua much. What did surprise him was that it did make him feel better. He was in good company, and Syrrus was not afraid and she couldn't turn into a fire-breathing monster, armored head to toe.
“Just three?”
Taken aback, Syrrus turned to him and grinned. “Hey now, when I do my job well no one knows I was ever there. That's why I'm off in the woods instead of holed up at one of the inns. Too many questions about where I'm going and what I'm doing.”
“What are you doing? Still following the golems?” Joshua asked.
“I was, but I lost track of them a week ago. I'm on my way back north to do some research in Andrlossen. Fangor University is there, and the mages will hopefully be able to shed some light on why Kreen can speak and how he controls the others. If someone were to levy such an army against Fendiss, I do not know how well we would fare.”
“Andrlossen,”Joshua said, mulling the word over on his tongue. “That's where you're from, isn't it?”
“It is,” Syrrus said. “It will be nice to see home again. It's been a few years. You should come with me, it's a bit more dragon-friendly than Nobri.”
“I have to go back home in a day or so,” Joshua said. The journey to Fendiss would be another week at least, if not longer.
“It's more dragon-friendly than Earth, also. I was surprised when you left...” she said, trailing off into her thoughts.
Joshua thought back to the day, remembering right away that something had seemed different about Syrrus. Visually she was the same, coming out of her room wearing a deep blue vest over a white cotton shirt. The sapphire orb atop her staff peeked over her shoulder, warning that this traveler was armed in ways even the shrewdest of highwaymen were not prepared to deal with. Perhaps it was the look in her eyes; the shimmering silver pools had dulled to a listless gray sometime in the night.
The conversation had been lively enough, though Joshua couldn't recall specific details. How could he have let a memory like that fade? He remembered being focused on home; Seeing the school again, seeing REMOVEME, electric lights, fast food, and soda pop. Their pace was slow, though, like the early morning drive to the airport to put a visiting loved one on a plane, certain to see them again but not sure when, perhaps driving a few
miles under the speed limit just to squeeze a few more minutes out of the visit or finish one last story.
“That was the plan though, right from the start,” Joshua said, answering a question that hung in the air without need of being asked aloud.
“Yes, yes it was,” Syrrus agreed. “But it was a plan you came up with the day after you returned from the dead. You had barely learned to walk and were already planning to go traipsing off to earth like it never happened. That's not a plan, Joshua. It's an impulse.”
Joshua mouthed a few false starts, then finally settled on “Syrrus, Earth is my home.”
“Is it?” she asked. Her tail thumped sharply against the ground. “Does it feel like home?”
“In some ways,” Joshua said wistfully. “Everything's changed.”
“No. Nothing changed but you.”
Joshua shrugged off her accusing tone. He supposed she was right, Ashcrest was still Ashcrest. The spring semester had started without him. The power shed was repaired. Brian was back to working on his invention. Casual Fridays had been restored. Things were pretty much back to normal for everyone but him.
“Yeah...”
“You can always stay here, Joshua. You can travel with me if you like. It'd be nice to have some muscle around. Earth is no place for dragons...”
Joshua sighed quietly, avoiding her gaze. “I'd rather not talk about this...”
Chapter 25
Conviction
Camden, Arcamyn
Two men stood upon the edge of a great field of battle, contemplating while their master issued orders to his lieutenants, for he was a great general. When the battle was fought and won, they came to him, asking for a lesson. He asked them what they thought courage was.
“Courage is leading others into battle, and on to victory,” one said.
“Courage is making the hard choices,” the other said. “It is looking down at a dying man and saying, I am sorry, there was no other way.”
“You are both wrong,” the general said. “Courage is the dying man, looking up at his general in pride for what his life has been spent for.”
~From a collection of Banidan War Parables
Once again Anthony Graham found himself at the Crusader's Gate, looking out over the dark night fields. A thick blanket of clouds draped the kingdom like a funeral pall. To the east the fields were a dark, empty vastness and on the other side of that chasm, the kingdom of Ralia. Ralian dignitaries had the king's ear while fendian allies bled and died all along the Rilrath. For their sake, Graham could find no peace. He descended into the square where many valiant men had died under his command.
At this hour only a few braziers were left burning, streaming thin columns of smoke into the air. As usual the smell of smoke brought him back to that night, when the gate fell and the strength and sacrifice of many had pushed back the ralian invasion. He remembered the noise, the scream of metal on flesh and the voices of dying men choking on blood and smoke. Tonight the square was empty, and the only sound was the silence and the smoke, whispering of valorous dead.
At the center of the square, a monument stood in silent reverence to those that had died in the War of Ashes. At the top of the sculpted marble, two dragons stood guard: Dakrym to the east, and Sacrys to the west. Below their claws King Rufus stood as tall as he ever had. In one hand he carried a sword, but it was no raised in charge. Instead it hung at his side, seeming heavy as the stone it was hewn from. The noble king's head was bowed in solemnity, his eyes shut in silent prayer.
Here died King Rufus Kemp. Great was his reign. Legendary was his courage. Bright was his faith. His was a Kingdom of Light.
And lo the righteous king took up arms and led the faithful against the enemies of all creation, for this was his holy charge. 2nd Book of Penathor 4:7
Graham traced his hands over the names engraved below the king's feet. The day had forged him into a legend and cost him the greatest king he had ever known. The Kingdom of Light, something he dearly missed. Rufus spoke of his vision often in the days leading up to his death. His vision for Arcamyn, and all men, a kingdom guided by faith and teachings of justice and virtue passed from father to son. Graham spoke a prayer to the Almighty before he rose, then climbed the dark steps into the tower.
