The D'Karon Apprentice

by Joseph R. Lallo

  Deacon cleared his throat. “If I might interject?”

  Grustim kept his gaze on Garr, but when he spoke, it was in Varden. “This is why it is unwise to mix females with males in times of war,” he muttered. “Females and males do foolish things when they are mixed.” He turned. “You and the duchess. You are married?”

  “We are.”

  “How is it that someone such as you could catch the eye of a woman such as her?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand your confusion, and I’m not certain this is the proper forum for such a discussion.”

  Grustim looked to the soldiers at the wall, addressing them as a whole. “Prepare yourselves for the sentencing of your commander, and fetch for me any region maps or field maps that have survived.”

  The men snapped to action. Grustim turned back to Deacon.

  “It will take a few moments for the commander to be readied by the healers in the infirmary, and in that time the soldiers will fetch the maps we need to put the information I received from him to good use. But at this moment I am a Dragon Rider stripped of his mount, forced to pass judgment on a man of my own nation, and forced to stand idle while a trusted ally chose to side instead with your woman and her mount. Forgive me, Duke, but your woman has seized my thoughts, and I would appreciate an answer. How is it that so forceful a woman could allow herself to be joined to so forceless a man? She is clearly the figure of authority between you. She is the one with the vision, with the intensity, with the passion. You… what are you? You are a shadow. You make no impression. There is nothing to you but to serve her. It is baffling to a Tresson to see a man defer so completely to a woman, but more so it is baffling to imagine that a woman of such quality could ever tolerate a man lacking such substance. The two of you may as well be brother and sister for all of the passion I see between you.”

  Deacon furrowed his brow. “I am sorry that you have so low an opinion of me, sir, but to garner a high opinion was never my aim, so you will pardon me if I am not offended. As for Myranda and I, our feelings for one another are a private matter, and what I’ve done to earn her is simply to be the best that I can and make it clear to her how much I value her.”

  “No… I refuse to believe that a headstrong woman such as her would ever turn her heart to you without some manner of grand gesture, some showing of your worthiness of her.”

  “I permanently altered the mystic makeup of my left hand when I pierced a hole in the very fabric of reality in order to journey from my home to her side and offer aid in a time of profound travail, utilizing a spell the very existence of which has sullied my name and barred my return to the place of my birth,” Deacon explained. “Is this a sufficiently grand gesture to satisfy your curiosity?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “That would explain much.”

  A soldier marched up to Grustim and revealed a stitched cloth map, tersely informing the Dragon Rider that it was the most accurate map to be found in the ruined keep. From the looks of it, the map was quite new, and it was made with care and precision.

  Grustim spread it on the ground, weighing down the corners with stones. “According to the commander’s claims, Turiel came from somewhere in this region,” he said, running his finger across the southern coast. “It is a wide area. Even if we knew what we were looking for, it would take weeks to do a thorough search.”

  Deacon tipped his head to the side, eying the map.

  “Is something wrong?” Grustim asked.

  “This line here,” he said, running his finger across a thin gray embroidered thread. “What does this represent?”

  “That is the leading edge of the Southern Wastes.”

  “But here, this city. On my map, I’m certain the Wastes fell far south of it. On this map there is so little space between them. Could my map have been that inaccurate?”

  “Your map was likely based on one from before the war. It is over one hundred years old.”

  “And that would alter the edge of the Southern Wastes?”

  “Indeed, the forward edge has crept northward with time.”

  “… The Wastes are growing… Of course…”

  “Is that relevant?”

  Deacon waved his hand over the map, and the lines took on a brilliant glow. For the second time he conjured a map in the air. As he maneuvered it in front of him, he explained his thoughts.

  “The D’Karon spells invariably feed upon the mana of a region. The life of a region. If this woman is a necromancer, she would be particularly skilled at consuming the vibrancy from the area. Over the duration of the war, or longer, she could certainly have had an effect on the landscape that has spread over the years. If the Wastes, or at least the degree to which they have spread, is a result of her harvesting of power to feed the keyhole, then the effect would be centered in the Wastes.”

  “No. We already know from the commander that woman had been much farther south.”

  “You need to think as a whole.”

  He traced his hand carefully along the ragged edge of the Wastes, then continued the curve out into the surrounding sea and circled back into the original curve. The center of the resulting circle seemed to fall just barely on the edge of the land.

  “Here. Somewhere in this region is the center of the influence on the Wastes. We begin our search there.”

  Grustim looked to the cloth map, then wet his finger and touched it to the soil to leave a smudge of mud in the indicated location. “It certainly falls within the stretch the commander indicated. If you are correct, it would cut the search from weeks to days…”

  A subtle commotion drew his attention to the infirmary. The commander was on his feet and walking toward them. Myranda’s attempts to cure his ills had largely taken hold. He was limping and still wrapped in bandages, but otherwise seemed not much worse for wear. The bandages, tellingly, had considerably more fresh blood on them than when Myranda had treated him.

  “A moment, Duke. I must see to this,” Grustim said.

  He stepped toward the commander and each came to a stop near the bonfire upon which Myranda had cooked the food. When Grustim spoke, it was in Tresson, and it was with the attention of every last one of the troops on hand.

