The D'Karon Apprentice

by Joseph R. Lallo

  With a light sigh she stood and turned. The chieftain himself had gotten past the dragoyle. His robes were stained and sizzling with the fetid black miasma, and his eyes were filled with righteous rage. Turiel raised her withered hand and grasped his wrist. Instantly he dropped to his knees, eyes now wide with fear and his hidden mouth wheezing with a stifled cry of pain. A midnight-blue ripple of power fluttered against his skin as she gripped him. The two visibly seemed to trade years. What youth he had left was flowing into her. His skin became papery and drawn, its color draining. Her own skin smoothed, her bony fingers plumping up and gaining a youthful, delicate luster.

  Desperate to save his leader, a younger swordsman thundered forward, but his throat found its way into her grasp before his sword could taste flesh. The sight of two of their own being drained of life while their foe seemed to sweep backward from her sixties was enough to convince the remaining nomads that there was no more to be gained from attacking this woman or her monsters. They pulled back, weapons held defensively.

  When she was through they looked upon a woman who might have been forty years old. She released their countrymen, but the afflicted men did not collapse. They merely turned, each with flesh seared black where her skin had met theirs. Their eyes were milky and glazed, staring at without seeing the other members of their tribe.

  “Ah,” Turiel said, finally acknowledging the other nomads. “I am pleased to see you are ready to be proper hosts. Since neither of these men will need to sleep any longer, I must assume that at least one of these huts has got a vacancy, so I’ll be staying for the night. A good, hearty meal would be nice too. I haven’t eaten in… well, it must be years by now. And I do hope none of you were planning to travel deeper into civilization anytime soon, because I’m afraid I’ve been asked to be discrete in my dealings here, and I’m not certain any of you can be trusted to remain silent on the details of my visit.”

  “What have you done to our chief?” asked a voice from the gathered crowd.

  “Nothing. Well, nothing that time wouldn’t have done eventually. I simply pushed it along a bit and gathered the runoff. Like crushing grapes to make wine. I’m sure if they had been willing to be reasonable, they would have been more than willing to offer themselves. You see, I’ve got a very important and noble purpose. I cannot share it, of course, but when I succeed you shall all reap the benefits. That is to say, you all may reap the benefits. Some of you may need to make a sacrifice similar to theirs before I move on. I have some tasks that could prove taxing.”

  The surviving nomads stood motionless, uncertain of what to do.

  “I thought I’d been clear. Prepare a hut, some food, and some water.” No one moved. She turned back to Mott, who was fumbling to align his own head with his neck. With a dismissive gesture, she said, “Bring them to order. And you come here.”

  Her dragoyle responded to the second command, and the withered remnants of her two victims responded to the first, shuffling forward.

  “Do as she says…” said what remained of the chieftain. His voice had no intelligence behind it, no soul. It was hollow, empty.

  “That is not our chief,” said a voice from the crowd. “We must kill that… thing. We must kill them all and…”

  “Really, sir,” Turiel called without looking, her tone that of a parent disappointed in a child who had not learned its lesson. “You cannot kill him. He is already dead. The blood is cold in his veins, he breathes only to speak, and he speaks only to say what I tell him. The best you can do is slice him rather pointlessly into pieces as you did my poor little Mott.” She finished repairing the familiar and stood to address the crowd. “But since your chief isn’t nearly the masterpiece Mott is, it would be far simpler just to replace him.”

  She paced fearlessly forward, and the spokesman did the same.

  “She is just one woman, and her largest monster is weakened. She cannot defeat all of us…”

  Turiel leaned close, squinting at the voice of the opposition. “How delightful! You see, Mott! I knew it wouldn’t take long.”

  She drove her staff into the ground and shifting vines of black split the earth at their feet, coiling up the legs of the nomads and locking them in place. She grasped the spokesman by the chin, released her staff, and drew her knife. “Hold still. Your eyes are the perfect color…”

  #

  Brustuum, in spite of himself, turned aside in disgust at the words he was hearing.