“Go home,” Thabe said, when Graham appeared.
“I cannot,” Graham answered. He tossed Brumm's bloodied dagger on the table, letting it clank as it rolled over twice. “I cannot sleep. Not while this matter of warlocks lingers.”
To this, Thabe produced a half-empty bottle from beneath the table and held it up to his dark-haired commander. “Ere, drink this. Ilsador knows you need it. Isn't a man in all Ryvarra as worked up about those ralians as you. 'Cept maybe Caedus Beldin. Word is he's raising an army up in the Frost Moors.”
Graham shook his head and pushed the bottle away. He needed his thoughts about him tonight.
“As well he should be, after what they did to Sundor Tower.” Graham rubbed his temples as he considered the blood-stained dagger. He wondered what had driven the pious werewolf to plunge it into a man's throat. Gorren Brumm was of little more interest than any other common thief. It was only his unlikely death of being stabbed to death by a werewolf that distinguished him from his peers.
Prior to this night, Anthony Graham had never heard the man's name even. There were no records on him in the office either, none that he could find anyway. Misplaced or missing records was not an uncommon problem. Despite what Anthony Graham would prefer to believe, his men were not without their failings and a few coins into the right hand could cause a record to disappear. After the War of Ashes they had stopped starting new files on Camden's lesser evils, saving such distinction for the violent and psychotic in an attempt to reduce the clutter. In reality this had served to demonstrate only the extent of evil's tendrilous reach into the darkest boroughs of Arcamyn's capitol.
With little else to go on, Anthony Graham was left sitting in the tower, quietly watching the dagger as though it were a suspect he was sweating before interrogation. The tactic proved ineffective, as the dagger provided no further clues.
“Why a dagger?” Thabe asked. “Hardly seems the style for a werewolf.”
Graham shrugged, having little more to offer on the subject than his wholehearted agreement. That and the secret knowledge of Kaidira's mission of... well, not exactly mercy. “I have no idea. More worried about why she chose this man.”
Thabe leaned back in his chair and put his boots up on the table. “Ever heard of Alexander Barov?”
“Rings a bell...?” Graham offered. The name seemed vaguely familiar, like it was someone he should know but had fallen out of the public view for some time and so fallen from notability.
“Used to be a really influential alchemist. One of the best. Lived out west in Nobri. Anyway, he's up in Camden to meet with the Frostwind mages; some yearly thing they do.”
Graham nodded, following along. He knew of the annual meeting. Mages from the Frostwind order would come from all over Arcamyn and Fendiss, filling all the inns around the palace grounds. The richer of them would take their coins to the wealthy part of town to the south and take up residence in nice apartments around the university, overlooking the duck ponds and lush green lawns, neatly tended all. A few weeks later it would start all over again, this time in the medley of reds, oranges, and yellows of the Emberfall order. Besides that they were the same sort of people, though they liked to argue how distinguished they each were. Colors aside, the gatherings were nearly identical, save a roaring bonfire on the last night of the Emberfall celebration that Graham usually enjoyed. A few hundred or so would make the trips each year, the wizened elders often staying for both. The events were much the talk of the city every year. Mages and hopefuls in bright blue robes swarmed through the streets and dotted the school campus. They would be seen in nearly every haberdashery, clothier, and restaurant in the luxury district. None would be seen on the street where Gorren Brumm had died. Not in their blu
e robes anyway.
“Well he sets out for home,” Thabe went on, “shows up in Nobri with a bad case of the blue eyes. Rips his wife's throat out.” He sat up and drew his fingers across his throat for dramatic effect. The gesture was unneeded, Anthony could still clearly envision Gorren Brumm's throat, slashed open and stained with blood, sickly and purple beneath the pervasive wash of soft blue light the moon provided.
“Spared his son though,” Thabe said, “Left him with some mage and disappeared. Poof.”
“That's a horrible story.”
“But it's got a point,” Thabe said, reclining again. “Point is werewolves don't need a reason. They're brutes, Anthony. They'll kill you for bumping into them on a crowded street, or maybe just because they laid eyes on you.”
“So werewolves are violent,” he conceded. The bloody dagger was enough evidence of that without need of a parable.
“It's just another dead thief. Mark it up to divine providence. Finally someone with blood on his hands lying in the street in a pool of his own. Let it go, Anthony.”
Graham had found his way to the window and leaned against the sill, looking out into the dark streets and breathing the cold night air to try to clear the tired fog that was setting in. “Something bothers me about Warrick,” he announced.
“He's ralian,” Thabe grunted his disinterest, reaching for a bottle while Graham's back was turned. “No surprise there. They get at you like fleas on a dog.”
“It's more than that! You should have seen him, Thomas. I've never seen a victim of a violent attack so unhappy to see a knight.”
“You've got Ilsador's Cross on your gauntlets and your cloak and across your chest. Big mystery there, Anthony. Want me to put a few of the men out asking why? Maybe they can find out why we keep finding people in the whorehouses while they're at it. They know who you are over there. You're Anthony Graham, hero of the War of Ashes. They probably tell stories about you and me to their kids to keep 'em in line.”