  “Commander Brustuum, your orders were to secure the source of the disturbance to the south and to turn her over to your superiors.”

  “It was,” Brustuum answered.

  “You stand accused of abandoning those orders and acting according to your own agenda.”

  “I have done so, but what I have done was with the strength and honor of my nation in mind.”

  “And tell your men what you did with the strength and honor of your nation in mind.”

  He hesitated only briefly. “I kept the woman here, questioned her. I resolved first to prove that her actions were indeed a purposeful act of war. When I learned of the power she held, the knowledge she had, I knew it belonged under the control of our great army.”

  “And how did you intend to secure this knowledge?” Grustim prodded.

  “I had her demonstrate her abilities.”

  “You know what you did, Brustuum. Tell your men.”

  “… I allowed her to draw power from our prisoners and had her instruct our mystics in the methods.”

  The soldiers in attendance murmured in horror and disgust.

  “Draw power… You let her drain Tressons of life. You fed your countrymen to someone you believed to be a Northern Aggressor. And with the power you gave her, she did all of this,” Grustim said, sweeping his arm around the stronghold. “Your arrogance and dereliction of duty brought this upon you and cost the lives of your men.”

  “My intention was—”

  “This is not a matter of intention!” Grustim spat. “This is a matter of duty and honor, and in your actions you have abandoned both. Do you deny this?”

  “I do not.”

  “Then your punishment is clear. Your dagger of command, Brustuum.”

  The commander drew a short
, simple dagger, clearly more ceremonial than functional, and handed it to Grustim. The Dragon Rider set its grip into the flames of the fire.

  “Soldiers, open the gates.”

  Those nearest the heavy gates marched solemnly to the task of pulling them open. As they worked, Grustim laid out the punishment.

  “It is fortunate for us that you chose to commit your crime here within the great desert. It saves us the effort of bringing you to this forsaken place. You will now be left to the mercy of the land. You shall be sent into the sands. Because you have abandoned your obligations to your military, you shall not have the benefit if its resources. No water, no food, no shelter, and no equipment. This place is quite far from any cities, far from prying eyes. It is a fact that has helped you to keep your treachery from the eyes of your superiors. It also means there is little hope you will reach anyone who might offer you aid. But this is, after all, a death sentence. You shall be refused any aid you may request. And to ensure this…”

  He held out his hand, and as though it had been previously arranged, a soldier walked up and presented him with a heavy leather glove. He slipped it on and plucked the dagger from the flames by the blade.

  “Hold him,” Grustim ordered.

  The same soldier stepped behind his former commander and gripped his head, holding it firm while Grustim approached. In two quick, efficient motions he pressed first one side of the pommel, then the other to Brustuum’s cheek. The crossed lines on one side interlocked with the scythe on the other, forming a single branded symbol. Brustuum, to his credit, did not cry out or flinch as his flesh was seared. He simply maintained a steady look in Grustim’s eyes.

  “Take him,” Grustim said. “See that this last measure of his duty is faced with honor.”

  Two more soldiers stepped forward and took Brustuum by the shoulders, but he pulled himself free, determined to walk on his own.

  “I can face the consequences of my actions. But I hope you can face the consequences of yours,” he said.

  Grustim didn’t do him the courtesy of a response. He merely watched as the disgraced commander was marched toward the fading light of dusk. As he passed Deacon, he gave the Northerner a look of disdain, then glanced at the cloth map before continuing to his punishment.

  Deacon stepped to the Dragon Rider’s side. “I of course defer to your customs, but are we certain it is wise to leave his fate to chance?”

  “In Tressor, only our holy men and magistrates have the authority to take a life. For the rest of us, we must leave the deed in the hands of the gods and the land. I would prefer to deal with him more permanently, but without rules and without duty there is chaos. We’ve set the task at hand aside for too long, however.”

  “Yes… yes, I agree, of course. Do you agree with my assessment, regarding where to begin our search?”

  “Your reasoning is sound.”

  “Then I do not think we can afford to delay. I think you, Garr, and I need to set off for the Southern Wastes immediately.”

  “I agree. But that choice is no longer mine. Garr has been freed of his oath to me. I am at this point no more a Dragon Rider than you. That he has remained behind is more than I would have expected of him.”

  “But you said you’ve released him of his oath before.”

  “I have. The first time he took to the mountains and returned three months later. True freedom from their duty is something most dragons never have, and never seek. More than any other beast, a dragon understands loyalty and honor. Garr is a fine soldier, but in those moments that are his own he is… perhaps driven by different instincts than most.”

  Deacon turned to the dragon. Garr stood among the rubble. He’d been watching as the sentencing and discussions had progressed.

  “Garr…” Deacon began. He cleared his throat. “You’ll forgive me if my diction is not as precise as Grustim’s.” When he spoke again, it was the guttural rattles of a human approximation of a dragon’s tongue. “Thank you for your aid. You have your freedom now. It is deserved. You should enjoy it. But much—”

  “Stop,” grumbled Garr. He lowered his head. “I do not like you. I do not dislike you. What you say does not matter to me. The woman I like. The dragon I like. The woman likes you. The dragon likes you. What you ask was my duty. What you ask is his duty. I have reasons to do it. The dragon. If the dragon would like this, it would be another reason to do this. A very good reason to do this.”

