The D'Karon Apprentice

by Joseph R. Lallo

  “I… I am trespassing? I’m quite certain I can stake a far older claim to this cave than you. Just what are you doing here?”

  “This is the Kingdom of Tressor. No Northerner may—” the commander repeated, but his words choked off in his throat.

  “That isn’t an answer,” Turiel said, her staff thrust toward him, and stout, thorny threads piercing his throat. “And honestly, I’m no longer interested. Be gone, all of you, there is work to be done.”

  Color drained from the commander’s face, and he pitched to the side. Before his body had struck the ground, the rest of the accumulated soldiers burst into the chaos of battle, each seeking to be the first to strike the sorceress who had injured their commander. Turiel paid them little mind, walking with purpose toward the mouth of the cave. She waved a hand irritably, as if swatting a fly, and her staff began to crackle with energy. Bolts of purple and blue hissed forth and seared any who came near her. The air filled with the stench of charred flesh and howls of pain.

  “Soldiers, back!” Grustim barked. In the same breath he coughed a sharp, simple order to Garr.

  The soldiers who were still fortunate enough to be mobile barely had time to roll aside before the green dragon belched a column of intense, sustained flame. Dragon breath rushed around the dark sorceress, completely wiping her from sight. The blinding flames broiled the earth beneath her and blistered the friendly troops who hadn’t retreated far enough, but Garr did not relent. His jaws thrown wide and his eyes wild with fury, he continued to heave the white-hot flames over the spell caster. So thick and bright were they that no one could see so much as a shadow of the woman who served as their target.

  Then, from deep within the core of the blast, a thick bundle of black ribbons spiraled out. It speared into this throat and coiled tight around his upper and lower jaws, pulling them shut and causing the flames to splash aside, scalding a few more friendly soldiers before cutting off entirely. The lingering flames flickered away, leaving a glassy, crackly patch of sandy soil. For a moment, it looked as though Turiel had been charred by the attack, but slowly the sooty and mildly smoldering surface of her body peeled away. She’d managed to cocoon herself with tendrils. Beneath them her skin had been reddened here or blackened there but was otherwise whole and untouched. From the tip of her outstretched staff, the bundle of darkness that had muzzled the dragon began to thicken and flex. The bands sizzled at the iron mask he wore, bending and buckling it before slicing through and hissing against his scales.

  “That is quite enough,” she growled, her voice rough.

  A swipe of her staff traveled down the length of the bundle like the crack of a whip, throwing Garr viciously and effortlessly aside. Grustim held tight to the dragon as he was thrown. The bulk of the dragon came down hard upon his leg. Despite the remarkable armor he wore, the impact was enough to shatter the bone. Grustim didn’t even cry out, unwilling to waste the time and breath to do so. Instead, he shouted a warning.

  “Deacon! She is through!”

  Soldiers charged Turiel, but she turned and caught the throat of the first man to reach her. He didn’t even manage a howl of pain before the life was gone from his eyes, his body shriveling under her grasp.

  “Defend me,” she said simply.

  He pivoted and raised his weapon against his own brethren, motions jerky and unnatural. Three more soldiers reached her, each getting the same treatment, before she finally disappeared into the mouth of the cave. The subverted Tresson soldiers closed ranks, blocking off the way forward.

  #

  Deacon was breathing quickly, his fingers curled around a swirling mass of light that was now barely the size of a marble. He watched over his shoulder as Turiel marched closer.

  “What are you doing?” she shrieked, the cool demeanor gone as she saw him tinkering with the very thing she’d come to complete.

  “Necromancer Turiel,” he said breathlessly, “the proper question to ask…” the last of the light swirled into his fingers, “is what have I done?”

  Twisting before him was a sliver of odd-shaped metal. It didn’t have any rhyme or reason. There was no design. If anything, it resembled the twisting, rounded, fluid shape of what might result from dropping molten iron into a pool of ice water, except its surface gleamed like silver. It was small, not more than one could hold comfortably in a single palm, and yet the way it shone in the darkness of the cave spoke volumes of the power it contained.

