But the squid’s grip suddenly loosened and the tentacle fell into a limp heap. Its rubbery head drooped and its one eye fluttered in a rictus of death. The sea monster gave a great unearthly moan that rocked the stone and what was left of the cliff shore. He looked down to see a jagged pillar of stone embedded deep in the creature’s center mass. The squid had impaled itself down to the heart. Its mammoth bulk slid into the water like a dying whale. It twitched once, twice, then wheezed out a throaty gasp and lay still.
Raithan recoiled from the blood and stench drifting all around. Coughing and sputtering, he kicked out his feet and paddled for safety. It took everything he had to stay above the water. He couldn’t remain here. Only death and horror lingered. His strength was ebbing fast. A chilling numbness spread up his right arm and his left hip felt wrenched. He lost track of how many aching strokes he plied in the cold water, until at last he spotted a patch of shore glinting off to his left. He struggled toward it and half collapsed in the surf.
Chapter 6.
Dendrok
Cyrus scanned the blue-green waters of the silent inlet. Not a ripple touched the surface. Then Fercifor, his faithful serpent, poked his mottled head above the water at the far end. Returning to his workshop, he took up his instruments and continued dissecting a giant sea salamander. Magical spells required some odd ingredients at times.
Lip curled, he flung the scalpel down in dissatisfaction, unable to concentrate. Could the squid have failed? A day and a half had passed since its mission and still it had not returned. Maybe it had eaten the captain and swam off? Or had it been drawn away by a passing humpback whale? Too many possibilities. The oracle? No, he had consulted it a half-dozen times already. He summoned Valoré while gathering his runestones and staff.
On his journey north toward Ravenstoke, he discovered scattered bits of wreckage and floating bodies in the cresting waves. His breath quickened. No ships. A nagging feeling tugged at his belly. Something was off. No sign of Archituthis. Where in Kraton was the ancient squid? He called out to the creature with his mind. No response. Odd. Was it toying with him? He turned his dragon into the setting sun and followed the trail of wreckage out to sea.
The mage grew more perplexed. Here a floating boot, there a barrel and wooden crate bobbing in the waves. Had the ship been gobbled whole by the giant squid?
He flew like a gale on Valoré, suspicion and annoyance warring with each other. He did not relish mysteries.
The barren island came into view and Cyrus banked toward it with impatience. What’s this? One of the bodies twitched with life—the traitor Raithan, washed up on a patch of windswept shore. He looked ragged, tattered, a figure moaning and groaning and clawing feebly at the sand like a helpless starfish.
Impossible! Half coiled on the small beach, the other half submerged in sea brine, lay the lifeless husk of Archituthis. The terrifying body sprawled maimed, two of its eight tentacles broken and still oozing white fluid. It had pulled itself along the thin stretch of pebbly beach seeking a place of refuge before the tide had washed it up on shore amongst the rocks and shells. How had the rogue managed to kill it?
Cyrus loosed a screaming curse. He hopped off Valoré and stormed over to investigate. Raithan’s eyes gazed up at him in surprise and agony as if at an apparition. Cyrus lifted a hand; the mage staff streamed out power.
“You’ve ruined my plans for the last time, Raithan. A quick death is too good for you.” The beam of green mage light levitated the exhausted captain like a slab of whale blubber.
Raithan had barely the energy to resist as his body drifted to the back of Cyrus’s dragon. The mage strapped him into the harness with cruel efficiency. The captain would make a good sacrifice for Dendrok when the time came…
The squid was dead, but Cyrus would not allow something as trivial as death to stop him. He placed his staff against the rubbery hide, injecting a blast of energy from its enchanted tip. The corpse trembled. It would take much of his power, but he would not be thwarted. Calling upon the Myxolian Spell of the Undead, he unleashed an invasive jolt of necromantic energy. Like a titanic marionette, the thing jerked upright and shuddered to life. A large eye sprang open, mouth gaping slime. Cyrus withdrew the staff, re-animating the corpse.
“Rise, you broken doll! Your work is not done.” Quivering with triumph, he took to the air on Valoré. The broken squid floundered in the water below with an odd squeal, but then managed to follow in unsteady spurts as the grim-lipped mage rode west to Curakee Island.
