DRAGON’S TONGUE
By
Laura J. Underwood
Sky Warrior Book Publishing LLC.
© 2011 by Laura J. Underwood, second edition.
All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Published by Sky Warrior Book Publishing, LLC.
PO Box 99
Clinton, MT 59825
www.skywarriorbooks.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.
Editor: Carol Hightshoe.
Cover art by Mitchell D. Bentley.
Publisher: M. H. Bonham.
Printed in the United States of America
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ONE
“How fair my lady looks this night
All gaily dressed in green
To dance beneath the moon’s pale light
And see the realm unseen…”
Gentle words sung by a fine baritone drifted from above the grey clouds. Any who had been able to hear it and bothered to look up would have been startled to see so tender a song issued from a creature whose scaly humanoid configuration included a pair of chiropteran wings. But Vagner the demon figured that under the cover of this wretched rain and mist, no one would ever hear him or see his true form. So he indulged in his passion for music without fear of discovery as he winged his way across the skies high above Caer Keltora.
It didn’t take Vagner long to find the place he sought, for the stench of mageborn spells reeked to his demon senses. Dun Gealach was known throughout Ard-Taebh as the fortified heart of mageborn and their magic. Home to the Council of Mageborn, it housed one of the grandest libraries of magic in world. And Vagner had been sent here to steal a map.
Of course, getting to that map was another matter. It was well known even to those of demonkind who dwelled in the Great Void that the mageborn masters of Dun Gaelach had wards placed so tightly about their keeps, a demon shrunk down to the size of a flea could not get through undetected. Vagner had mentioned this to his master, but Tane Doran was not terribly fond of being told why something was not possible. He knew how to scourge his demon familiar quite painfully, and while Vagner was impervious to most things, he found pain ungratifying.
My own fault, the demon thought. I should never have allowed him to learn the secret of my True Name. Alas, Tane knew of Vagner’s love of music and that bait had led the demon to forget his True Name was woven into the words of a song. Vagner unwittingly sang it when challenged to sing something Tane had never heard before, and Tane interpreted the riddle of it with the ease of a seasoned bard. The demon still cursed himself for being such a fool, but there was nothing he could do. Besides, there were benefits to this servitude. Tane kept Vagner well fed.
Vagner ceased his song and dropped through the clouds, transforming his hideous form into a mist as easily as a man draws breath. Silent as air, he swept along the rooftops, staying low to avoid being seen. There, he made for the outermost bailey where there were no obvious wards, and quickly blended into the shadows, becoming one with the wall of stone while he focused his attentions on the gates that led into Dun Gealach.
Two figures moved through the rain. One threw off the essence of mageborn like an unpracticed child. The other was a mere mortalborn who carried a large number of bags.
The demon ignored them and set his sights on the innermost keep. Just how, by the Barbed Tail of the Great Demon Balgaloran, am I supposed to get inside?
Vagner doubted even Tane could answer that question.
~
Horns, Alaric Braidwine thought as he hunched his shoulders under several layers of wool and leather and tried not to let his teeth chatter. Was Keltoran weather always this grim? Had he known autumn would be this foul, he would have begged his father to put off this whole affair until next spring. Alaric had never really wanted to be anything but a bard anyway. Unfortunately, nature was against him.
Being out in such foul weather made him rue the day he learned of his magical heritage. He would have ignored it and gone on with his musical studies, but like all such skills, magic needed to be developed to keep its possessor from causing calamities. To that end Alaric’s father employed an old mageborn woman named Marda to be Alaric’s first teacher. Once Alaric turned twenty, Marda announced he needed the assistance of skills far greater than her own to increase his knowledge. She promptly suggested Alaric be sent to Dun Gealach in Caer Keltora where the Council of Mageborn held court. There, she was sure the lad would find a proper Master Mageborn to advance his abilities.
Old Haldane Braidwine, always a man of progressive ideas for a mere smith turned wealthy farmer, thought this a splendid suggestion and made arrangements at once. Which was why Alaric now stood under a gatehouse, cursing the wretchedness of the Keltoran weather that sent a chill into his bones. He watched with unease as the massive inner portcullis was raised to admit him. Miniature rivers sloshed across the cobbles, byproducts of the heavy rain. He’d worn his warmest and most waterproof cloak, and still this weather was making him shiver. At least it was the weather and not his natural nervousness at being exposed to something new and unknown. Too bad this isn’t snow, he thought wryly. I could have handled that much better than getting soaked.
At last, the gate was deemed high enough to let him pass. A Keltoran youth from the lower bailey stood ready with a large portion of the luggage in tow. He hardly looked older than Alaric, and wore a great length of tartan wool that stank of lanolin. The youth kept juggling the boxes and satchels like a clumsy jester. At least I had the foresight to wrap the lute and the psaltery separately. He insisted on carrying those himself, not eager to see his precious instruments mangled by rougher hands.
