The D'Karon Apprentice

by Joseph R. Lallo

  She tipped her head, feeling a second flutter in her chest. It was a curious thing. A large part of her saw Garr and felt a flush of anger. The male was perpetually at odds with her, an obvious rival. In all of her life there had only ever been friends and rivals. Friends were rare, and when they were lost, they hurt terribly. She didn’t want any more friends. All she wanted was to keep the ones she had, and for them to be safe. As for rivals, they were no problem. She knew how to deal with them, and dealt with them quickly and easily. But Garr seemed to want to be both. He wanted to show he was as strong as her, and he clashed with her each time his rider’s will clashed with hers or Myranda’s. And yet, he fed her. He worked with her to hunt, taught her better ways to stalk and fly. And he brought her this stone. Perhaps the rest he had done because it was Grustim’s will that he do so, but the stone could only have been his own choice.

  The young dragon huffed a breath in irritation and furrowed her brow. It was frustrating to have someone dance across what had been a simple line until now. She wished he would just make up his mind. Choose one or the other. Friend or foe. Then another thought flitted to the front of her mind, bringing with it another flutter in her chest so strong it almost burned. She shuffled backward into the shade of the stable and looked to where the stone had landed. As she scraped her claw across its smooth surface she supposed that, just maybe, he had made up his mind. And this was his way of showing it.

  Her revelation was cut short when she heard sudden motion followed by a savage and unmistakable roar of anger erupt from Garr’s throat. She snapped her head toward the courtyard and snaked it out to find Garr on his feet. His wings were unfurled and spread, his tail raised and sweeping. He faced away, his head angled at the entryway of the keep, but from the second thundering roar that issued forth, she didn’t need to see his face to know his teeth were bared and his fiery breath was curling between them.

  Another roar shook the courtyard. The intensity and fury behind it was almost contagious. Myn found her blood racing and her mind aflame. She looked to the entryway, finally spotting the source of his outrage. Grustim had been led out from within, hands tied. On either side was a soldier with a very sensible look of abject terror on his face. Behind them was Commander Brustuum. Unlike his men, he was wholly unconcerned. The commander began to bark orders in a language Myn hadn’t yet learned to understand. Every syllable seemed to shake Garr with greater anger, and Myn found any doubt as to which side the male dragon was on fading. In this moment, Garr wanted nothing more than to roast every last soldier in the courtyard, and Myn had felt much the same since they took Myranda and Deacon away. At least for the moment, Garr and Myn were of one mind.

  When Grustim spoke, evidently in response to something demanded by Brustuum, he spoke in the human language Myn did understand.

  “Garr,” he said. “The commander, who holds both the Alliance nobles and now myself as his prisoners, demands that you destroy the Alliance dragon and, from this point forward, obey only his commands.”

  Myn tensed her muscles and readied her claws in preparation for a clash she’d moments before convinced herself would never come. Garr did not move to attack. He didn’t even shift his penetrating gaze away from Brustuum.

  “We are both duty-bound to offer aid to the Alliance nobles. To do as he orders, you must abandon your duty and relinquish your loyalty.”

  The next words to come from Grustim were not words at all. At least, not in the way that humans knew them. Dragons had their own language, one that they seldom had notion to use thanks to the simple fact that most useful communication could come from a simple motion or gesture. But when the need arose, the draconic language could be spoken with all of the same clarity and specificity of any human language. Even then it was as much about motion and tone as it was about the sounds made. Grustim had delivered brief orders in a stunted form of this language throughout the journey, but this message he spoke like it was his native tongue.

  He lowered his head, shifted his weight, and croaked an almost silent grinding in his throat. It was short, simple, and to the point. “In this choice, you are your own.”