  “Where is the keyhole!?” she demanded, leveling her staff at him.

  “The keyhole is no more, Turiel,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his gem-wielding hand and snatching the curl of metal with the other. “What remains of the power you used to create it is here.”

  “No… no!” she growled, thrusting down her staff. The tip dug into the stone of the cave floor and split it, sending a fault running up the walls and across the ceiling. “You couldn’t have managed such a feat! No one could!”

  “I have no doubt you were one of the greatest sorceresses of your day, Turiel, but time has marched on. There are those who know far more now.” He held up the sliver of metal. “This is the least of the things we have learned. I know that you seek the D’Karon for what they could teach you. In light of what you’ve seen here, and what you’ve seen Myranda and the other Chosen do, perhaps—”

  In a flicker of motion too swift to see, let alone react to, Turiel jabbed her staff forward, driving its jagged head into Deacon’s belly. The anger-fueled and mystically empowered force of the attack was such that it dug deep into his flesh. Blood flowed from the wound when she pulled the staff free, and Deacon stumbled backward, clutching his gem to the injury.

  “I suppose physical violence does have its usefulness,” she growled.

  Deacon stumbled back, coughing. A spattering of red flecked his lips. She grasped the wrist of the hand holding the sliver of metal and pulled him forward, but he locked his fingers around the artifact, hiding it from view.

  “Please…” Deacon said.

  “Don’t beg. It cheapens both of us. And don’t try to reason with me. As Myranda has refused to acknowledge, I have no reason left. Just give me the magic and give in to death. The other side of the veil is not a place to be feared.”

  “If… I must…” Deacon said.

  He opened his fingers and the artifact slipped free, plummeting toward the ground. Turiel released him and snatched it from the air.

  “Now, tell me how to unlock the power,” she demanded, holding it to his face.

  Deacon slumped against the wall and slid down, his face ghostly white.

  “You do not have my permission to die!” she barked, raising her staff and readying a spell to weave into his mind and body.

  When the magic spilled forth yet had no effect on the waning figure before her, her expression hardened. She looked at the item in her hand and watched as it seemed to dissolve, separating into points of light that drifted apart.

  “I apologize for the deception,” Deacon said, his voice distant and growing more so as similar light trailed away from his extremities. “Such dishonesty does not come easily to me.”

  The rest of his form wavered away into a galaxy of flickering lights, and Turiel whipped around to the sound of quickening footsteps. The true Deacon, not the illusion he’d conjured to distract her, was sprinting out of the cave. The usurped soldiers were lying lifeless on the ground, her influence banished from them, and the astonished and reeling members of the Tresson force were still trying to work what to do about this new and unknown threat.

  Turiel dashed toward him.

  “Keep back from him! Let him escape!” cried Grustim, his voice pained.

  Deacon ran for the closing portal. His arms were crossed in front of him and his head was down, ready to defend the precious items he held from any who would seek to stop him. In a diving leap, he slipped through the nearly shut portal to the north.

  “No!” Turiel screeched, holding out her staff and work
ing a hasty bit of D’Karon magic.

  Energy poured into the portal, and it widened massively, back to its full size and stretching further, until its bottom dug deep into the Tresson soil and it yawned wide enough for a whole company of soldiers to march through. The breeze of the north mixed with the air of the Southern Wastes. On the other side, the battle she’d left behind still raged, Tresson troops fighting alongside Alliance troops as her skeletons continued to march toward the village.

  She turned to the soldiers around her, who were just recovering enough to advance upon her again.

  “Haven’t you had enough!” she cried, thrusting her staff into the earth.

  A shock wave of raw energy rippled out from where it struck, knocking the soldiers from their feet. When they hit the ground, black bands burst forth to secure them there. Then she cast her staff forward and sent a coiling rope of black strands forward. It lanced through the portal and ensnared Deacon’s ankle. She began to drag him back, but a blur of red and gold roared through the portal and struck her with the force of a landslide.