* * *
Cyrus slapped the dazed Raithan into his fabricated prison: a pyramid of light, twelve feet long at each side, glowing with a sullen amber heat. Grunting and cursing, Raithan struck at the outer film, but Cyrus paid no heed. The captain could thrash to his heart’s content. No living person, even that mage boy, could penetrate the enchanted barrier.
He strode from his cavern of a workshop down the dank corridor to examine the newborn dragon. The adjoining grotto with its scattered pools was dim and gloomy. A cool waft tickled his nostrils. The chamber was silent, save for the drips of cold water trickling down the spiked stalactites to lie like large teardrops upon the ancient stone floor below. He heard a quiet splash and walked to the edge of the pooling water. There he found his new dragon wading in the crystal clear water.
Windbiter followed at his heels and gave a wary sniff at this strange new hatchling. The beast seemed resentful at the amount of attention his master afforded it. Dendrok let out a whimpering croak and steam puffed from its nostrils.
“Mind your manners, Windbiter. I haven’t forgotten you.”
He stroked the young dragon’s head. “Dendrok. I see you have grown much in my absence—a curious trait of one born from an Elder egg.” His hand tightened around his mage staff and he smiled, wondering if he might cure the creature of its sickness using the same magic he had used on the squid not long ago.
“You will be strong. I will name you my champion in future days fast approaching.” His grating echo rumbled with ominous suggestion off the damp stone.
Cyrus’s grin faded as a disturbing image came to mind: the mage boy’s power at Cape Spear. With the amount of energy he needed to apply to his new dragon, Darek might yet challenge him. Agrippa had trained the boy well. More cunning spells would be required to defeat the fledgling mage.
A daring plan began to brew in Cyrus’s mind, which would stretch the limits of the Myxolian spells.
Gathering the old serpent tooth he kept in a cobwebbed corner of his workshop, he flipped through the pages of the Necromastus, the dragon-scaled tome he had stolen long ago from the unsuspecting Agrippa. With great relish, he read from the forbidden pages of faded vellum:
Prick the Serpent’s Tooth deep,
Doused with the blood that the living shun,
The price of flesh in agony comes…
Cyrus read further. He selected a dark runestone and smeared it in serpent’s blood. He mixed dragon’s blood with carmegedon, mistrel, argest, and noxious herbs. He beckoned to Windbiter to heat the foul mixture. Smoke rose from the brew that stung his eyes and made his stomach churn.
“Dendrok, you are in for a fine treat,” Cyrus croaked with mirth.
He stoked the fire again, and set stone bowls under the stalactites to collect the tears of the dormant volcano. He coaxed the young dragon toward the flames. The creature looked at the fire with an innate curiosity, licking its lips at the warmth radiating from the flickering fire.
“Soon you will taste the flesh of man and become more than just dragon or serpent.”
The dragon’s jowl parted, showing glinting teeth.
An ancient, forbidden spell that not even Agrippa knew shivered from his lips. Cyrus invoked the magic from the ashes of the dark god Oprisx, whom he had long worshipped while attaining his dark powers:
“Agris Serpentium Dracium Amun. FERUS NAUR!” The last words he spat with venomous triumph. The flames rose high and the dragon’s breath hissed, his eyes growing wide as never befo
re. Windbiter dropped his head and slid backward away from the sorcery.
The smoke rose to the ceiling and touched the hanging stalactites. The pure liquid running down the shapes changed—corrupted by the smoke. It dripped from the cone-shaped rock and ran into the stone bowls. The splatter sizzled with promise.
He dipped a rag and laced the gleaming serpent tooth’s end with the thick, amber liquid, then moved toward the young dragon.
Cyrus recalled the old Xeban scrolls warning against the creation of unholy monsters. They had been feared and worshipped, their dark masters all-powerful until their bloody end. Many said such mages met their doom at the hands of their own creations.
Cyrus gave a harsh bray of laughter. He would prove that theory wrong. He held up the stone vial and fluted a soft whistle between his teeth.
He would rise above such snares designed to catch the feebleminded. Weaklings—too cowardly to explore beyond the basic precepts and master the dark entities they once worshipped.
