The D'Karon Apprentice

by Joseph R. Lallo

  “You will leave this place when I am satisfied you have shared all that there is to share.”

  “Lovely. I shall continue then. Remind me, where were we when we were interrupted?”

  “You had confessed to murdering a farmer on the northern edge of the Southern Wastes.”

  “A farmer… a farmer… Oh, yes. I recall. Let us continue…”

  #

  Several Months Earlier…

  In a sparsely treed field, somewhere in the southern half of Tressor, Turiel sat on a stone surrounded by the skillfully butchered remains of animals. Though the sight was inarguably a gruesome one, it was not nearly as hideous as it might have been. Some gazelles, a wildcat, and a bear lay dissected on the ground around her, but they had been separated with such care it looked less like the scene of a slaughter and more like a taxidermist’s shop. She had laid out intact skeletons, the bones unnaturally white as though bleached. Muscle groups were arranged with care on the dusty ground, and skins were somehow removed in one piece. If such a thing were possible, it would almost seem that Turiel had taken the animals apart with the intention of putting them back together when she was through.

  Mott was by her side, and his appearance had once again changed. He’d grown somewhat, not only thanks to an overall increase in size, but with the replacement of some of his scrawnier pieces with burlier parts. The spidery legs were stouter now, still insect in structure but mammal in appearance, and numbering eight rather than six. They had shaggy brown fur and ended in bony two-toed claws. On the serpentine body, in addition to the already unnatural presence of scattered tufts of hair, the scaly skin had taken on the horny thickness of a crocodile’s hide. Its jackal mouth—the head being the one part that had remained unchanged—opened and it chittered.

  “You must learn patience, Mott. Yes, we are to find Teht and learn why she has left us for so long without instructions, but what is our purpose if not to hone our skills? We came so swiftly to the Wastes to begin work on the second keyhole we missed the opportunity to see what the beasts of this land had to offer. And they have much to offer. Look at the wonders we have found in just a short time wandering the land.”

  She tapped her staff twice on the ground, and tendrils of black traced its length and peeled away from it, swirling along the skeleton of the bear. Like a beast waking from a long slumber, it climbed to its feet and stood before her. She turned her fingers in a slow circle, and the skeleton obediently turned about.

  “Good, strong jaws on this bear…” She reached out and plucked its head away, hefting it. “Perhaps a bear’s skull next time?”

  She dropped the skull, its body still standing and awaiting new orders. Before the skull hit the ground Mott caught it with a coiled tail, flipped to its back, and rolled the skull about like a kitten with a knot of string.

  “Let me see, let me see,” she said. She opened her fur wrap, made from harvested skins earlier in her travels, and reached into the tattered black robes beneath. From within she pulled out a small bundle of old, well-used but well-kept pages and leafed through them. They were scrawled with an unnatural foreign script and detailed sketches of beasts never meant to exist. “Here. The dragoyle… no, no. This skull isn’t right at all. It is so very difficult to find a match for his designs…” She turned to Mott. “Do you suppose Demont did so on purpose? Crafting creatures too different from those of nature to be simply duplicated? Bah! I’ll get it right one of these days. I simply need something closer. A beak. The thing has a beak. I wonder… a detour to the seaside cliffs to the west? I seem to remember something about great birds there. Roks, I believe they were called. That would give us a fine skull for a dragoyle. And wings as well. A griffin would work well, and I know that those can be found in the mountains. First to the cliffs, then to the mountains, you think?”

  Mott churred and began to gnaw on the skull.

  “Yes, of course you are correct. We stay to the west coast. If we do not find a rok, then we can continue to that place with the dragons. The blasted dragoyles are based on them. They must be near enough to be used. Then we can get you that set of wings I promised, too.”

  Mott chittered and dropped the skull.

  “… Because I feel it would be an excellent illustration of my skill and initiative if I was able to craft a dragoyle of my own. It should be simple enough with the correct resources. I want the D’Karon to know that I’ve learned their teachings well.” She looked about and stroked her chin. “Much as it pains me to do a poor approximation of their fine work, it would pain me further to waste so many wonderful pieces.”