  It was Myn, taking full advantage of the enlarged portal and eager to take out her fury on the necromancer. The pair slid back along the ground, Myn squeezing Turiel tight in one claw. She opened her jaws and made ready to snap them shut around Turiel with force enough to snap her in half. Turiel cried out viciously, and a blast of power erupted from her, hurling Myn off and sending the dragon onward to bash painfully into the face of the cave.

  Turiel climbed to her feet, body twitching with pain and fury. Her youth and power were beginning to wane with the sheer quantity of magic she was using, but she didn’t care anymore. Deep lines etched her face, gray threaded her hair, but she stalked forward, ready and willing to squander all she had if it meant achieving her goal. Myranda and Deacon were both rushing away, their minds and wills dedicated to keeping the artifact away from Turiel. She snarled and churned the air with her staff. A portal snapped open in front of the retreating heroes. Then another, and another. The portals formed edge to edge, flicking open until they created a solid dome around them. Each portal on the north side produced a matching one on the south side, all opening around Turiel. Myranda and Deacon stopped and surveyed their surroundings, but every direction was blocked by a portal that led right back to their foe.

  “It is over…” Turiel breathed, her voice suddenly gnarled and croaking, yet reverberating with mystic power. “The only way forward is back. Give me the power you’ve stolen. Let me call the D’Karon.”

  Myranda turned, looking back through the main portal, and began to step toward it. “How many more people have to die for your sister, Turiel?”

  “As many as it takes!”

  “And for what? So you can find a beast that doesn’t exist and avenge the memory of a woman known only to you! Someone gone for so long that few who live today can even know exactly how many years have passed. Do you even know how long ago the twentieth year of Queen Marrow the Fierce was?”

  “It doesn’t matter how long ago it was,” Turiel said furiously.

  “It was four hundred twenty-six years ago…” Deacon said, his voice low and his eyes wide. “The twentieth year of Queen Marrow is the year Entwell was founded.”

  Myranda’s face dawned with realization. “Turiel…”

  “Enough words!” the necromancer screeched, launching another bundle of threads toward them.

  Myranda raised a feeble mystic shield with her waning strength. Almost immediately it began to buckle, but Deacon stepped beside her and lent his will to hers, bolstering it.

  “Turiel, was your sister’s name Azriel?” Myranda called.

  “Don’t you dare speak that name! You don’t deserve to speak that name!” Turiel shrieked, more threads joining the attack.

  “She’s still alive! Turiel, your sister wasn’t killed! She made it through the Cave of the Beast! She’s the founder of a place called Entwell.”

  “Lies! I would have felt her presence if it was so!”

  “You didn’t feel her presence among the dead because she wasn’t dead. And you didn’t feel it among the living because the mountains around Entwell are almost impenetrable to magic.”

  “You would say anything to stop me from contacting the D’Karon!”

  “Turiel, you linked your mind with Ivy to learn what she knew,” Myranda said, stepping through the portal, pushing the curling, clutching threads of magic ahead of her. “Do the same for me. I’ve spoken with Azriel. I’ve matched wits with her. You’ll—”

  “I won’t lower my guard, Myranda. Now give me the artifact! If you don’t, I promise you I will keep you both here until the portals close. What do you suppose will happen if that blast strikes the power you’ve stolen? Or the soldiers defending the village? Or the village itself?”

  “Then what will it take to convince you?” Myranda called. “What will it take for you to believe that Azriel is alive?”

  “I must hear it from her own lips…”

  “Then let us take you to her. I can show you the way through the cave.”

  “No, now! I’m through waiting!”

  “But we can’t—” Myranda began, but she stopped when Deacon touched her shoulder with his fingers.

  She turned to see the sliver of metal in his palm, then looked into his eyes.

  “I think I can do it…” Deacon said.

  “Is it safe?” Myranda asked.