On soft feet Cyrus approached the unsuspecting dragon, clutching the serpent tooth laced with the foul brew behind his back. Close enough to smell the subtle tang of the creature’s scales, he slammed the tooth hard just above the creature’s flanks. The tooth struck home, burrowing between the soft scales and lodging underneath the ribs. The dragon recoiled from the pain, but Cyrus whipped out his staff and loosed a dazzling ray. He cauterized the wound, keeping the poison contained to ensure it would enter the bloodstream and merge with the creature’s essence.
Dendrok raised its snout and uttered a scream of terror. The young wings flapped at the air, but could not bring it airborne. The creature thrust itself at Cyrus, eyes shining with betrayal, enlarged pupils that traveled backward in its skull, no longer a soft yellow, but pulsing a glaring crimson—wild and dangerous.
Cyrus turned to direct a gloating chuckle at Windbiter who had ducked behind a row of stalagmites, ears flattened on his grey-green head. As he looked back, Cyrus gave a sudden cry of agony. A rustle of movement had preceded a stinging torment as caustic liquid burned his flesh. A gummy wad of the newborn’s phlegm hit him on one side of the face, splattering his cheek. The dragon’s spit burned like acid. The pain was excruciating and he clawed at the ruined flesh on his face with one hand, shrieking as splotches of poison dug ever deeper into his pores.
Gathering his wits, he wiped his stinging eyes, cloudy with the steam coming from his skin. His nostrils rejected the nauseating reek of his own burning flesh. Even as he called forth the order for protection, Windbiter came lumbering on all fours to shield his master as Dendrok once more attacked. The young dragon’s claws came at its master with all-out fury, teeth snapping, while it bit and spat with vicious contempt at the older dragon’s hide.
Windbiter fended the mad creature off with a mighty flick of his tail that sent Dendrok tumbling back.
Cyrus stumbled to his work area, cursing as he struggled to apply a healing balm. Not enough to arrest the scarring, but at least to ease the pain. The creature would pay dearly for its insolence. He would punish it with lashes of chain, fire and hot oil until the hatchling bent entirely to his will.
This shrew of a dragon would need a more powerful nursemaid to care for it—some caretaker impervious to its outbursts. Stumbling through the halls, blinking his stinging eyes, he mumbled an incantation, and summoned an elder serpent to the nearby caves.
No longer would he keep Dendrok in his cave. The creature was too dangerous. This transformation would incite it to turn on him again one day, if not sooner. The juvenile would become something new, neither dragon nor serpent and it would dwell in the caves outside the bay with the other serpents. There it could grow and become more ferocious every day as he trained it to become his ultimate weapon.
He returned to the chamber of pools where Windbiter held the fuming dragon at bay. Already, its head had elongated like Fercifor’s and its yellow fangs had grown longer like a viper’s. Dendrok’s legs seemed smaller, like the clawed stubs of a sea serpent. With a grimacing curse, Cyrus cast a spell of binding that would prevent it from swimming too far without excruciating pain. He could not have his prize running from its birthing father and gaining its freedom.
The scum, Raithan, he would move too, in preparation for the man’s ultimate fate. With a sweep of his mage staff, he transported prison and traitor out of his cavern to a nearby grotto off the island shore.
The captain would look out from his new cave upon the breaking waves, shivering and gnashing his teeth.
The serpent-dragon that was Dendrok swam in the water below the traitor’s glowing prison, staring at him with its blazing crimson eyes, licking from time to time at the magical barrier. The captain, even in his current delirium, would learn that serpents’ blood was not meant to be twined with that of other creatures.
The act had surely driven the creature mad. Raithan’s shoulders slumped into the depths of despair; he knew his destiny was inescapable, that he would be consumed sooner or later by this hideous reptile.
Chapter 7.
Pacts With the Wolf
Other concerns weighed upon Cyrus’s mind, distracting him from the thought of sacrifice. He could not ignore what the dark oracle had revealed; the Black Claws were useless to him now with Raithan turning traitor. His strategy could only succeed if he conspired with a more powerful force, the pirate horde.
United they could stand against many threats. If he could somehow drive a wedge between the different factions, he could seek an alliance with both while pitting them against each other. Such a plan would require skill and stealth.