  “Is something wrong?” Turiel asked innocently.

  “You… you would kill a man to harvest his eyes?”

  “Heavens no. He was still alive when I removed them. And besides, he was quite rude. His body and soul could be put to much better use elsewhere. Did you see how wonderful his eyes looked in Mott’s head before you stuffed him in that trunk? And really, keeping my darling in an equipment room like a piece of luggage. I contend that you are the one who doesn’t respect the sanctity of life.”

  “You are not in a position to judge anyone, Turiel… And how is it that you seem to know the location of what remains of your little pet?”

  “As you’ve observed, I am something of a collector when it comes to eyes. I hate to see them go to waste, so I scatter them about.”

  He backed to the door and rapped on it. “Swordsman, go to the supply room and see that the monstrosity is still safely stowed. And search the room for anything out of the ordinary.” He returned his attention to Turiel. “Speak. Complete your confession so that I can be done with you. Your very presence is beginning to make my flesh crawl.”

  “There’s precious little that remains to be told.”

  #

  Several days had passed and Turiel stood at the edge of the nomad camp gazing downward and beaming with pride. Anyone who had seen the woeful creature who had awakened in a cave to the south just weeks before would scarcely have believed that she was the same creature, let alone the same woman. Her clothes were now fresh and clean, ragged skins abandoned in favor of black robes found among the things of her hosts. More impressively, she now looked almost to be in the full flower of youth again, though here and there she seemed to have picked and chosen elements of maturity to retain. A single shock of gray hair remained, threaded through the rest like a vein of silver in a block of obsidian. The corners of her eyes and mouth retained some fine lines, almost artful in the way they made her look more distinguished. Her cheeks, rather than showing plump, childish roundness, remained somewhat drawn, allowing her face an angularity that bordered on sculptural. She was a woman who had recognized and embraced some of the gifts of age, and had reinvented herself as a figure with all of the assets of youth yet all of the badges of wisdom.

  At her feet lay a work of grim brilliance. To all outward observations, it was a simple leather cloak. Save for the fact it was freshly tanned and a bit thicker than a normal garment, one might never have suspected anything sinister of it.

  “There. Much better. I must say it was quite a fortunate happenstance to have stumbled upon this lovely settlement, eh, Mott?” Turiel said, wiping her hands on a few discarded shreds of linen. “So many fine materials to work with, and so many helpful people to assist and nourish us along the way. Arise, my cloak.”

  A ripple fluttered across the form. It shuddered and rose, odd angular folds appearing and disappearing as it shifted and twisted. A few moments of writhing and squirming allowed it to rise to its scalloped edge and stand erect, empty yet with its form bulging as though occupied. A sharp eye might notice that its motions came with the twitch of muscle and the rigidity of bone layered beneath its surface, but as it stood, rolling itself in imitation of a breezy flutter, it almost seemed lighter than air. The creation was some horrid combination of dark magic and sleight of hand.

  “Entirely unlike their enchantment, yet with a virtually identical result. The lack of flight is a limitation, I grant you, but the efficiency is far greater. It takes little effort at all to craft one of these, and one needs only the flesh of two goats. I
would dearly love to see it put to use in battle, but the only possible targets are my courteous hosts, and I would hate to appear ungrateful for their kindness. Come, my cloak. Let the others see how brilliantly you’ve come along.”

  She turned on her heel and paced toward the camp. The nomads who called it home seemed to be standing at attention outside their tents, waiting for her. As she drew near, the colorless flesh and milky-white eyes of each made it clear that they were no more than shells of what they had been, drained of their life and will. Each husk stood limply upright, looking as though held aloft by unseen strings and ready to collapse at any moment.

  “There, you see, Marraam? I told you I would do it,” she said happily, addressing what had formerly been the matriarch of the tribe.