  Myn did not understand why Grustim had spoken in such a way that she could understand, nor what the underlying meaning of his draconic phrasing might have been, but the very instant Garr heard the final command, he acted. Turning sharply to face Myn, and thus put his back to Grustim, he glared at her. She stood, not certain if he would obey the wishes of the commander, but not yet willing to trust that he wouldn’t. There was scarcely room enough for her to crouch within the stable, so when she stood, she tore through its lightly built roof like paper. A pair of startled falcons burst from within, soaring off into the sky, and Myn stood ready to react to whatever came next.

  Now it was Garr’s turn to speak in the dragon tongue. Like Grustim’s, it was a short, simple command.

  “Down.”

  Both Myn and Grustim instantly obeyed. In Myn’s case it took her back below the level of the wrecked walls of the stable. In Grustim’s case it dropped him to the ground between his escorts. The male dragon belched a rush of flame at the stable. It easily ignited the desert-dried wood. The attack was far too high to strike Myn directly, certainly by design, and the heat of simple burning wood was of little concern to Myn as she remained crouched inside.

  As he was incinerating the top half of the stable, Garr swept his tail at waist level. The scything motion struck both soldiers squarely in the chest, knocking them forcefully against the wall of the keep. The commander managed to stumble back far enough to avoid the strike, and bellowed an order to his men. Though Myn didn’t understand the words, she knew he was ordering them to attack. A dozen soldiers, every last one available, readied their weapons. The boldest of them rushed at Garr, heaving pikes, firing arrows, and swinging swords. They may as well have been gnats. Swords struck his armored hide and bounced with barely a notch to show for it. Pikes splintered or fell harmlessly away after meeting their targets. Only the arrows did any good at all, all sticking tight into his scales and two piecing through.

  Garr didn’t pay any mind to the attackers. He turned and stalked forward, straddling the still-grounded Grustim and focusing on the entryway of the keep. The commander had dragged himself inside. The dragon thumped his head against the arch of the doorway, stout horns turning the stone to powder. Myn observed that the strike showed considerably more strength than he’d been displaying when they’d tested one another during Myranda’s unauthorized healing. He swiped his tail blindly behind him, bashing a few of the swordsmen.

  When the rest retreated and swapped melee weapons for ranged, Myn decided she’d waited long enough. She’d been told to remain inside the stable, but there was no longer any stable to remain in. She charged out and placed herself between the soldiers and Garr. The men must have assumed the blast of flame had been enough to end her, as her sudden appearance and earsplitting roar startled them even more than Garr’s sudden turn. Desperate to put at least a moderately safe distance between themselves and Myn, the men scattered and retreated. Once they were on the move and slipping quickly toward panic, Myn found it simple enough to keep them from becoming a threat again. It would have been easy to trample them, roast them, or otherwise dispatch the humans, but Myn knew that Myranda would never forgive her for taking the life of a human she didn’t have to, and senseless death didn’t appeal to her. Keeping them on the run was more than enough, and stoking their terror into a frenzy was deeply satisfying in light of their behavior.

  #

  “Listen, you will stop talking or I will personally gag you,” growled the Tresson soldier guarding Deacon’s cell.

  The flickering light from a dim oil lamp caused the shadows of the bars to dance across Deacon’s face as he listened to the impatient order of his keeper. A floor removed from the surface, the air was a good deal cooler here, but that did little to improve the mood of the guard.

  “Naturally I apologize if I’ve overstepped my bounds, but a
brief incarceration while our respective representatives come to an agreement is no reason to curtail the diplomatic exchange that was to be a very valuable result of this mission.”

  “You are a prisoner in enemy territory. You ceased to be a diplomat the very moment your people attacked ours!”

  “But we need not be enemies. The woman who attacked you is a mutual adversary. Surely your king and his advisers have policies in place for dealing with external threats common to both the north and—”

  “Close your mouth!” fumed the guard.

  A worrying rumble punctuated his demand, causing walls to crackle and release cascades of broken powder.

  “What is that!?” spat the guard.

  Deacon having completely eroded his patience to nothing, his exclamation had an angry and accusing tone that suggested he suspected Deacon was somehow at fault for this as well.

