The D'Karon Apprentice

by Joseph R. Lallo

  A rustle in the fallow field to the side of the road drew their attention. Something small and fast was disturbing the wiry blades of grass that grew there, causing a wave of motion streaking south.

  “Hmph. Wildcat. Or maybe a jackal,” muttered the first man, the older of the two brothers.

  They watched the disturbance retreat into the distance.

  “At least that’s something we can be thankful for,” said the younger brother.

  “What, wildcats?”

  “That’s right. Maraal and Temmir have been complaining about all sorts of curious losses lately, particularly when they bring their flocks and herds to the open fields to graze. Maraal claims he lost half his flock overnight. Plenty of things to worry about with an orchard, but there is little fear of a pack of wildcats preying on the crop.”

  “There’s that, I suppose.”

  As they reached the turn that would take them around the southern corner of the property, the older brother glanced to the south and noticed a figure approaching. That in and of itself was rather odd. Their field was just about as far south as anyone in their right mind would have any interest traveling on foot. There was nothing between it and the sea but dry grass, barren fields, and a few mountains. He stood, pulling his coat a bit closer about his shoulders, and watched the figure as it drew nearer. With little else to do, his brother lingered beside him. Sure enough, someone was coming.

  “Suppose the goatherds are getting desperate for grazing land,” the older brother reasoned. “No sense heading home with the mystery hanging in the air. A few more minutes and we’ll say a friendly hello and ‘What brings you to the hind end of Tressor?’, eh?”

  They leaned against the fence, and the stranger crept closer. After a few minutes the figure was near enough for them to make out a few more details.

  “Looks like he’s wearing some pretty rough skins. You figure him for a nomad?” asked the younger brother.

  “There wouldn’t be any nomads this far south. They stay to the deserts or the plains. They might linger near the shore, but the shore is clear on the other side of the mountains,” countered the older brother, squinting. “Is that… is that an old woman!?”

  Without thinking, the pair rushed into the tall grass. An old woman, alone in the Southern Wastes. They couldn’t imagine how it might have happened, but it was a wonder she was still alive. She was quite a distance away, and as such they were badly winded when they reached her, but one look was all it took to know she was… not right. She was a frail thing with long, scraggly white hair. In one hand was a white ivory walking stick. In the other was a curved knife. Her feet were bare yet somehow undamaged by what must have been a lengthy trek through rough terrain. Despite no doubt being alone in the Wastes for quite some time, the old woman didn’t seem to be in poor spirits. Indeed, a wild grin came to her face as they approached.

  “I offer greetings to you, pair of men who are not yet of middle age!” she crowed, gesturing vigorously with her knife and stick.

  Her voice and diction were bizarre, but she spoke with great certainty, as though she had no doubt that she was communicating properly.

  “Do you need help, old woman? Are you ill? What is your name?”

  “In a manner more slowly. You desire that I inform you of the name that belongs to me?”

  “Yes, and how did you—”

  “In a manner more slowly! I shall tell to you the name that belongs to me. This information I am quite certain of, and it is an action that will give me great pleasure to perform for you on this day. The name that belongs to me is Turiel.”

  “She speaks like those old prayers they used to make us say,” the younger brother muttered.

  “You seem healthy enough,” said the older brother, speaking loudly and slowly. “Those furs you’ve got are strange. They look fresh. Well-tanned, too. It is the wrong season to be tanning hides.” He turned to his brother and added quietly, “But then I suppose the nomads don’t keep to the same schedules as the rest of us.”

  “You sure she’s a nomad?”

  “Absolutely. You can always tell a nomad. They look out of place no matter where they are.”

  “But look at that skin! She’s pale as a ghost. That’s a Northerner.”

  “I’ll buy that she’s a pale nomad before I buy that she’s a Northerner this far south.” He turned back to the woman. “Do you need help? Something to eat?”

  “After some amount of thinking, my mind has presented to me the suggestion that I do require help. And a thing for me to eat would be quite useful in addition.”

  “If you’ll just follow me to the house…” the older brother began, but his word trailed away when the tip of her walking stick touched his chest.

