The D'Karon Apprentice

by Joseph R. Lallo

  She unleashed a blast of raw, crackling black magic. It was a vicious spell, one designed to cause pain above all else. Yet when it struck Turiel, it was not pain but surprise that painted her expression. The dark sorceress stumbled back, waves of churning magic washing over her body. Her fingers slipped from Deacon’s. Deacon fell to the ground, clutching his afflicted hand.

  Without any will or power flowing into the portal, it shrank swiftly. Turiel recovered and rushed for the opening, rage and desperation in her eyes, but it was too late. The portal slid shut behind her, and she was gone.

  Drained of all of its power, the portal did not release its shock wave as the others had. It simply whisked away in a curl of black energy, taking any trace of Turiel with it.

  Myranda helped Deacon to his feet, the color returning to his flesh as Turiel’s attack eased away. Once on his feet, he stood beside her and stared silently at the point in space formerly occupied by the portal. The pair looked around, watching the skeleton army slowly fall to pieces, broken and lifeless once more. The soldiers defending the village lowered their weapons.

  “I don’t… I don’t know where she is now… She was… between two points in the same world…” Deacon said, horror in his voice.

  “If it is an end, it is an end she chose for herself,” Myranda said.

  She pointed a finger at the main portal, the one to the south. It was the only one remaining, and without Turiel’s influence it was quickly closing.

  “We’ve got to do something about that,” she said. “It was massive, and it was opened from this side. When it closes…”

  “I know… it could level the village,” Deacon said. He shook his head, trying to restore his focus, and looked to the terrible sight on the other side of the portal. “They need help there, too,” he said.

  “I’ll go,” Myranda said, stepping toward the portal.

  “Wait,” he said. He held out the sliver of metal. “Here. Take the artifact. Turiel altered this portal, dumped power into it in a way the D’Karon hadn’t intended. The southern side is the safe side. I don’t want to risk a wave of unguided energy hitting this.” He pressed it into her hand. “Keep it safe. Put it to good use if you can.”

  “If you aren’t sure you can close it safely—”

  “Myranda, one way or another I’ll keep this village and these soldiers safe, but we both know I’m the only one who might be able to tame this portal, and you’re the only other one who we can trust to handle the artifact wisely. Just go… I’ll see you in Kenvard when you return.”

  Myranda nodded, stepping forward to throw an arm around him in a tight embrace. She kissed him on the lips, then pressed her cheek to his. “Be safe.”

  With that, they parted ways, each with their own tasks. Deacon watched as Myranda passed through the portal into Tressor, stepping cautiously forward as the restraints that held the Tresson troops to the ground loosened and vanished. He knew that she would have her hands full dealing with the chaos Turiel had left behind, but more importantly he knew that Myranda was more than capable of handling it. The same might not be true for him.

  He experimentally reached out with his mind, hoping to perhaps shift the portal’s location. If he could move it far from the village, there would be little threat. The instant he wrapped his will about the work of D’Karon magic, he knew moving it was not an option. Turiel’s trick of restoring it, enlarging it, had been reckless and hasty. It had worked, but now the enchantment that composed the structure of the portal was fragile and unstable. If he were to attempt anything substantial, he could very well cause it to collapse, resulting in a blast even larger than the one that would result if it closed on its own. There were no two ways about it. He would have to allow the portal to close and somehow protect the village from the resulting blast.

  “Everyone! This portal is very dangerous!” Deacon called to the troops. “I need you all to move to the other side of the village. Be ready to help any who may be injured.”

  “What have you done?” demanded one of the higher-ranking Tresson soldiers. “What is this, and why have you brought it to our land, to threaten our people?”

  “You will not address the duke in that manner!” barked an Alliance soldier in return.

  The soldiers, now lacking a common enemy, swiftly began to recall their animosity toward each other.

  “Now everyone…” Deacon said, trying to calm the growing unrest.

  “You get back on your side of the border before we do what we should have done the moment you arrived,” growled a soldier.