  “I do not know, but it had a worryingly structural sound to it. I am not certain how much longer this stronghold will remain standing. I would suggest you evacuate.”

  “I do not take suggestions from prisoners,” the guard said.

  He’d reached the end of his wits now and was oscillating madly between anger and confusion. A voice echoed through the hall and swiftly gathered his full attention.

  “All soldiers to the courtyard! Kill these things, now!”

  It was the commander, his voice a potent mix of agony and fury. Without a moment’s hesitation, the guard abandoned his post and heeded the call to action. Deacon stood and stepped to the bars, watching him go, then cast a concerned glance at a fresh fault that had opened in the wall across from him. Even between rumbles, powdery stone was falling in a more or less continuous cascade. It was now safe to say that the building wasn’t so much standing as collapsing very slowly. He shut his eyes and reached out with his mind. It took but a moment for him to sense the familiar warmth and clarity of Myranda’s thoughts. It was no coincidence that she too was reaching out. When their wills entwined, each appeared as a presence in the mind of the other, suddenly together despite the quaking walls that separated them.

  Myranda, I believe the time has come to abandon the stronghold, he thought.

  Agreed. I don’t know what is happening, but I’m certain that sound is a dragon’s roar, and I don’t imagine Garr would do so lightly.

  You see about whatever is happening on the surface. I shall gather our things and ensure that no one else is in the stronghold.

  Be careful, Myranda said.

  You as well, Deacon replied.

  They broke their connection, each with a job to do. Deacon touched the bars and flexed his mind. The lock was simple by any standard. An industrious prisoner could likely have picked it with a thick splinter of wood. For a wizard with even the most cursory knowledge of gray magic, manipulating its workings to open the door was as simple as lifting a latch. As he stepped out, he brushed his fingers against the walls. Ribbons of blue-white began to mingle with the crumbling masonry, shoring it up enough to stop it from quaking, at least for a moment. Without his crystal he didn’t have the strength of will to support more than a small section of the place at a time, but he’d learned much from the Earth masters of Entwell. The whole of the stronghold was either wood or stone. He attuned his spirit to each, and in his mind’s eye those sections of wall and ceiling most in danger of collapse lit up clear as day. He lent what strength he could spare and quickened his pace, dedicating the remains of his attention to finding if anyone else needed their help.

  The packs containing their equipment were simple enough to find. A wizard’s casting gem may as well be a beacon in the night. He could feel it like a warmth against his skin, one floor below. As for other people who might need help, the only living things that felt strong enough to be humans were already outside or on the move toward the exit. They were in less danger than he was. On the same level as their things he felt a flicker of life, but it was insignificant, more likely a rat or a cluster of insects than anything that might need his aid.

  He reached the stairs before the next rumble shook the facility, and the keep was striped with new faults that needed to be strengthened. He split his mind further and quickened his pace. The stairs down had partially collapsed, but from the looks of it, most of the damage was from the initial disaster and simply had not yet been cleared. He sidled past it and took the rest of the staircase two at a time, bursting out of the stairwell at a full run. None of the lamps on this level had been lit, but he’d conjured so many strips and patches to hold the place together, the ambient glow was more than enough to light his way. Deacon held out his hand and gently called for his gem. It answered with a brilliant glow that poured from his pack, marking the storage cell to be at the far end of the current hall. Distant roars preceded the roughest impact yet. A section of ceiling shattered to his right, sending a torrent of fractured stone and splintered wood toward him, but he raised his hand and conjured a shimmering shield. Time was clearly running out.

  Deacon covered the last few paces of the hallway, manipulated the lock, and pulled at the cell door only to find it buckling against the floor. This close to his gem, the merest thought was all it took to call it to his hand. It touched his flesh, and the strength and clarity of his mind compounded. He funneled much of the added strength into reinforcing the sagging roof, and a portion of the rest into ripping the cell door from its hinges. Rather than attempt to haul everything he, Myranda, and Myn had been carrying onto his back, Deacon simply willed the packs into the air.