  The figure who once had been called Marraam stood, unseeing, unhearing, and unheeding. Nonetheless, Turiel spoke to her as though she were pleasantly interested in what the sorceress had to say.

  “You have my endless gratitude for keeping as many goats in your herd as you did. It took every last one of them to perfect my design! … Well, yes, I realize it isn’t perfect. Theirs can fly and mine can’t, but I’m not convinced flight is necessary.”

  She turned suddenly to what had been a young man. His eyes were hidden behind a tied rag. Or, more accurately, the place where his eyes had been was so hidden.

  “Now that is uncalled for, Poormaa. This is not self-indulgent tinkering! I must illustrate my worth to the D’Karon. They only share their most potent secrets with those they deem worthy, and I must know those secrets.”

  Her head whipped around, and she jabbed a finger at the husk of Marraam’s husband.

  “I heard that! I am not power hungry. My motivation couldn’t be nobler. This is a matter of vengeance. It is my duty! A noble soul deserves to have her stirring put to rest, and I cannot do that until I am strong enough to finish her task.”

  She turned back to Marraam and placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “It is kind of you to say, but what you’ve seen here is only a fraction of the wonders she could do. She chose a different path than I, so it is hardly a comparison of like for like, but I know my strength and I know hers. I still feel the chill of her shadow. Until I step into the light and grow beyond her strength, then I cannot hope to avenge her. And I know that I cannot reach those heights without the aid of the D’Karon.”

  Her head turned to Poormaa again.

  “Your deaths… What do you mean, who will avenge your deaths? You did not die. You gave of yourself freely. You helped me to grow and to hone my skills. That is no cause for vengeance.” She paused for a moment, then charged up to him, bringing her face within inches of his. “I am not a monster! You take that back! I am doing what I need to do. You would do the same if you could! … Be silent! Be silent damn you! Be silent or I will silence you! That’s enough. Cloak, you have your target.”

  The leathery concoction coiled and sprang forward. In its leap it unfurled itself, catching the breeze and gliding toward the standing remains of Poormaa. Bony claws emerged from the seams closest to where the arms of a wearer might have been, and more slipped from the scalloped edge. It wrapped about the unresisting form of Poormaa and put the claws to work.

  With grim efficiency the animated remains of the nomad were reduced to shreds. It was not as gruesome as it might have been. Slices and gashes in the lifeless flesh did not bleed, and there were no screams of pain, but the sight and sound of the attack should have been more than enough to turn even the steadiest stomach. Yet Turiel simply watched, a look of vindication on her face.

  “There! You see? Every bit as effective as the cloaks conjured by the D’Karon. And though they can’t properly fly, they aren’t nearly as vulnerable to flame as the D’Karon version. If ever they allow me to meet face to face with Demont again, I feel quite certain he will find my innovations valuable. Isn’t that right, Mott?” She turned and looked at her staff. It was vacant. “Mott? Blast it, where did that rascal get off to? And come to think of it, where has the dragoyle gotten off to?”

  She took the staff in her hand, raised it up, and thrust it down. “To me, my creations!”

  In reply, a strangled cry of a stricken bird echoed across the fields. She squinted through the shifting haze of heat and spotted the misshapen form of her familiar skitter out from behind some prickly shrubs. It was dragging something limply along, but it wasn’t until it was nearly upon her that Turiel was able recognize the form of a sizable buzzard that Mott had pulled from the air.

  “Well what have you got there?” she asked.

  Mott flopped its prey down and chittered, prancing about.

  Turiel smiled and shook her head, cooing as though she’d just seen a puppy overturn its water dish. “Oh, you naughty little beast. I have told you, these birds haven’t got the wings to keep you aloft, and I haven’t got the power to spare to make up for the shortcomings. We’ll get you some fine wings soon enough.”

  Her creature whined pathetically.