  “I assure you, as soon as it is safe—” Deacon attempted.

  The hostility grew sharply, and Deacon found himself somewhat at a loss. He’d always found it rather simple to address a crowd that was open to reason, and with a bit if effort he’d always been able to get his point across even to someone hostile if it was one on one. With little choice, he was forced to alter the situation to suit his strengths, because there wasn’t much time to waste.

  He held his crystal tight and drew his mind to a simple and quite familiar spell. The air between the increasingly agitated factions blurred and coalesced into a veritable army of illusionary copies of Deacon. The sudden and unexplained appearance of several dozen identical duplicates of someone who was formerly an easily ignored individual shocked the soldiers into at least a brief silence.

  “It is exceptionally important that we set our differences aside for just a few minutes longer,” the chorus of voices said, each one stepping up to a member of one army or the other. “That portal, when it closes, will do so with a very powerful energy release, which can and will cause massive damage to the village if something is not done. I advise that Tresson soldiers quickly evacuate the near side of the village. Alliance soldiers should retreat no less than four hundred paces. I will do my very best to shield the city, but for the sake of safety I must insist all soldiers and civilians be moved from harm’s way.”

  Each soldier, staring his or her own duplicate of Deacon in the eye, was at the very least motivated to hold his or her tongue. The first to act were the Alliance soldiers, peeling reluctantly away and heading for new positions at a safer distance. As each left, Deacon let the associated illusion fade. The Tresson troops, though wary, held their ground.

  “We don’t have much time left,” Deacon said, indicating the portal again. “I assure you, the evacuation will be very brief and—”

  “How do we know this isn’t Alliance treachery? How do we know this isn’t the nameless empire trying to take our land as they have for generations!?” countered the same soldier who had first spoken out.

  “Because if it was my intention to destroy this village, I could do so with far less effort through any number of different methods. I certainly wouldn’t leave it to an unstable portal.”

  Deacon had spoken the words simply, the crystal clear logic of them seeming to him to be a fine way to settle the argument. In the ears of soldiers interested only in the defense of their people, the words were not taken in the spirit in which they were intended.

  “Do you hear him? He admits to having plans for such things! Ready your arms men, before his troops can return!”

  The spirited spokesman of the force raised his weapon. A few of his more hotheaded compatriots did the same, but the worst they had done was whisk a blade pointlessly through one of the remaining illusions when a peculiar sound served as a badly needed distraction.

  All eyes turned to the sky. A brilliant golden light was rapidly approaching from the north, streaking through the air like a falling star. Accompanying the arrival was a spirited and complex violin performance. When it was near enough, the light revealed itself to be some manner of winged beast, looking like a griffin but burning with the brilliant light of a phoenix. Seated on its back, glowing all the more gloriously, was Ivy. Her violin bow was dancing across the strings, and her face was lost in an expression of pure, soul-deep bliss.

  The griffin touched down, turning its flight
into a run, and skidded to a stop before Deacon. The suddenness of the landing caused Ivy to hit a sour note, snapping her out of her reverie. Her yellow aura faded considerably as the influence of the music dropped away.

  “Oh, we’re here!” Ivy said, hopping down.

  The instant she was clear, the griffin flashed to flame and faded again, leaving behind Ether’s human form. She scanned the surroundings like a hungry predator. Her fierce gaze and effortless acts of magic were not lost on the assembled Tresson troops, who suddenly found themselves somewhat less enthusiastic about the idea of violence.

  “Where is she? Where is the necromancer?” Ether demanded.

  She had a spirit to her voice and a piercing intensity to her gaze that seemed utterly unnatural for the often cold and calculating shapeshifter.

  “There isn’t time to explain, but for now at least, she’s gone to a place where she cannot threaten us. Ivy, Ether, quickly, I need your help,” Deacon said.

  Ivy opened her mouth to ask how she could help, but a glance at the massive but rapidly shrinking portal barely a stone’s throw from the town made the threat clear.

