Dragon's Tongue: Book One of the Demon-Bound

by Laura J Underwood

  “Open this door!” the voice continued to shout, and up and down the hall, Alaric heard muffled protests of fellow students being rousted by the sound.

  “All right,” Alaric retorted and grimaced when the echo of his own voice rang through his head, which at the moment seemed hollow and overly large. Still, he made a valiant effort to work himself upright. Teeth clenched, he sat on the edge of the bed, holding on so as not to pitch forward, and stretched his hand as he concentrated on his mage lock. One by one, he dismantled the glyphs as he whispered each one’s name. His head throbbed by the time he spoke the last one.

  The door exploded inward, and the garish glow of mage light assaulted Alaric’s eyes. He gave an involuntary cry and raised a hand to shade his eyes from the excruciating glare. Blinking, Alaric made out the figure of a man in distinctive blue and grey robes. A master mage by the look of him. He was bearded and coiffed in pale hair, but Alaric could not tell if it was age or a natural blond like his own. The man was not alone. Behind him stood two guards, large burly red-haired Keltoran fellows who looked rather unfriendly. Their eyes darted about, searching the tiny chamber.

  “Who are you and what do you want”?” Alaric moaned, hoping this was all going to turn out to be a mistake and he would be allowed to return to sleep.

  “Be silent!” the master mageborn ordered. Alaric felt power graze his own mage senses. The surly intruder moved into the chamber, and Alaric pulled back in unease as the fellow’s gaze swept past and honed in on the table where Alaric’s psaltery case sat. The master mage’s clay-colored glance stopped there, and his eyes narrowed in suspicious thought. He took all of two long steps toward the table and seized up the case, practically tearing it open.

  “Hey! Be careful with that!” Alaric lurched to his feet in defense of his instrument. A mistake. His stomach heaved. His vision blacked as pain ripped his head. Horns. He had a hangover!

  “Seize him!” the master mage said. “You have much to answer for, young man!”

  The guards crowded into the room and jerked Alaric upright. He could do little more than dangle in their grasps as they started him for the door.

  “Wait,” he protested weakly. “At least let me pull on some breeches and some boots…”

  The protest left his lips in vain. These men were a good head taller than Alaric, and both had hands the size of hams. With very little effort and no respect for his dignity, they hauled him out into the hall, nightshirt flapping just above his knees. At least the stone floor was warm beneath his bare feet, which did little to assuage the beating his pride now took, especially since the ruckus had attracted others. What a sight they must have been: a master mage marching along with a psaltery under his arm while a half-naked apprentice was dragged in his wake. Almost laughable, had Alaric not felt the growing fear in the pit of his belly slowly stealing his courage away.

  They hauled Alaric this way and that, and he finally realized the path was leading to the Council of Mageborn’s hall. There, he was dragged through double doors into a large chamber where a huge circle of chairs and a semicircle of tables open down the middle were barely visible in the shadows. Alaric had little time to look and see who else might lurk there, though he sensed several magical auras.

  He was taken straight to the dais where four smaller chairs flanked an ornate one that looked almost like a throne. Three figures stood conferring there now, and one was Turlough Greenfyn. Alaric’s stomach actually found a lower level into which to sink at the sight.

  The High Mage broke off his conversation with the other two and turn to cast a steely glower on the approaching party.

  “Lorymer? What have you found?” Turlough asked.

  The mage in the lead took the steps to the dais while the guards continued to drag Alaric along. “This was the carrier that allowed the demon to breech our walls, Lord Magister,” Lorymer said, holding forth the psaltery. “This contraption still reeks of the creature’s essence.”

  Turlough took the psaltery, giving it a look of utter disgust. “You’re right,” he muttered. “Burn the damned things.”

  “NO!” Alaric cried. The whole experience was sobering him quickly. “That’s mine! You can’t burn it!”

  Turlough’s gaze came to Alaric as though noticing him for the very first time. The glance was as cold as ice and chilled Alaric to his toes. “And you are?” the High Mage asked.

  “Alaric Braidwine, Lord Magister,” Alaric said.