  There was a dull blue glow, and the color quickly began to drain from his face.

  “What are you doing? Get away from him, you witch!” he cried.

  He attempted to rush toward her, but before he could even move a foot, something clawed its way up his back from behind, while at the same time something wrapped tightly around his legs and constricted them. Both brothers fell to the ground, the first stricken by whatever magic she had conjured and the other tangling with some manner of beast he’d not yet been able to see.

  As the younger of the two desperately tried to free himself of the grip of whatever had attacked him, the old woman began to reap the benefits of her spell. The years began to peel away from her face. Her craggy skin became smoother, her white hair earning streaks of black. Withered muscles became firm and healthy again. In the space of a few minutes she went from a hag at death’s door to a woman perhaps old enough to be the mother of either of these young men.

  “That’s enough, Mott,” she said, clucking her tongue.

  Instantly the beast that had immobilized the younger of the two brothers released him and scrabbled around her to cling eagerly to the head of the staff. It was the same beast she had hastily constructed in the cave some weeks prior upon awaking, though since then it had been… improved. The jackal skull now had flesh again, though the lower jaw hung a bit further open than nature had intended and lacked a tongue. The flesh and fur of the head faded gradually into the serpent body, which was covered with dark green scales, but rust-colored jackal fur jutted out from between the scales like weeds on a cobbled street. Bony flesh, like the legs of a stork, covered the six spidery legs, and a pair of undersized leathery wings fluttered madly on its back. Notably absent was a pair of eyes. Instead it had horrid empty sockets with embers of violet light within.

  Now free of his attacker, the younger brother scrambled through the grass to see to his sibling, but it was no use. He was gone, just as shriveled and decayed as the old woman had been moments before, and somehow already cold to the touch.

  “He’s dead.”

  “Yes! He’s quite dead. It couldn’t be helped, boy. I’m a necromancer. I speak to the dead. Once it became clear my mastery of the Tresson language had become obsolete, I had to learn the newest inflections. Forgive me, but a lifetime of communing with the dead has made it much more efficient for me to absorb knowledge along with life force. And since I was going to drain him anyway, I may as well put the energy to good use.”

  “But… but you…” he said, nearly sobbing in anguish and fury.

  “I must say, the language has become so much less formal. I quite like it,” she said, disregarding his emotional state. “Odd it would have changed so much since I last spoke to a Tresson. I suppose it has been a while. What’s the year, boy?”

  The man spat at her and hurled a barrage of expletives.

  “Yes,” she said excitedly. “Much less formal language these days. And so much more colorful as well. But really now, the year.”

  “Why should I answer you?”

  “That’s true, there is the easier way. If I’d been thinking, I’d have gotten that out of your brother before I let him wander off, but there’s always another person about…”

  She lowered her st
aff, bringing the bizarre creature riding it unnervingly close.

  “No! No, I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you anything, just don’t touch me with that! It’s 157.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. No monarch rules for that long.”

  “Monarch?”

  “Yes. Surely you mean one hundred fifty-seven years since the coronation of the sitting monarch. If not, then one hundred fifty-seven years since what?”

  “Since the start of the war!”

  “Which war?”

  “There’s only been one war!”

  “And it lasted one hundred and fifty years? That’s absurd. Perhaps the easy way is best, eh, Mott?”

  “No! Please!”

  The creature clutching Turiel’s staff released a throaty churring noise.

  “Yes… I suppose you’re right, Mott. Someone’s got to bury his brother. I hate to see the dead dishonored unless they are being put to good use. I’ve wasted enough of your time, young man. I’ll get my information elsewhere. Good day to you,” she said. She started to walk away, but another churr from her companion stopped her. “Oh, yes. You are right, of course.” She turned back to the survivor. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask that you keep this encounter to yourself. Until I feel otherwise inclined, I would much prefer to move discreetly. If you tell others what happened here, I’ll have to return, and there will be very little reason for me to let you live.”

  He nodded, terrified.

  “Excellent, once again, good day to you.”