Cyrus consulted his shark head. He lit a roaring fire in a hearth carved out from a sperm whale’s skull and fueled it with the creature’s blubber. This wasn’t the first time he had placed the shark head into the flames, but it still surprised him that the totem was unharmed by the heat. In no time, the oily puffs of smoke began to coalesce into twisted shapes and glowing figures.
He leaned in as the fire flared behind the grinning head. The cloud billowed up catching him full in his half-scarred face while the fumes made his head giddy. Yellow-green swirls danced at the corners of his vision. Was he truly seeing this, or did the image only form in his mind? No matter. A surly figure appeared on the deck of a pirate warship somewhere in the emerald seas. A familiar place appeared, somewhere between Windbit Isle and Seaguard Isle. Planning their next raid. Perfect.
The arrogant captain prowled the deck of his ship like a sea lion. A rough, uncouth man whose volatile and simple emotion would be easy enough to manipulate. What better way to tempt the rogue than with riches beyond his dreams and the power to conquer all his enemies?
What’s this? On another pirate vessel only a few leagues away, a young woman was forming an alliance of her own with a second pirate ship’s captain. Out of nowhere, three Black Claw warships appeared on the horizon, cutting the meeting short. The two ships turned to run and the warships gave chase.
Cyrus wondered if he could turn this escapade to his favor. He could see ambition burning bright in the young woman’s heart. With a little help, she would become a pirate queen. But first, she would have to out distance the three Black Claw warships that had caught her scent. The woman’s ship was at full sail, but still the black-masted hunters were closing in and Cyrus curled lips in a sneer. She was vulnerable and would be grateful for any aid he provided. A debt that could be leveraged later.
With a pleased grunt, he summoned Valoré and sped off in good spirits, leaving Windbiter to keep watch.
Cyrus’s keen eyes narrowed to the south. The light was beginning to fade as the seas calmed. Burnt ochre ripples stretched across the sea of wavelets as the sun continued to sink. Against the orange horizon five dots grew. Valoré’s mighty wings brought them in close in a matter of minutes.
Ah, there was the girl. Just as he had witnessed in his vision—a beautiful, raven-haired reaver with three Black Claw ships on her tail.
But here was a new developme
nt. The Black Claw vessels were nearly upon her. She had led them on a merry chase—into the undertow of a whirlpool. Clever, but foolish. Now they all struggled to escape its unforgiving grip—and soon would be dead if he didn’t intervene.
Cyrus pulled out the runestones from his cloak; he whispered an arcane incantation. Clasping the glowing pebbles in his palm, he felt the stones grow hot to his touch. A strange, cold blustery wind began to blow from the east across the Serpents’ Deep. Cyrus grinned in anticipation. From what foul places it came, not even he knew. This was the magic of the dark gods—a boon which he planned never to repay.
The pirate vessel’s black sails filled with the wind and a cheer rose from the mates on her decks. At snail speed, she broke from the grip of the whirlpool, leaving the other ships swirling to their doom—into that wide, ringed mouth of death. The Black Claw ships floundered, sucked into the maelstrom and disappeared in a crunch of timbers and many a wail of sailors over the wind and crying gulls.
Cyrus cocked his head and closed his eyes. He rubbed the runestones over his ears, using his mage power to listen in on the conversation on deck.
“Skarlee, I thought you said we were too light to be caught in the whirlpool?”
The quartermaster shrugged. “They move around, Livis. No charts can predict them. Kraton’s breath was what saved us—you must be favored by him. The whirlpool did its job no doubt, pulling your enemies down like anchors. Even Captain Serle has never defeated three Black Claw ships at once.”
Others of the crew cheered. “Captain Livis, Plague of the Black Claws!”
Farnoss, helmsman and navigator, returned to his work, shaking his mop of shaggy black hair. “The Serpents’ Deep is evil, Skarlee, unpredictable as a moray eel.”
Skarlee frowned, his hazel eyes thoughtful, rubbing first at his scalp’s bare dome then the tufts of greyish-brown hair flanking his ears. “Best be away from these waters—sea serpents, monsters, whirlpools; we should return to the Pirate Isles.”
Dragon Mage- Uprising Page 5