  “And this instrument is yours?”

  “Yes, Lord Magister.”

  “Then you are the one who brought the demon here,” Turlough said. “Summon it here at once.”

  “I know nothing of summoning demons, Lord Magister,” Alaric said, finding his tongue in spite of that fearsome scowl.

  “Yet you admit the psaltery is yours, and the beast was obviously housed there.” Turlough looked at Lorymer. “Any sign of how the psaltery came in?”

  “No, Lord Magister,” Lorymer said. “The trail ended in this one’s chamber.”

  “And how did you get it there?” Turlough asked, turning on Alaric once more.

  “I brought it with me when I came in the front door,” Alaric said.

  “Then you admit that you brought the demon here?”

  “No, Lord Magister! There was no demon in my psaltery when I arrived.”

  “Do you deny the demon’s essence is there?” Turlough brought the psaltery close. The guards tensed, though what they expected to happen was beyond Alaric’s reckoning. Turlough shoved the psaltery into Alaric’s face. Bitterness washed his tongue and he flinched. Horns, it was the same as that he encountered at the tavern when he and Fenelon…

  Alaric felt his face go white. “I can feel it, but…”

  “But nothing,” Turlough said. “You brought the demon into our midst and set it loose to steal an old map from the library.”

  “I never!” Alaric protested.

  “So where is this demon, and which map did it take, and what did you want with that map?” Turlough said.

  “I don’t know anything about any demon or any map,” Alaric said.

  “And I say you are lying,” Turlough roared, cutting the air with one arm. “And under the laws of this Mage Council you are subject to be sundered of your power for consorting with demons and bringing them into our sanctuary.”

  “S…sundered?” Alaric whispered. That sounded rather painful in his estimation.

  “After which you will be put into prison to await trial. And if it is found that you consorted with demons for purpose of ill gain, you will be executed by beheading.”

  “Uncle, I think you should give your words careful consideration before you jump to erroneous conclusions and make a fool of yourself.”

  Turlough spun around towards the speaker, fire filling his eyes. Alaric blinked and peered beyond the billowing robes at the two figures as they approached. One was a woman, lithe, sloe-eyed and exceptionally beautiful in spite of her simple manner of dress. The other was Fenelon.

  “Watch your tongue!” Turlough snapped.

  “Gladly,” Fenelon said, “but I do think you should at least listen to reason.”

  “What reason?” Turlough challenged.

  “If Alaric had brought the demon in, the creature would have set off every warding spell we’ve woven into this place,” Fenelon said.

  “He could have cloaked the demon’s presence,” Lorymer said in defense of the High Mage.

  “Then why did Wendon not notice the cloaking spell,” Fenelon said, wagging a finger. “He is particularly sensitive to cloaking spells. That is why he is sent to greet newcomers, is it not?” And only Alaric could see the faint gleam that filled Fenelon’s eyes as he said that. He knows perfectly well Wendon is not able to sense his cloaking spells, Alaric thought.

  “True enough,” Turlough said with a sigh, “But this young man could have gated the beast in afterwards, and cloaked the gate to hide its coming.

  “Were that the case, why bother
hiding the demon in a psaltery?” Fenelon said and smiled. “In either case, it is very unlikely. Alaric does not know how to cast a gate spell.”

  Alaric wanted to kiss Fenelon for that one. Of course…I’m safe…It was Fenelon who cloaked the gate spell and…He stopped with those thoughts. Fenelon opened a gate spell…the psaltery felt heavy at the inn…the bitter taste that assailed Alaric’s tongue all evening…and that sense of being watched from close quarters. Horns, this whole mess was all Fenelon’s fault!

  “You are certain of this?” Turlough said.

  “If you’re not willing to take my word for it,” Fenelon said, “Then let Etienne truth touch him.”

  Turlough sighed once more and nodded. “Very well. Let us get this over with. The sooner it’s done, the sooner we can all get back to our beds.”

  The dark-eyed woman stepped forward, and having her so close, Alaric felt his face flush. She smiled. “This will not hurt,” she said and put the tip of one finger against his forehead, closing her eyes. “Question him now,” she said.