  Mott chittered again.

  “… What? … No, I’ve told you, we are going to find Teht. … Because she is late for her visit and I’m concerned. … I’m sure she’s in the north. She always had snow on her cloak when she visited. … Yes, we could open a portal, but we are saving our power for the keyhole, remember? … Oh, learn some patience. The walk will do us good. It will be nice to see what’s become of the world while we were away. … Oh, you can so see. Don’t be so dramatic. If you want some eyes, I’ll get you some eyes, but I’m waiting for green ones. … Because you’d look so precious with green eyes.”

  She sighed and lowered her staff slightly. The body of the stricken brother shuddered and glowed, then ponderously sat up, breath sliding from it in a voiceless moan. His lifeless eyes slid open. She crouched and looked into them, then nodded and raised her staff, dropping him limply to the ground again.

  “There. You see? Brown. You don’t want brown eyes, do you? So common. …” She looked to the grief-stricken younger brother. “His are brown too.”

  She paced off to the north, chatting idly with her pet.

  “… Yes, I’ll get you some proper wings too. Perhaps we can swing west. That’s where those riders come from, yes? Some nice baby dragon wings and some green eyes, my little patchwork pet. You’ll be darling.”

  #

  “And that’s it. That’s what happened,” he said. “She killed my brother… that witch… And she told me not to tell anyone. And then your men came and asked me, and then they told me not to tell anyone, and I…”

  “That’s fine, sir,” Sallim said without looking up from his parchment. “I have what I need from you.”

  He sat silently for a few minutes, flipping between the fresh parchment and some older ones, comparing details between them.

  “May I leave now?” the farmer asked.

  “One moment… Yes… Yes this would appear to match other accounts. I would say we are through here.”

  “Other accounts? This… this woman has done more?”

  “That really isn’t any of your concern, sir.”

  “But… if it was known that she was dangerous… if we’d been warned…”

  “You’ll be happy to know that based on the description, yours is the earliest encounter—which means it is more likely five months than four. There could have been no warning in your case. Now, if you would be good enough, just head back through that door and inform the soldier that his orders stand.”

  “Um… yes, sir.”

  “Esteemed Patron,” Sallim corrected.

  “Err, yes, Esteemed Patron. I’ll be on my way,” he said, standing and pacing toward the door.

  When the farmer left, Sallim pulled out a fresh parchment, this one a thin ribbon, and inscribed a message in small, precise writing.

  Another credible account, he wrote, the first. Most detailed yet. As with the others, he will be held to prevent further spread of information. As I write this, Northern diplomats are crossing the border. Your time with the subject is limited. I will be visiting personally in one week’s time. I expect answers.

  He completed the message and rolled it into a tube, labeling it with the intended recipient, Commander Brustuum.

  #

  “We must be getting close now, Myn. Dip down and let’s get our bearings,” Myranda suggested.

  Myranda was in her usual position astride the base of Myn’s neck, holding tightly to the broad scales on either side. Deacon sat behind her, his legs hooked over the base of Myn’s wings and his arms about Myranda’s waist. Behind them, held in place with a sturdy leather harness, was a small bundle of supplies and equipment. Overall the load was somewhat heavier than Myn typically carried, but not nearly enough to cause a problem.

  At Myranda’s request Myn tipped her wings and dropped down through the thinning clouds beneath her. The last five days had held a tremendous amount of travel, but the journey was a pleasant one. Repairing Kenvard was a monumental task, and one that required their constant attention. With the mission to the south requiring their presence, Myranda and the others had been forced to journey north to meet with those who provided the stone and lumber for the repairs, providing payment and explaining how the tour would change matters. They’d also dropped off messages to prepare some of the diplomatic stops for their requirements. Then it was back south and to the front. There had been two snowstorms in the days they had been flying, but above the clouds they were of little concern. Flying so high made for a frigid journey, but a blast of dragon fire, a good, heavy cloak, and a few whispered spells kept everyone comfortable. Unfortunately, over most of the Northern Alliance the clouds were thick enough to make it difficult to see the ground even without a storm, so dropping through from time to time was necessary.