  “I don’t know that we have any other options.” He turned to Turiel. “Listen! I am going to use the portals you’ve created, combine them. And between your power and mine, I believe we can pierce the influence of the mountains around Entwell. I did it once before, though not without cost.”

  “Do not speak to me of cost! If you can do so, do so! But if this is another deception, it will be the last!”

  Deacon nodded and, like a man handling a venomous snake, carefully placed his gem atop the artifact he’d created, clutching them both in his left hand. Making sure he and Myranda were on the Northern side of the main portal, he began to cast his influence out over the field of flickering images. One by one the window to the south at the core of each of them flicked shut, leaving only the churning, dark circle. They pulled toward each other, layering one atop the other, crackling with intensified energy. Each portal, when joined with the last, made the darkness within seem deeper. It was a hole in the air, leading nowhere, yet stretching like a tunnel.

  Turiel’s expression changed, fury dropping slowly away. One could see in her eyes that she felt something from long ago, something in her past. Whatever the sensation was, it brought a warmth and serenity to her expression. She looked to be coping with a flash of almost painful memories, as if someone smelling baking bread suddenly thinking of the home left behind long ago.

  “… I… I can feel her,” Turiel said, crossing from the Tresson side of a portal to the Northern side.

  Deacon shut his eyes in concentration. Deep within the portal he was crafting… far, far away… a light began to shine. It showed a meadow, green and rolling with grass. At the center of the meadow was a pleasant cottage, thatched roof and painted walls making it the very picture of wholesome.

  Tears ran down the necromancer’s face. “That’s… our cottage. From when we were girls. It was right at the border. I remember it so vividly…”

  She stepped through the portal, her feet sinking slightly into the churning black mists of the tunnel as she continued forward.

  Deacon’s hands were shaking, sweat pouring from his brow. “I… don’t know if I can hold it open much longer… The scattering of the mountains… the influence of the crystal arena… it’s more than the spell can overcome. The energy of the D’Karon portals is running out. I can’t add anymore, the risk of doing it improperly is too great…”

  “Turiel! Surely you’re convinced! You’ve got to get out of there! The portal is about to shut!” Myranda called.

  “I won’t! Not when I’ve come so close!”

  The necroman
cer quickened to a run, desperate to reach the idyllic image before her and the promise of finally reuniting with her sister.

  “I can’t… I can’t…” Deacon said, dropping to a single knee. His eyes snapped open. “No!”

  But it was too late, the power was gone, his concentration lost. At the end of the tunnel, the meadow vanished, the exit of the portal snapping shut. Turiel turned back, now a single recognizable form in a roiling abyss of black energy.

  “What did you do? Open it! Now!” she shrieked.

  The entrance to the tunnel was shrinking now, its power entirely expended.

  “Please… leave the portal. I don’t know what will…” Deacon said, his voice wavering.

  Turiel ran to the entrance of the dark tunnel. “You will open that portal again! You will take me to my sister!”

  “I… don’t have the strength… You must—”

  “I must take it for myself!” Turiel hissed.

  She reached through the steadily shrinking portal and closed her fingers around Deacon’s extended, gem-bearing left hand. Her fingers touched his and he screamed in pain, searing bolts of power shooting up his arm and down hers. Each bolt left behind skin rendered gray and lifeless. The power flowed into her, and from her to the portal, but it merely slowed the portal’s decrease.

  “Let go of him! We will help you find her, there are other ways!” Myranda called out, leveling her staff at Turiel. “But if you do not release Deacon—”

  “I am through waiting! Centuries I have waited. I will not wait a minute longer,” Turiel growled.

  The necromancer squeezed tighter, Deacon screamed in agony, and the flow of energy intensified. The portal very slowly began to grow again.

  “You should be pleased, Myranda. This is what you want. If I find my sister, I shall have no need for the D’Karon. If this one man must die, that is a small price for us each to achieve our goals. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Myranda gritted her teeth and squeezed her staff tight. When she spoke, it was with certainty, and not a whisper of hesitation.

  “No.”