The guards suddenly indicated that Alaric could go ahead. They directed him to an entrance across a courtyard that looked deserted compared to the outer ones. Alaric trudged the distance at a quick pace, eager to get out of the rain and the cold.
An ironwork knocker shaped like a dragon adorned the heavy banded and carved oak doors. They fell open before Alaric reached them. Warm light greeted him. He blinked, stepping inside, aware he was leaving quite a pool of water on the polished flagstones. He pushed his hood back. Damp blond hair tumbled free. As he turned, the Keltoran dropped Alaric’s bags within the open doorway. Before Alaric could even offer the youth a few brass sgillinns as compensation for his trouble, he bolted out into the rain. Alaric got but a glimpse of the swirl of that wet plaid before the door closed in his face. He hitched back with a gasp.
“Yes, it does seem impressive, does it not,” a deep voice resonated through the corridor.
Alaric gasped again and lurched around to face the speaker. Horns, he should have stretched mage senses as Marda taught him to keep from being so startled. Some mage I shall turn out to be, he thought as he glanced shyly at the owner of that authoritative voice.
The young man who faced Alaric could not be called handsome, for his features were broad and plain, but they were good-humored as well. He was thick-set, though not tall, with dark brown hair and laughing brown eyes. Not one of the Keltorans, Alaric thought. They could readily be recognized by the fiery color of their hair
, if not by their many ells of plaid and rolling accents. The rest of Ard-Taebh assumed all Keltorans were related. This man had the crisp speech of the folks who dwelled in Gwyrn.
“Greetings, Master Braidwine,” he said and extended a meaty hand. “I am Wendon Stanewold, and the Council has assigned me to see you settled in and made familiar with our humble lair.”
Alaric pulled off a wet gauntlet and took the hand with some sense of relief. It was warm and dry within his grasp. “Thank you. I fear I’m making quite a mess of the floor…”
“Not to worry,” Wendon said.He gestured and whispered a spell, and the puddle evaporated, though Alaric remained quite damp. A flicker of disappointment filled Wendon’s eyes before he cleared his throat.
“Come,” Wendon said. “I’ll take you to your quarters. You can put on dry clothes and leave your things there. Here, let me help you.”
Alaric reached for one of his bags when Wendon whispered again, and made another gesture, and the luggage rose from the ground. Wendon indicated Alaric should follow and started up the long corridor to a set of rising stairs. Alaric couldn’t help but glance back over his shoulder in awe to see his bags following.
“The place is a bit of a maze, but I expect you’ll learn your way around soon enough,” Wendon said. “We do not have servants, except for those responsible for the kitchen and those who work in the stables and some of the guards—oh, and the few wealthier students whose families insist on sending a valet or two along. With our magic, we are expected to be able to take care of ourselves, which means you will be responsible for the cleaning and care of your own quarters.”
“I get my own quarters?” Alaric said. “But I thought apprentices were housed together.”
“The younger ones are,” Wendon said, “But you are coming to us at an age when most mageborn have already advanced to the more complex training in magic and need their privacy for study. You have been trained in the basics, have you not?”
“Yes,” Alaric said, fighting a slight frown of dismay.
“Who was your teacher?”
“Marda Alfrey,” Alaric replied.
“Marda Alfrey,” Wendon repeated. “I’m not familiar with that name.”
Alaric smiled. “I doubt many people beyond my father’s holdings are likely to have heard of her. She always said her magic was not very strong.”
“Interesting,” Wendon said casually. “It is known that the power a mage possesses is as varied as the colors of the world, and depending on when the mage sign first manifests, the mage can be weak or strong. This Marda, I assume, only taught you the basics?”
“She taught me what she could,” Alaric said, sounding more defensive than he meant to. “She just knew it wasn’t enough.”
“That sounds promising,” Wendon said. “The Mage Council, of course, will test you after you have been here a few days and settled in, and then they will decide who is to train you in whatever greater spells that you lack.”
Alaric’s lower lip disappeared between his teeth in thought before he could stop the age-old habit. This was not at all what he had imagined. He had assumed there would be scholarly pursuits and classrooms and other forms of organized education.
“This way,” Wendon said as they reached the head of the stairs. Here, a flurry of silent activity ran about. Alaric smelled books and wool and parchment, and felt the tickle of much magic in the air, something he could not help. He had a sensitivity to spell casting which felt like small feathers brushing across the backs of his hands. The sense of it made him want to shiver.
“This corridor branches off into others,” Wendon said. “That direction leads you to the main area of Dun Gealach. There’s a massive library filling a multitude of chambers, the Great Hall, and the Council Chamber where the Council meets each week. Down there, you will find the kitchen and the eating hall.”
“It’s a separate hall?” Alaric marveled.