  Turiel picked up the discarded skull in one hand and her staff in the other. She shut her eyes, and many bones scattered about her began to jerk and twitch. More strands of black coalesced about her staff and peeled away, coiling about the bones and seeming to thread into the muscles and organs. When every last scrap was under her influence, Turiel opened her eyes and willed them into the air. Skeletons reformed, mixed and matched from all of those that had donated their bodies. They came together to create what might have been the bones of a misshapen dragon. Then came the flesh, stretched thin around the monstrous frame. The skin came after that, sealing with a surge of dark energy but leaving the skull bare.

  With the form complete, she curled her fingers into a fist and the tendrils of dark energy bled through to the surface, staining the skin black and causing the hair to embrittle and fall away. The final product was a fair approximation of the monstrosity known as the dragoyle, though anyone who had clashed with one would see the faults immediately. It was only the size of a horse, or a bit larger. The hide was more leathery than rocky as well, and vicious teeth were mounted where a beak should have been.

  “There. Good practice if nothing else,” she said, eying her creation critically.

  Mott churred.

  “There was not nearly enough material to make a pair of wings, and I haven’t the strength to render them functional right now besides. Just two more things to be done.”

  She stooped and plucked the wildcat’s tongue from the ground, one of the handful of anatomical spare parts left behind when she completed the dragoyle.

  “Open, Mott,” she said.

  Her familiar skittered to the ground at her feet and gaped its mouth like a starving baby bird. She lowered the tongue carefully down, and when it was near Mott’s throat it leaped into place.

  “There. Now once I find a nice set of green eyes and some suitably sized wings, you’ll be complete. … Well, yes, I could shift the color of a pair of these leftover eyes, but that would be disingenuous. … Well I would know, my pet. Now hush, I’ve still got the most difficult part to see to.”

  She planted the tip of her staff into the sandy earth at her feet. The gem in its tip took on a deep glow, and once again tendrils of black began to spiral down its length. When they reached the ground they spiraled outward, splitting into strands finer than threads. Each blade of grass or scrap of unused flesh the tendrils touched blackened and shriveled. A speck of white formed above the head of the staff, pulses of black surging up through the tendrils and feeding the gem. The trees all the around them twisted and darkened, their energy leeched away to feed the growing speck.

  Turiel shook with the effort of her invocation. The countryside for a hundred paces in all directions looked as though it had been scorched by wildfire, drained utterly of life before the ball of white began to darken. It shifted to red, then to deep purple before condensing into a murky violet gem the size of a walnut. She held out a trembling hand, and the gem dropped into her palm.

  “There,” she said with a weary sigh. “Not nearly as difficult as I’d feared. Here, open wide, my darling.”

  The would-be dragoyle opened its mouth, and with the sickening sizzle of searing flesh, Turiel installed the gem in the back of its throat, then stepped back once more.

  “Well? I didn’t give you the miasma stone for nothing. Let us see it put to work. There.”

  The p
seudo-dragoyle shifted its unnatural head and coughed a cloud of black at the brittle remains of a bush. The plant sizzled, its thin bark and dry branches quickly eroding under the influence of the horrid substance.

  “You see? If there is one spell I’ve learned properly, it is the conjuring of the miasma stone. Here, Mott. We’ll be on our way.”

  The creature scurried up to its place at the head of her staff. Her familiar was now so large that his serpentine tail coiled all the way to the ground, and after the energy she’d put into summoning the gem, she barely had the strength to steady it.

  “Hah… I am not as young as I once was, Mott,” she said. “Do you suppose we might find some people along the way who would offer their aid in correcting my unfortunate physical state? The people of Tressor have been so obliging thus far.” She took a few wavering steps forward, then turned to her latest creation. “You know… I had intended to set this one off to seek its own way in the world… but the D’Karon ride them, don’t they? We would be remiss if we did not test this aspect as well.”

  Turiel mounted the creature.

