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

by Laura J Underwood

  “Bring me this man, Vagner,” Tane said. “We shall see what he knows.”

  Vagner nodded as he was released. “Just one small thing, Master,” he said.

  “And what is that?” Tane frowned.

  “This man of whom I speak is more than just a skillful bard. He is also one of the mageborn.”

  Tane looked thoughtful. “Young or old?”

  “Oh, very young,” Vagner said. “No more than twenty of your mortal springs, I would imagine.”

  “A Master Mage?”

  Vagner shook his head. “An apprentice newly come to Dun Gealach,” the demon said. “He does not know how to cloak himself or gate walk as more experienced mageborn do.”

  “Good,” Tane said and smiled again. “Then he’s likely to lack in mageborn experience. Bring him to me. We will take this riddle song from him, and then we shall dispose of him. I shall claim his essence and power, and you shall be rewarded with his flesh…”

  “You will kill him, then?” Vagner looked disappointed.

  “Yes,” Tane said. “I would be a fool to let him live.”

  “But…I am more fond of live prey, Master,” the demon said, cocking its head in a coy manner. “The warmth of blood still pumped by a live heart is so much sweeter on my tongue. Could you not steal his power alone and let him live?”

  Tane frowned. “Well, if he truly knows the key, monster, then perhaps I shall feel indulgent enough to leave life in him for your feast.”

  “Thank you, Master,” Vagner said.

  “Now go,” Tane said. “Find this mageborn bard and bring him to me. I will wait on the north road at the Black Heath Tavern until you return. From there, we will take him some place more private, an old peel tower I recall sitting on the borders of Mallow.”

  “As you will,” Vagner said and shifted to shadow form to flow out of the room unnoticed.

  What the demon saw no reason to mention was that he intended to eat Alaric Braidwine only after the young bard had sung every song he knew.

  ~

  Alaric knew he was not alone because a gentle hand was bathing his brow. For a moment, he thought he might have been sent home after all. But as he opened his eyes and focused on the eldritch face coiffed in black hair, he knew it was neither his fair-haired mother nor his sisters who attended him. It was Etienne Savala whose touch had an arousing spark that made Alaric want to squirm.

  “He’s coming around, Fenelon,” she said and smiled.

  I could get lost in that look. He could have fallen in love for an eternity, but in all likelihood, she was spoken for, and would have looked upon him as little more than a callow youth.

  “Ah, good,” a familiar voice rang from across what must have been a fair-sized chamber, putting all thoughts of conquest from Alaric’s mind.

  Alaric blinked. Just where in the name of Cernunnos was he? The ceiling was high and richly tiled in a rather lewd mosaic that brought color to his cheeks. He started to sit up only to have his vision swirl.

  “Hey, easy now, friend,” Fenelon said, and the bed shifted when his weight landed on the edge.

  “Where am I?” Alaric croaked, all too aware of a leathery tongue and a sore head.

  “Eldon Keep,” Fenelon said.

  “Where’s that?”

  “Oh in the north of the Kingdom of Loughan. It’s a family holding gifted to me by my great grandfather when I came of age. There’s an interesting array of ley lines passing close to here that are useful…”

  “Loughan,” Alaric interrupted, not wanting a cheerful speech. He tried to sit up again, and seeing his determination to gain that position, both Fenelon and Etienne assisted him, providing a plump pile of pillows for support.

  Once up, Alaric closed his eyes and waited for his head and stomach to settle. Then he opened his eyes to take in his surroundings. He was in a bed big enough for his whole family to share and still have room to spare. The chamber was bright and cheery in a masculine way.

  “Just how did I get to Loughan,” Alaric asked. “And what am I doing here?”

  “Well you came here through a gate spell,” Fenelon said.

  “A hidden one?” Alaric blurted.

  “Oh, no, it was all fair and upfront and in accordance with the rules of Dun Gealach,” Fenelon insisted. “And as to why you are here, well, you’re my apprentice now, and where I go, you go…unless I choose to leave you behind. Besides, Dun Gealach’s such a gloomy and stifling place. I thought the change would do you good. Are you up to some breakfast?”

  Breakfast? Alaric’s stomach did a little lurch. Still, he was admittedly hungry, and so he nodded and started to throw off the blankets…and froze.

  “Uh…where are my clothes?” he asked, feeling his face warm.

  “All you had on was that nightshirt and your breechclout, and those were rather foul, so we took them off of you,” Fenelon said.

  “We?” Alaric repeated. He clutched the blankets to his chest in unease.

  “You don’t think I was going to do it alone, do you,” Fenelon said. “They talk about my wild nature enough without earning myself a reputation for stripping helpless youths of their clothes. Etienne helped me.”