  “If you like, I can navigate. Last night I looked through my primer to refresh my memory regarding the necessary spells,” Deacon offered, raising his voice against the rushing wind.

  “No. I think it is important Myn learns to navigate on her own. We can’t always be guiding her. I’m not sure how dragons do it naturally, but the least I can do is help her along. Show her how I do it until she can find her own way.”

  “Yes. It is something of a mystery how they find their way in the absence of more traditionally human means,” Deacon said. “Worthy of study.”

  Myranda leaned forward to address Myn more directly. “You see how much more green and lush the land is there near the horizon? We’re getting close to Tressor. Those peaks there are the southern fringe of the Rachis Mountains. That silvery thread is the Loom River. We are to cross the border where the Loom crosses it. The border is where the ground … darkens for a bit. That’s the Crimson Band… where all of the fighting was happening.”

  Myranda paused for a moment, looking sadly at the subtle but undeniable stripe of landscape that stretched as far as the eye could see in both directions. It was darker in some places than others, but even six months after the last major offensive the land had not healed. Perhaps it never would. It was said that so much blood had been spilled on that soil—both the red blood of humans and the black blood of nearmen—that it had permanently darkened to a rusty, sickly color. The war had lasted so long it had left scars not only on the people but also on the land itself.

  She tried to push the thoughts away. “Make sure to land well before that. They have requested that we cross the border on foot. They will be waiting at a checkpoint on the road just east of the Loom. Keep a lo
ok out for it, and land to the north of it. Understand?”

  There was a rumble through Myn, felt more than heard, in response.

  “You know something, Myn? Perhaps when you learn to navigate, you will explain it to me. And sooner rather than later,” Deacon called out to her, giving her a pat on the side. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been more vocal lately. Perhaps not verbal, but vocal. And you’ve always been enthralled by Myranda’s voice.”

  “She’ll talk when she’s ready,” Myranda said, giving Myn a pat of her own.

  Myn tucked her wings and dove more quickly toward the ground, prompting Myranda and Deacon to hold tighter and lean closer. The young dragon had a bit of a tendency to show off, particularly regarding her landings, and it wouldn’t be the first time she’d lost one of her riders and had to fetch them before something tragic happened. As a matter of fact, it had happened no less than six times to Deacon. It was enough to make Myranda suspect that this was simply a new way of toying with him. When they held tight and leaned low, though, the wind swept over them with barely a flutter of their clothes. It was like they were one with her, cutting through the sky as though they belonged nowhere else. As the ground approached, Myn stretched her wings once more and they caught the wind, swooping her upward and slowing her descent. Myranda felt herself pressed firmly against the dragon’s back with the force of the maneuver, and just as the pressure began to ease, she felt the smoothness of flight turn to the gentle rhythm of a trot.

  “I think you might take that a little more slowly in the future, Myn,” Deacon suggested, sitting up straight and checking to be sure he hadn’t dropped anything.

  “This is right where we need to be, though. Excellent work,” Myranda said.

  Myn stopped and crouched so that both wizards could dismount, and the trio continued on foot. Without the chill of the skies, the warmer southern climate became quite apparent. This strip of the Northern Alliance just above the border was the only part of the empire to truly experience all four seasons. The sharpness of the change from the cold of the north to the warm of the south was almost supernatural. Even a few days travel by foot north and there would often be snow on the ground in the dead of summer. Here, there was hardly a nip to the air, and green fields filled the landscape behind and ahead of them. Bees buzzed in the air, birds sang. There was life here, thriving. It was beautiful… though one didn’t need to look far to see evidence of what had happened here. Farmers had done their best to reclaim land on either side of the border, but where their hoes and plows had not been put to work, the ground was still churned up by hooves and boots. Here and there the broken shaft of an arrow or a rusted plate of armor jutted from the soil. Mixed with the scent of blooming flowers and tilled fields, a sour, acrid smell tinged the air. Life was trying its best to take this land back from the death that had made its home here, but it would take time.