  “Onward, beast. To the coast, and then to the city. Let us once more sample the fine hospitality of this land.”

  #

  Brustuum fumed as he listened to the madwoman’s recollection, weighing her words against the facts he already had available. His instincts were to distrust her. Surely no one could survive in the Wastes as she claimed or sculpt monstrosities from the flesh of dead beasts as she described. Yet the descriptions she’d given matched the monster he and his men had been forced to subdue, and the timing would appear to match. Combined with the confirmation from Sallim, there was reason to believe her story had at least the kernel of truth.

  “If you can craft deadly beasts with such ease, and if you have been within our borders for as long as you claim, why have you not been unleashing them upon us for decades?”

  “Because until very recently I was fully devoted to the opening of the keyhole. It was not until Teht failed to meet me and answer my calls that I felt the need to stray from that task. And unleashing these creatures was not my intention. I seem to have some trouble maintaining control. It is nothing that practice won’t solve.”

  “So you would willingly and purposely continue to manufacture these abominations if you had your way.”

  “You have asked for demonstrations. And one cannot hope to improve without practice… Tell me, how exactly do you know that I unleashed the creature if I did not yet tell you that I’d done so?”

  “Because my men were the ones who eventually destroyed the beast in defense of our people. You have been told this repeatedly.”

  “Oh? My memory truly is ailing these days. Was it at least a struggle for them? I’m curious how successful my creation was. Did it take any of their lives? How did you eventually vanquish it?”

  “Must I continually inform you that you are here to answer my questions and not the opposite? Now continue.”

  “Very well…”

  #

  Turiel’s journey had been a long one, but she seemed untouched by the elements. Her pale white skin had ignored days of pounding sun, and though she’d had no water she was not parched in the least. Now she was drawing near the first town that had piqued her interest along the way. She’d kept mostly to the edge of the Wastes. Her mind, like her body, had felt the ravages of the years, but she still had some of her wits about her. She knew that as weak as she was, even with the aid of her creations she couldn’t afford to venture into just any town. It would have to be a relatively defenseless place. Someplace with a handful of people, but lacking a proper city watch or something similar.

  It took time, but she’d finally happened upon the perfect place. Ahead lay a small nomadic settlement. The huts, a dozen in total, all had the simple wood and cloth construction that betrayed their eventual fate of being packed up into the back of a carriage when the time came to move on. Some lean jet-black horses were tied near a small spring around which the settlement had formed. Joining them were a half-dozen mules, two camels, and three lanky dogs with short sandy-yellow coats and docked tails. At the edge of the settlement a small herd of goats was gathered within a makeshift fence.

  “Ah, Mott,” Turiel said with a smile. “This shall serve our purposes nicely.” She dismounted the dragoyle she had fashioned and paced unsteadily toward the town.

  Most of the residents had taken shelter within their simple homes, but three stood watch, each heaped with linen robes that hung to the ground. Deep, billowing hoods hid their heads and cloth scarves wrapped their faces. Their gazes had drifted toward Turiel as she’d approached, but once she was near enough for the horrific nature of her mount to be seen, they stood and drew their weapons. Two carried stout, cleaver-like swords. The third swung a sling.

  “Hold! Hold there!” warned the first man. Though his build and face were entirely hidden beneath his robes, his voice was that of an older man.

  “I have come too far to stand at the edge of so inviting a settlement, good nomad. I am just a simple woman seeking food and shelter.”

  “It is not you, old woman, but the beasts that accompany you,” he said. “Come no closer.”

  Turiel turned to Mott, still situated atop her staff.

  “Oh, but Mott here is a darling, good nomad. As harmless as a lamb. And my steed is a humble beast, a mere echo of the thing that should truly frighten you.”

  “What you have is frightening enough. Either tie them far from here or keep moving.”

  “You would sentence a poor old woman and her simple pets to the ravages of the wilderness?”

  “We do not know you, we do not know your beasts, and we will not risk our safety for someone such as you.”