  Alaric’s face went crimson. He could feel the blood heat his skin all the way up into his ears.

  “Have no fear,” Etienne said, rising from the bed. “Your virtue is intact. In my homeland, I was training to be a Healer when my mageborn powers emerged. Here.” She reached for some folded items on a chair and laid them on the bed within easy reach. “These are yours. I insisted we stop and get them because I knew you would need them. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I’ve got to get back to Dun Gealach and give lessons before the Council meeting.”

  Etienne waved her hand, and Alaric felt the vaguely familiar tingle of a gate spell. She opened a shimmering door and walked through, and it vanished as it closed behind her.

  “Horns, I wish I could do it like that,” Fenelon said, shaking his head in amazement.

  “Why can’t you?” Alaric asked.

  “No patience,” Fenelon said. “It takes years of practice and patience to get a gate spell to take such an intricate form. Etienne has that patience because she learned it when she first trained as a healer.”

  “Is she a True Healer, then?” Alaric asked.

  “No. Mageborn are never blessed with the power of a True Healer. Seems the gods reserved it for the chosen few, though some have speculated that True Healers, like mageborn, may come by the power through the blood. Others say it’s Diancecht who decides who will get the power. Obviously, Etienne, for all her devotion, was not one of his favorites.”

  Alaric sighed. “She has an odd accent. Where is she from?”

  Fenelon looked amused. “Ross-mhor,” he said. “She was born in the Duchy of Blue Oaks.”

  “Ross-mhor? The Forest Wall Kingdoms?”

  “Actually, it’s just one big kingdom, Alaric. It only has one king, and there are those who say he is descended from Haxons who went there, led by the Stone Folk, after the Great Cataclysm turned their own lands into a frozen waste. You should ask Etienne herself if you want more details. Her ancestors were a mixture of Haxons and the Woodfolk who dwelled in Ross-mhor before their coming. She can even read Haxon runes…”

  Alaric glanced towards the place where she had gated away. Clearly, Etienne was an amazing woman. Perhaps he would ask her.

  “Ah well, get dressed, Alaric,” Fenelon said, scrambling off the bed and tossing one of the pillows at Alaric in a playful manner. “We’ll go have that breakfast, and then I’ll give you the grand tour before I take you back to Dun Gealach. The Council meeting begins just after the midday meal, and Turlough will likely want to make a pompous ceremony out of telling everyone you’re now under my command.”

  Alaric frowned, not sure he like the idea of being Fenelon’s to command.

  “Oh, don’t go all gloomy-faced on me, Alaric,” Fenelon said. “It won’t be so bad. They could have assigned your ma
ge training to someone worse…like Turlough himself.”

  Alaric had to agree with that. With a sigh, he pushed back the covers. Fenelon moved towards the windows, giving Alaric enough privacy to tie on his breechclout and slip into his trews.

  EIGHT

  Scant moments later, Alaric was dressed and being stuffed with a rather fine fare before he was hauled around the opulent little keep that sat atop a tor. From its walls, he saw the road that snaked back and forth and disappeared into the treeline below. Impressive, he had to admit, and certainly brighter than Dun Gealach, and more pleasant to behold now that his head had cleared.

  “I’ll likely bring you here for lessons,” Fenelon said. “We’ll have more privacy…”

  “And be less likely to upset Turlough over what I’m being taught?” Alaric suggested with a suspicious sidelong glance at Fenelon.

  “Well, that too,” Fenelon agreed with a smirk.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because my great uncle several times removed and I don’t always agree on the ways of magic.”

  “Why am I not surprised to hear that?” Alaric said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his tone. “Would it also have anything to do with why you failed to mention you were the one who cloaked the gatespell that likely let the demon in?”

  Fenelon smiled. “Well, yes. But I have my reasons.”

  “Considering those reasons nearly got me sundered and publicly beheaded, would you mind sharing them?”

  “You’ve already heard what Turlough said about me and fire magic,” Fenelon said wearily. “The old goat would jump on any excuse to ban me from Dun Gealach forever. I simply refuse to give him that opportunity.”

  “You’ve been caught using the gate spell in forbidden parts of Dun Gealach before, haven’t you?”

  Fenelon smiled. “You know, you’re very astute, Alaric. I like that.”

  Alaric frowned to indicate his own displeasure.