  Alaric felt a tingling sensation wash his skin. Her aura had a warm, sensual feeling to it. He swallowed hard and hoped the loose folds of his nightshirt were enough to hide his feelings. Just how much can she sense? he wondered.

  “Did you, Alaric Braidwine, willingly and knowingly gate a demon into this place?” Turlough asked.

  “No, Lord Magister, I did not,” Alaric said softly.

  “And are you possessed of the knowledge to gate walk across the world and cloak your spells?”

  “No, Lord Magister,” Alaric said. “Those are but a few of the skills I came here to learn.”

  Etienne suddenly opened her eyes and withdrew her finger. “He speaks true, Lord Magister,” she said. “I felt no lie in his words. He is innocent of all accusations.”

  If it were not for the guards still holding Alaric’s arms, he would have kissed Etienne. Relief washed over him like a wave. His head spun.

  Turlough frowned with just a hint of disappointment as the mage woman turned in his direction. “Very well, he is obviously innocent. Release him.”

  The ham-like hands let go, and Alaric stumbled forward, feeling weak and unsteady. Could fear drain a man so, or was it the aftermath of adrenalin and drunkenness?

  “But, there is still the matter of how the demon got in, and how it found refuge in your psaltery,” Turlough said.

  “Uncle, I think I can explain that,” Fenelon said. Alaric cringed. The truth was about to be revealed. They had broken some other rule. He would be sent home in shame.

  “That is, if I am given enough time to study the matter, of course,” Fenelon said and took the psaltery from Turlough’s grasp.

  Turlough glowered in a suspicious manner, but he nodded. “Very well, I shall leave the matter in your hands.” He shifted his gaze to Alaric who wondered if his own unease was coloring his face again. “Now, while we are on the subject, there is still the matter of your training, Master Braidwine. Since you appear to lack many of the greater skills, I think it would be wise to choose a master mageborn to train you this very night. There are many fine masters I could apprentice you to…” His gaze turned sourly on Fenelon. “…but as I think on it, the most perfect choice for your mageborn master would be none other than my own blood kin, Magister Fenelon Greenfyn.”

  “What?” Fenelon said it as swiftly as Alaric.

  “You object?” Turlough asked, though it was hard to tell who he directed the question towards.

  Alaric glanced at Fenelon whose eyebrows had disappeared under his hairline.

  “I…” Fenelon said.

  “If you are to determine for me, Fenelon, as to how this demon came to reside in this young mageborn’s psaltery, you will need him at hand, will you not?” Turlough said. “And since you always seem to have a great deal of free time to make trouble, and this young man does need training, and you have yet to take an apprentice, better to put the two of you together, do you not agree?”

  Fenelon frowned briefly, but then he caught Alaric’s accusing gaze. This is your fault, Alaric thought, hoping his expression revealed that sentiment.

  “Why, yes, Uncle, that would be a brilliant idea…so long as Master Braidwine does not object.”

  “He has no choice and neither do you,” Turlough said in a smug manner. “And I suspect it will be for the best of all involved.”

  “As you will Lord Magister,” Fenelon said with a slight bow and a humble mask, but now Alaric could see those blue eyes sparkle with some form of triumph. You wanted this all along!

  “As I will,” Turlough said. “Now, I want answers. I want to know what the demon took. I want the beast found and subdued, and eventually destroyed. Is that clear to everyone present?”

  There were nods and “ayes” all around.

  “Good,” Turlough said. “To bed with all of you, now.” He looked at Alaric. “We shall make the official announcement of your apprenticeship before the Council when we meet tomorrow afternoon.

  With those words, Turlough swept away. Alaric felt his head grow light. The ground moved towards him at an alarming rate before it smacked him like a large hand and knocked him out cold.

  SEVEN

  “And just what in the name of the Dark Lord of Annwn is this?” Tane Doran roared as he stormed about the chamber, waving the map in the air.