  She covered her mouth and gasped. “We’ve got to get these people to safety!”

  Without delay, Ivy bounded gracefully past the assembled soldiers and vaulted over the wall before they could bring themselves to react.

  “Everyone, quickly! Quickly this way,” she called amid much banging on doors.

  The Tresson soldiers were stricken with indecision, some looking anxiously to the city and Ivy’s presence therein, others looking to Ether and Deacon, wary of their evident threat. Most were eying the portal, which was now barely half the size it had been. As it reduced in size, the edge crackled and sparked with a menacing indigo light.

  Ether, clearly displeased to have failed to find Turiel, looked to the portal, then to Deacon.

  “Do you have the strength for a proper shield?” she asked, willing to set aside her ire for the more pressing task, even if it was a bothersome one.

  “I can do my best, but this portal was much larger. I’m not certain if I have strength enough to protect the village.”

  “Then I shall aid you. But I shall require these soldiers to clear this stretch of land,” Ether said.

  “I’ve attempted to convince them of the danger, but they have proved quite cautious.”

  The shapeshifter snapped her head toward the soldiers. “Have you been given orders by this human?” she demanded. When an answer was not forthcoming, she barked, “Answer me!”

  “Yes!” came the scattered reply.

  “Then I suggest you follow them, because if you do not, I will be forced to conduct any further negotiations,” she said, adding darkly, “And I have had my fill of diplomacy.”

  As she spoke, the air around her literally smoldered. The rapid-fire instances of absurdity combined with raw mystic power finally passed the tipping point, and the soldiers marched quickly into the city to continue the evacuation that Ivy had begun.

  Deacon gave Ether a nod. “Well handled.”

  Ether nodded once in reply. “I suggest you place yourself with your back to the wall, and erect the shield as near the village as possible. I shall bolster the defenses between your shield and the portal.”

  “Agreed.”

  #

  On the other side of the portal, Myranda was by Myn’s side. With the rush of battle through, her dear friend was suddenly left with nothing to distract her from the accumulated injuries she’d endured. Turiel’s last attack had badly dazed her, and she was only now beginning to climb to her feet.

  “Myn,” Myranda said, pulling the dragon’s head close. “Thank the heavens you aren’t hurt badly. Does it hurt to stand?”

  The dragon shut her eyes and pressed her head lovingly against Myranda, releasing a hiss of discomfort and rumbling with relief and satisfaction as Myranda scratched affectionately at her brow.

  Myranda gave her a final pat and pulled away, prompting a sharp look from Myn that effectively communicated her feelings that Myranda had cut their moment unforgivably short. Around them, the Tresson soldiers were in terrible disarray. Many of them were injured, several were killed. Those who were still healthy enough to stand and perhaps fight were, for the moment, holding their ground. They were still getting their bearings after a battle that had been far more than any had been prepared to face, and it remained to be seen what sort of horrors this woman and her dragon had in store. She stepped toward them, but they pulled back, weapons tight in hand.

  She looked down. Clutched between her staff and her palm was the artifact Deacon had created. He didn’t tell her how to use it, but he didn’t need to. It was warm to the touch, almost humming with the energy it contained. The D’Karon gems, when fully charged, often offered up their energy in this way to those who knew the proper magic, but this was different. There, it felt like a bargain with a demon, energy given only with the promise that the gem would once again be fed on the strength of others. This artifact gave its energy freely, like the sun on a summer’s day. In her mind and against her spirit, it felt like a gentle heat, belying its profound power. It was like a well, its opening small, but virtually bottomless in depth. As she let it flow into her, soothing her taxed spirit and revitalizing her, she tried to work out the proper way to begin healing the damage that had been done here. A sudden motion beside her made her decision for her.