“Once you have been there, you will understand why it is,” Wendon said as though everyone should know the reason. “The Great Hall is reserved for ceremonial and council meetings alone. Now this path leads to the private chambers of the various master mages. Those stairs to the left are forbidden, for they lead to the quarters of the High Mage himself…”
Wendon droned on. Dun Gealach consisted of a series of smaller keeps all tied together in a semi-circle around a greater keep overlooking the river and the King’s castle which sat high on a tor on the other side. As Alaric was taken this way and that, he felt quite certain he could get lost simply by closing his eyes for even a brief moment.
At last, Wendon brought Alaric to a corridor where there were many doors. Some sat open, and as Alaric passed he could see they were sleeping quarters. Tiny quarters at that. Wendon stopped in front of one door and put a hand to the wood. Alaric waited to see if there was to be another spell cast, for Wendon seemed to toss them left and right as though he were waving away flies. But instead, Wendon pushed the wooden door inward to reveal a room that seemed, in Alaric’s estimation, not much larger than a garderobe. A wooden bed sat to one side, footed by a large trunk, and a table and chair occupied the other side with a bowl and ewer. The far end housed a small mullioned window that would have barely allowed Alaric to pass head and shoulders through it, and only if he turned himself just right. He stepped in, trying to hide his unease. Such close quarters were not to his liking. Alaric felt his neck stiffen and his stomach tighten. He had never been fond of small spaces, a fear left over from a childhood spent in the company of four older sisters who were not above locking their little brother into dark closets and cupboards when he vexed them.
“There’s a chamber pot under the bed,” Wendon said. “The garderobe is at the end of this corridor, and the bath chamber is downstairs.”
“Is the garderobe bigger than this?” Alaric said before he could stop himself.
“I’m sorry, but until you are a member of the Council, this is all you are allowed. There are the practice chambers where students can go to cast spells and work with books in private, and they’re much larger.”
“I meant no offense,” Alaric said. “I’m just not comfortable in small rooms.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Wendon said. “Now, if you want to get out of those wet trews and into dry clothes, I’ll show you the way to the eating hall and acquaint you with the layout of the practice chambers and the library and the baths. The latter is considered very important. The master mages dislike students who do not bathe regularly.”
Alaric nodded and bit back the desire to express his amazement that anyone would want to bathe in this weather. He felt a little uneasy when Wendon showed no sign of leaving Alaric to his privacy.
“I…uh…if you don’t mind…uh…” Alaric said and looked towards the door. “I prefer to dress…alone.”
Wendon rolled his eyes. “Oh, very well, I shall wait outside,” he said and stepped out, closing the door.
Alaric sighed, standing in the middle of his new domain. A warming brazier occupied the corner behind the door. Good, he would not freeze. He began to sort through his packs. He could put things away later. Alaric concentrated on getting out of his wet clothes and into the dry ones still warm and clean in the bottom of his luggage. His throat was dry by the time he was done, and he convinced himself he was thirsty from his long journey rather than from the sense the stone walls were leaning over him. The window made a good focus point even if all it revealed was the driving rain and grey mist of late autumn.
Horns, he thought. Had it truly been wise to leave Gordslea Hold just so he could learn to be a better mage?
TWO
Once dressed, Alaric pulled the door open. Wendon still waited there as promised. He leaned against the wall, drawing lines of color in the air in an act of boredom.
“Ah, there you are,” Wendon said as though the conversation had seen no interruption. “Now, we have some very strict rules of conduct here. While you may practice minor spells in your chamber, m
ajor spells may only be practiced in the designated chambers, and only under the strictest of stricturing. You will find there are wards laid into all the walls. If you break the rule of conjuring, every mageborn in the keep will know, and while they won’t throw you out for such a misdeed, the master mageborn will go out of their way to make you miserable for it.”
“How many others are there in this corridor?” Alaric asked. He closed his own door and practiced the mage-lock spell Marda had taught him. Wendon nodded with approval.
“There are twelve occupants in this corridor at this time,” Wendon said. “The numbers vary with the seasons and the need.”
“Need?”
“Aye, sometimes a young mage is sent on tasks elsewhere…at the Council’s discretion,” Wendon said.
“What sort of tasks?” Alaric asked.
“Could be as simple as figuring out why a well in Elenthorn dried up, or as complex as capturing a demon.”
“We capture demons?” Alaric said, looking uncertain.
“Only when they make trouble, and since it’s rare to find them outside the borders of Mallow, there’s little to worry about. Here in Keltora there are other creatures, mostly imps, which the Keltorans call bogies.”
“Bogies,” Alaric repeated with a smile.
“Aye,” Wendon said. “You will find the Keltorans are a bunch of silly children when it comes to their superstitions.”
Once more, Wendon began to drone as he led Alaric about. They passed through several halls into a place where magic flourished in great abundance.
“And these are the practice chambers where we are allowed to work on various spells,” Wendon said.
But Alaric had noticed a surge of power that felt over-summoned. The burn that touched his nerves meant some great spell swelled in one of the rooms. The moment he felt it, Alaric stopped and seized Wendon’s sleeve, and not a moment too soon.
Dragon's Tongue: Book One of the Demon-Bound Page 1