  Deacon grinned, abandoning Garr’s language. “It seems I always must work hardest to earn the respect of dragons. I can assure you that Myn will appreciate anything you can do to help us keep this terrible thing from occurring.”

  Garr raised his head and flicked his tongue across his snout. He then turned and lowered his head, snatching something up from among the rubble. With it clutched within his jaws, he padded to Grustim. He lowered his head once more and dropped the pieces of Grustim’s armor at his feet, then stepped back and bowed to the ground. Setting his head and neck on the earth, he rattled out a vow.

  “I pledge my tooth and claw, my scale and flame, to you and to your blood until such time as our oath is broken,” Garr grumbled.

  “And to you I pledge my mind and hand, my armor and blade, to you and to your blood until such time as our oath is broken,” Grustim said.

  Garr huffed a breath and rose to his full height again. Grustim began to put on his armor. It was an incredible testament to the quality of the armor that it was barely marred despite enduring a building collapse.

  “It is not lost on me that you had already gathered the armor,” Grustim muttered. “I wonder if you were waiting to be asked.”

  “Regardless, I must ask, how quickly can we reach the possible location of the keyhole?” Deacon asked.

  “Garr has not rested. None of us have. But he is well fed and well trained. We may be able to reach it in a day and a half, but we will be exhausted. And there is the matter of carrying you.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “I am a Dragon Rider, and he is my mount. No one but I may ride on his back.”

  Deacon released a breath that was just shy of exasperated. “And I’d believed Entwell was a rigidly codified culture. I suppose I shall need to be carried then?”

  “Indeed. It is not the most pleasant way to travel.”

  “I’ve had worse. Let us not delay any longer. There is work to be done.”

  “Indeed. Garr, find your helmet. We shall at least face the challenge ahead properly equipped.”

  Chapter 8

  Ivy was still reeling beside the fire when Deacon’s writing began to scratch itself out on the pad. Ether had gathered additional wood and stoked the flames quite high before stepping into the flames herself to replenish what she had squandered in her battle with Turiel. This left Celeste to squint at the precise lettering.

  “I believe… my daughter and her husband have found Turiel’s destination. It says… she has appeared in New Kenvard.”

  “No… no, no, no,” Ivy murmured. “She can’t go there.”

  “I shall require some time to recover my strength if I am to make so vast a journey quickly enough to be of any use to combat her,” Ether said, her voice crackling from the flames.

  “This information will be long stale by then. She moves far too quickly. If we are going to effectively combat this woman, we need to know more about her. It isn’t enough to know where she is. We must know where she is going,” Celeste said.

  “She… she left… she gave… she forced a lot of her mind into mine,” Ivy said. “Why must they always toy with my mind…”

  “What have you learned of her? What did she tell you?”

  “It isn’t like that. She didn’t tell me anything. There aren’t facts… Well, there are, but they’re wrapped in experiences. And she…” Ivy held her head, “she can’t think straight. Her thoughts are swimming in my head. She’s not sane. It is like a hive of bees…”

  “There are two things we need to learn. Where the ke
yhole is located, and how she intends to open it. Do you believe those things are within the memories she’s given you?”

  “I don’t know. I asked her to tell me where to find the keyhole, so it must be there, but she gave me so much more than that. And they aren’t my memories. It isn’t as though I can simply think back to the moment in time that I experienced these things. I didn’t experience them, and I don’t know when I might find the moments when she did. Her thoughts and mine are jumbled up.”

  “Start at the beginning then. Why is she doing what she’s doing?”

  “Sister,” Ivy said instantly. “That much is certain. Her sister is constantly on her mind. She never thinks of her name. Barely thinks of what she looks like. It isn’t… it isn’t even as though she is a person anymore. She’s this all-powerful figure, this presence that fills her mind. Sister.”

  “What do we know about this sister?”

  “She’s… I have to think back so hard just to see her face… Yes… Yes she was tall. Thin. She was older, but just by a few years. Both knew magic, but her sister knew more… or at least knew it better. Turiel spoke to the dead, she could give and take life. Her sister could change things. She worked enchantments. There was this one instance, long ago, when she made a pendant or brooch. It was supposed to bring luck and protect from misfortune.”

  “What happened to her?”

  Ivy shut her eyes tighter and seemed almost pained by the remembrance, as though the intensity of the memory harkened back to a tragedy in her own life.

  “She believed she was the finest wizard in world and sought to prove it. She entered a place… a cave. She was determined to do it alone. It was… it was the trial of the cave. She was facing the beast of the cave. And she failed, vanished. It was devastating to Turiel. That beast… that beast is just as big a figure in her mind. A towering darkness, casting its shadow across all that she does. They are like… the two sides of a coin. The ultimate good and the ultimate evil. White and black. In the face of the perfection of her sister and the evil of the beast, nothing she does is ever truly good or evil in her mind. It is like nothing she can do will ever matter until the beast is defeated. And to kill the beast, she believes she must become even more powerful than her sister was. That’s what all of this is about.”