  “Oh very well, we shall give it a try if you must see for yourself how poorly suited they are, but after this we must be on our way.” She pulled out her knife and began to carefully remove the relevant parts of the buzzard. “If their loose tongues are any indication, my welcome with these nomads has largely worn out. Fortunately they have served their purpose. I feel quite healthy once more, and I’m satisfied that I’ve made adequate progress to make proper use of the resources a larger city can provide. Once my dragoyle returns, we will find our way to those dragon breeders on the west coast. Where has that beast gotten off to?”

  Mott chittered, then yelped as she sliced away the skeletal wings on his back in preparation for the fresh ones.

  “Wandered off? Again? That’s what happened to each of the prior cloaks as well! Blast it all. Why do they keep doing that?” She mused to herself as she aligned the first wing and began to stitch it in place with arcane threads drawn from her staff. The horrific act of flesh-crafting seemed as mundane as darning a sock to her. “I never would have imagined that the most difficult part of manufacturing the cursed things would be maintaining control of them. That’s a secret I would dearly love for Demont to share with me. I know there’s a trick to it. There must be. Based on what Teht said, he was able to control armies if he so chose. Bah. When we find Teht, we will request an audience with Demont. If only they’d seen fit to make him the trainer instead. He and I have so much more in common…” She wiped her hands and stood. “There. You have your wings. Go ahead and try them.”

  Mott stood on his spidery legs and spread his new wings. They were a bit scraggly after the brief struggle with their previous owner and didn’t seem to be nearly in proportion with the rest of the familiar’s body, but he nonetheless seemed delighted with the new addition. He skittered along, flapping desperately and springing into the air. The best he could manage was a few prodigious jumps and a handful of short glides before he scrambled back to her, tongue lolling out and breath heaving.

  “I did tell you, didn’t I?” she said, scratching the creature under the chin. “You’ll get used to them, my little concoction. At least until we get some proper ones. Something from a baby dragon will be just right. Green scales to go with your own scales and your eyes, I think.” She clutched her hands in excitement. “Oh, you will be perfect. Come, Mott, I believe I can cobble together a horse out of scraps. Let us be on our way.”

  #

  “You know the rest,” Turiel said simply. “I’d overestimated my own capacity to craft a suitable steed from the parts available, and therefore I’d made little progress along the shore before your men encountered me. Rather than draw any undue attention to myself, I surrendered to you, and I’ve thus been treated to your less than admirable hospitality since then.”

  “Our intention is to keep our land safe from your treachery, not to make you comfortable. I would like to clarify a few matters of your account. You speak of your intention to open something you call a ‘key
hole.’”

  “A second one, yes.”

  “What precisely is this, and to what end do you seek to do so?”

  “A keyhole is a portal. It is a gateway to another world, but a very special sort of gateway. It isn’t so grand and remarkable as the full gateway the D’Karon have been seeking to open since their arrival. In a thousand lifetimes I couldn’t hope to craft such a portal on my own. It takes more strength than I could ever hope to gather. A keyhole, on the other hand, is very limited. A physical creature cannot pass through it, but spirits can. Beings of pure magic as well. That’s how the D’Karon reached this world. And upon completing the first keyhole and allowing the first of the D’Karon through, I was swiftly assigned the opening of a second. It was to be a contingency, a means for drawing in additional support in the event of difficulty. The first took me ages to open. This one is coming along even more slowly. Nonetheless, I believe I have gathered and sequestered perhaps four-fifths of the strength I need to cast the spell. A few more decades and it shall be ready.”

  “Your claims seem to support those of your countrymen, that these D’Karon creatures are beasts of another world. You are the first to admit what I have surmised since the first such claim. These D’Karon were summoned by your own hand. You recruited them to aid in the war effort, in hopes that through their might you would turn the tides of the war.”

  “What? No. That is madness. If the D’Karon were inclined to wage war with us, they would wipe out any army they encountered in weeks at most. You cannot comprehend the depths of their mastery. And though I freely and proudly admit to summoning them, there was no war at the time, and I’ve yet to see any evidence of this so-called endless conflict against this so-called Northern Alliance.”