  His voice filled the inn with its fury, and were it not for the spells of silence set about to protect the place from prying ears, Vagner feared they would have every local awake and after them. Not that he couldn’t handle a few dozen peasants just now. He was quite famished. No, he worried more that some local mageborn would discover the demon and report its presence, and coupled with the recent disturbance Vagner had created at Dun Gealach, it would not take the Council of Mageborn long to do the mathematics and figure Vagner was their intruder. An inn full of outraged mortalborns was nothing to a demon…but an entire army of mageborn. He shuddered just to think of it.

  “It is what you asked for, Master,” Vagner said plainly as he crouched to one side in his true form. He was forced to crouch because the beamed ceilings were too low to accommodate his true height and his wings. “It is the map of the Shadow Vale.”

  “You stupid monster!” Tane shouted. “This map is nothing! It’s not even an original! It’s a copy, and it’s totally useless. The key is missing!”

  The demon frowned, a frightful sight to behold, but Tane had no reason to fear the look, and that disappointed Vagner. He so liked the thought of being feared. But Tane Doran was a bloodmage from the Dragon’s Maw Peninsula, and they rarely cared for the opinion of demons at all. He was a tall man with long pale hair braided with bone beads made from his enemies.

  Tane moved like a panther as he crossed the room and threw the map in Vagner’s face. The only thing that kept him from snapping back was the knowledge he was bound to Tane by True Name and Essence, a familiar enslaved to a cruel master’s will. Hurting Tane would only backlash on Vagner threefold…Very painful.

  “But that was what you asked for,” Vagner repeated in his own defense. “A map of the Shadow Vale. I looked carefully, Master, and there was no other.”

  “And just where did you find this useless piece of parchment?” Tane asked, pointing to the wad on the floor.

  “It was in the library at Dun Gealach, as you said it would be, in a chamber filled with old maps.”

  “A chamber,” Tane repeated, raising his eyebrows and putting his hands on his hips. “Above ground or below?”

  “Above, I believe,” Vagner said after a moment of thought.

  “Idiot!” Tane roared and waved his arms, causing white fire to spread about him like an aura. And this time Vagner did cringe. White fire and magebolts were the bane of demon hides. While impervious to steel, they were not impervious to such magics. “The true treasures of the Library of Dun Gealach are kept in the catacombs beneath the keep! I told you that when I sent you there!”

  Vagner frowned.
Well, now that he thought about it, there had been some mentioning of the undervaults included in Tane’s original instructions. Perhaps if the bloodmage had not mentioned the entrance should be hidden somewhere near the music library collection.

  “And just where is this key you speak of master. “Tell me what to look for, and I will gladly steal it for you.”

  “It’s not the sort of key one fits into a door, you doltish fiend,” Tane said. “It’s a riddle song passed down over generations since before the Great Cataclysm, during the age of the Shadow Lords, when the White One’s Avatar hid the Dragon’s Tongue to keep it from destruction.”

  Shadow Lords. Vagner shivered. Older demons who were alive when the Shadow Lords ruled the northern lands now known as the Mountainous Wastes often spoke of the Shadow Lords with unnamed dread. “A song?” Vagner said. “What is it called?”

  Tane looked for a moment as though he could not believe Vagner had dared to ask such a question. “The Dragon’s Tongue Key,” Tane said. “Not that knowing the title will assist you. The map with that key written on it will be impossible to reach now, thanks to your bungling. I should seal you into a tiny trinket and wrap you in a spell of silence so you cannot even hear the sound of your own voice…”

  “But Master, what if I could bring you a man who knows this song called The Dragon’s Tongue Key?” Vagner asked.

  “Impossible,” Tane said. “The only man who knew that riddle song is dead.”

  “This one knows it, Master,” Vagner said. “I heard him tell another so.”

  “He was merely boasting, I’ll wager.”

  “I do not think so,” Vagner said, “For he said he had learned the song from someone called Ronan Tey.”

  That stopped Tane. The white fire died from him as he approached the demon. Vagner flinched as hands took his wide jaws in an almost gentle grasp. Tane looked into the demon’s eyes, and his lips spread into a smile. Vagner remained as still as stone, unsure of what Tane was likely to do in a moment of madness.