  After two steps toward the stairs, though, the added light of his glowing gem illuminated something that caught his attention even amid chaos. Through a hole in the floor he could see that one of the cells below was occupied. At first glance his heart nearly stopped at the thought that he might have missed such a thing. The cell, in fact, seemed to be crowded with people, all standing. He could see at least eight, which in a single cell left barely room to move. Another shake and rumble caused more of the floor to collapse, revealing a handful more in an adjoining cell. When he’d had a moment to process what he was seeing, he realized, though they were on their feet, they were not humans. At least, not anymore. There was only faintest flicker of life to them, and entirely no will. Each of them had the dark skin of a native Tresson, some darker than others, but the color was flushed and subdued. They were husks. Bodies drained of life but not yet allowed to take their rest.

  A thunder-crack of splitting wood signaled the failure of one of the few remaining support columns. There was no more time for investigation. He would simply have to hope that when the stronghold finished collapsing, somewhere beneath the rubble would remain some evidence of what had happened here.

  #

  Myranda rushed up the steps. She could feel that Deacon’s influence was, for much of the keep, the only thing holding the walls together. The hallway was littered with fallen bricks, and ahead where it turned toward the entryway stood a press of people with their weapons drawn. They were crying out in anger and fear. Two rows of three men hunkered down into the hallway to protect Brustuum, who was behind them and still attempting to climb to his feet. An earsplitting roar caused the men to tense further, then a vicious blow to the entryway from the outside dislodged a section of wall. A falling brick struck Brustuum and threw his head back, thumping it into the solid stone of the floor and threatening to bury him in the rubble.

  The commander dragged himself free of the toppling bricks, then looked up to Myranda, eyes widening in surprise and anger.

  “You! This is your doing! It must be! Men! Subdue the duchess!” he slurred, the recent blow to the head robbing him of some clarity.

  The order fell on deaf ears, the threat of a rampaging dragon requiring the full attention of every able soldier. Myranda stepped to Brustuum and hauled him to his feet, throwing his arm around her shoulder.

  “You unhand me! You unhand me, woman!” he cried, head sagging and eyes unfocused.

  “Commander, your men have their ha
nds full and your keep is crumbling. For the moment I suggest we put our differences aside in the interest of survival.” She peered through the entryway, just barely able to see the wild eyes of the dragon over the heads of the defending soldiers. “What is happening?”

  “Is it not obvious?” Brustuum raved, fighting to maintain his focus. “Your influence has poisoned the mind of a Rider and his dragon. They have turned their backs on their kingdom, and now the dragon wishes to kill us all.”

  “If he wished to kill us all, he would fill this hallway with flame and be done with it,” Myranda said.

  Garr withdrew from the doorway and took a few paces back. The soldiers braced themselves as he heaved a shoulder against the stone wall, shaking the building and causing the left side of the entryway to buckle. She thrust out her hand and pulled her mind to the task of keeping the roof from coming down on top of them, willing blocks back into place and holding them there.

  “Myn!” Myranda called.

  The response was immediate, a distant grinding slide, then a thundering gallop. The red dragon burst into view of the doorway, wedging Garr out of the way and lowering her head to peer inside.

  “Kill it! Kill them both! Kill them all!” Brustuum barked, his voice at the cusp of delirium.

  Some combination of anger and pain had stripped away any semblance of logic and reason from the commander, reducing him to little more than a ranting lunatic. Soon even the words were lost in a sea of loudly muttered drivel, as though he lacked the energy and patience to form words any longer. Myranda raised her voice, speaking with calmness and clarity. In the midst of madness, a voice of reason was a difficult thing to ignore. The Tresson soldiers forgot for a moment that Myranda should have been considered as great a threat as the dragons and simply let her speak.