  Myn rushed over to the wall beside the cave’s mouth, limping painfully but paying her injuries no mind. Her eyes were set on Garr and Grustim. The Dragon Rider had barely moved since he and his mount had been thrown. The most obvious of the injuries was his twisted leg, but as Myranda swept her mind over him, she found a dozen places both in and outside of him that were badly broken. Without a healer’s touch he might survive, but he would never recover. Then Myranda set her focus on Garr. The dragon wasn’t moving. Thick blood dripped from his mouth, so dark it was almost black, and sizzled where it struck the ground. The inside of his maw was slashed and gouged with the attack Turiel had used to throw him. All over his head and neck, deep black lines had been etched into his scales, and his head was twisted in a painful and unnatural way. His breaths were shallow and reedy, his chest barely rising. As the white magic she’d learned delved deeper, what she found made the severity of the situation even more worrisome. The injuries went far deeper than what the eye could see. Turiel’s attacks had a grim efficiency, and she’d held nothing back when she struck out against Garr.

  Garr tried to make a sound, but shuddered at the attempt. Myn uttered a deep, forlorn wail and settled down beside him, draping a wing across him and nestling her head near his.

  Myranda looked to the Dragon Rider.

  “Grustim, Garr is badly hurt. I—”

  “Heal him. Save him if you can,” Grustim wheezed.

  She nodded once and shut her eyes. If Myranda had not been familiar with the needs of dragons from her many treatments of Myn, she would have been shocked at the sheer energy required to make any impact at all on Garr’s injuries. It was a matter of scale. The number and severity of wounds required to render a dragon so near death would be enough to kill a dozen men, and therefore it took all of Myranda’s considerable experience and skill to mend the worst of them. Garr was quite far gone, his lungs practically shredded, internal injuries pouring blood. As she wove her mind through his body, coaxing tissues to mend and bones to knit, she was dully aware of motion around her. The soldiers were approaching, emboldened by her apparent distraction. She would have turned to them, addressed them, but this was a healing act that must be finished once it was begun, or else she could do more harm than good. But she did wrestle back enough of her mind to listen to what was being said.

  “Back, all of you… Let the woman work,” Grustim wheezed in Tresson.

  “This woman is an invader. Look what her people have done here!” growled a soldier.

  “This woman is a defender. She cares for others. All others. I do not agree wit
h her ways at times, but every mistake she has made she has made in the earnest attempt to heal this world. I have seen this woman do more for Tresson soldiers than even their own commanders. The Alliance has done terrible things, inexcusable things. But if there is even one woman like Myranda in a land, then that land is redeemable, and she deserves at least the same consideration from us as she has given us,” Grustim said.

  The soldiers advanced a bit closer, but Myranda kept to her task. Myn rumbled a warning, and when they continued to advance, she hauled herself to her feet, bared her teeth, and shook the earth with an ominous growl.

  “An enemy dragon must not—” a soldier began to warn.

  “Do not quote your duties to me! No one has devoted his life to the defense of this land more dutifully than a Dragon Rider, and there comes a time when what must be done and what must not be done transcends duty to a crown or king! That this dragon hasn’t unleashed her breath or put her claws to work on each of you speaks more of her restraint than can be said of my own. This woman is saving the life of a soldier who has fought for and served this kingdom since before your fathers were born. You will leave her to her work. When she is through I am sure you shall all feel her healing touch if you require it. But if you interrupt her and cause this noble creature to be lost, then oath’s be damned I shall see to it that each of you pays for it in blood.”

  Myranda clicked the final and most devastating of fractures back into place, causing Garr to shudder and roar in pain. He coughed, sending blobs of his potent blood spattering across the row of soldiers, stinging them terribly, then drew in a deep breath for the first time since he’d been struck. Slowly, shakily, he released the breath, and Myranda eased him into a deep healing sleep. When he drew another breath, it was calm, steady, and strong.

  “There,” Myranda said, standing and placing a hand on Garr’s head. “It will be a few days before he can stand, but he is through the worst of it. I thank you for your patience. If you will allow me, I will see to each of you in turn, or I will submit myself to your custody. The choice is entirely yours. This is your land, and I am at this point an uninvited guest, if not far worse.”