  “Well, and to think I’d believed the tales of unparalleled kindness from the people of Tressor. You injure me. Now I feel quite justified in doing the same in return. Mott, disarm them. Of their weapons at least, but also their arms if you feel the inclination.”

  In a flash of fur and scales, her familiar dove from her staff and cut across the ground in a sweeping, serpentine path. The sling-wielder let a stone fly and struck Mott square on the jaw. It popped aside, then hung loose. Mott did not lose a single step, his legs skittering and scrambling across the dusty ground with an insane frenzy of motion.

  Finally Mott was upon them. He attempted to bite the sling-wielder, hacking down with his upper jaw and seeming to notice for the first time that his lower jaw was not where it ought to be. He paused to click his errant mandible into place, but the delay was more than enough to allow both swordsmen to put their weapons to work. One blow cost Mott a leg, the other bit into his tail, but neither seemed to bother the beast in the slightest. He whipped his tail aside, disarming one attacker, then snapped the sling in his teeth and tore it away. The final lookout to retain his weapon chopped again, this time cleanly separating Mott’s head from his body. Hideously, the attack still did no good. Both body and head continued to move, the former lashing its tail at the swordsman to tear his weapon away. The disembodied head snapped and gnashed its teeth, but didn’t seem to have the necessary coordination to make itself a threat.

  The lookouts called for help, and people flooded from the huts. Few were armed, but once they had determined what was happening and organized themselves accordingly, Mott, the dragoyle, and Turiel were outnumbered seven to one. The patchwork familiar, his displaced head seeing the rush of reinforcements, decided discretion was the better part of valor. He snatched his head up in his tail, then grabbed his missing leg in his mouth and dashed away.

  “Now, Mott, really. Do you call that devotion? I’m very disappointed,” Turiel said, placing one hand on her hip.

  The lookouts rearmed themselves, and several of the other nomads found weapons as well, but none were willing to approach Turiel and her as yet motionless dragoyle.

  “Leave this place, woman,” warned the elder lookout. Based upon the authority with which he spoke and the fact he
was the only one yet to speak beyond the general call for aid, he was almost certainly the chieftain.

  “Goodness, no. I’ve not yet eaten. I did not come all this way to leave hungry.”

  “I care not if you starve. You will take your abominations and leave this place, or my slinger will bury a lump of lead in your skull.”

  “Well that is simply unacceptable,” she said.

  The chieftain turned to the rearmed slinger, who was already swinging her weapon up to speed. “Do it.”

  Before the words were said, the lead sling-bullet was on its way to its target. In the blink of an eye the sorceress’s staff blackened and a web of tendrils darted from it, ensnaring the heavy projectile and swinging it aside of Turiel’s unflinching face. It continued its swing and returned from whence it came, though lacking the same power and accuracy. The slinger just managed to dodge the counterattack, and the swordsmen charged.

  Turiel turned casually to her dragoyle. “Try to keep them reasonably intact. I’ll fetch Mott.”

  She paced toward her familiar, who was stumbling along in a manner only a beast holding its own head can manage. Behind her, the nomads and her creation clashed. The beast heaved them about, lashing its tail and swiping its claws. It seemed more dedicated to the task of breaking them than killing them, but any motion toward Turiel was met with its full wrath. Twenty nomads were more than a match for the beast, and before long it took all the beast’s efforts and attentions to keep them from its creator.

  Slicing swords came within inches of reaching Turiel, but she paid them no mind. It did not appear to be something so virtuous as courage, or as confident as trust in her creation’s ability to protect her. She simply did not seem to be aware that the commotion was something that should concern her. She moved with slow ease, kneeling to see to the skittish Mott.

  “Let me see that,” she said, taking the leg. “Now hold still.”

  She drove the end of her staff into the ground and ran her fingers across it, summoning more of the black threads. Like a tailor repairing a simple garment, she aligned the leg and coaxed away tendrils to coil and apply to the cut until it eased away, a thin black vein the only evidence that it had ever been removed. Once the leg was restored, she conjured more threads but frowned as the last of them took more effort than she was willing to spare.