  “Yes, I have been caught more times than I can count on fingers and toes,” Fenelon said. “And there have been other incidents as well. Turlough has no imagination when it comes to the uses of magic. He thinks it should be straightforward and secretive. In the old days, we were respected for what we could do for mortal kind. Now folks blame a lot of the ills of this world on mageborn. There are some who make a religion out of that, and Turlough is angry at them because our present High King will not banish them. So Turlough takes his frustrations out on me, making threats of banishing and the like. Truth is, he fears me because I’m more powerful than he’ll ever be, and there are those who think I should be the one to replace him as High Mage when his time comes to retire.”

  “He doesn’t consider you worthy?” Alaric said.

  “He doesn’t think anyone is worthy of his post,” Fenelon said. “He was not first choice for the position, you see. One of my direct ancestors was, and what always infuriated Turlough was that my grandfather many times removed actually turned down the post, saying it was foolish for mageborn to have a hierarchy akin to kingship and be ruled by one of their own. Turlough does believe a mageborn should rule not just us, but mortal kind as well. He’d give anything if there was enough mage blood in the High King’s family to make him see things this way as well. Turlough has tried more than once to marry a mageborn into the Keltoran crown in hopes it would become fashionable. And Turlough uses his post as a mantle of protection for himself. He thinks it puts him above the laws of mortalborn.”

  Alaric looked out at the trees that were dancing in the wind. Marda had often whispered Turlough had a dark, ambitious side to his nature, but Alaric assumed it was because she was not as powerful and felt the High Mage looked down on her for that. Now, he started to wonder if it were true. There was something overly pompous about the Lord Magister of Dun Gealach.

  “And anyway,” Fenelon continued, “since I perfected my skills at using cloaking spells, the incidents have dropped to nothing. Turlough merely thinks his threats are holding weight…”

  “They don’t?” Alaric asked, feigning surprise.

  “No…except for one,” Fenelon said. “I may be more powerful, but Turlough could still easily banish me from Dun Gealach, and there would be nothing I could do to stop him.”

  “Banish you? How? If you’re more powerful…”

  “Even a powerful mageborn can be warded against in much the same way we keep demons out…” Fenelon said and frowned in thought. “Which reminds me. Can you think of how the demon could have gotten into your psaltery?”

  “I’m afraid I know very little about demons and their ways,” Alaric said. “We don’t get many of them in Tamnagh. Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Did the psaltery ever leave your company?”

  “No.”

  “Do you recall anything strange about last night?”

  Alaric sighed and glanced at his hands. “Well, there was that wench with the white scarf. She talked awfully well for a common tavern wench. She kissed me.”

  Fenelon smirked. “Nothing strange about that. You are an attractive enough fellow to get unwanted attention from the ladies.”

  “Well, actually, there was something strange about it,” Alaric said, his mind filtering through the muddle of his tavern adventures. “She had a scarf on…a fine white scarf of silk that seemed very expensive compared to the rest of her clothes. And when she kissed me, I recall that it fell into my lap and covered the psaltery…only…”

  “Only what?” Fenelon looked keenly interested with this bit of information.

  “She didn’t have it on when she walked away. And I looked down to see where it might have fallen to, but it wasn’t there. And later, when we were leaving, I remember thinking I felt something slide around inside the psaltery, and that it felt heavier.”

  “That’s it, then,” Fenelon said and thumped Alaric’s shoulder. “And you have just learned one important aspect of demonkind, Alaric. They can shape-shift into almost anything, no matter what size.”

  “They can?”

  “Come on,” Fenelon said. “We should have enough time to go to the library and learn exactly what was taken before the Council meeting.

  “And what will that tell us?”

  “Well, it should give us a reason as to why someone would send a demon to steal a map,” Fenelon said and began the motions of a gate spell.

  “Someone sent the demon?” Alaric said as he watched the magical rift appear and tried to memorize the words Fenelon was whispering to make it happen.

  “Demons are always sent, Alaric,” Fenelon said and seized the younger mageborn’s arm. “They rarely have enough wherewithal to come into this world otherwise.”

  Before Alaric could ask anything else, he was whisked through the whorl, back into the gloomy Keltoran weather. He found himself standing on the very cobbles he had come across when he first entered the outer gates of Dun Gealach, looking at a pair of mageborn guards who were looking back. Fenelon spread his hands in a gesture of submission, and Alaric realized he was being scried by one of the two. They said nothing, merely stepped aside and allowed Fenelon and Alaric to move on towards the keep.

  He was just about to enter the inner gate when a bit of black flitted past the corner of his eye. Alaric sensed the bitter tang that had burned his tongue last night. He gasped and turned, but it flitted away, and all he saw was what looked like a raven as it disappeared behind one of the towers.

  “Something wrong?” Fenelon asked.

  Alaric frowned. “Nothing…just a raven,” he said.

  “The city is full of them,” Fenelon said. “You’ll get used to seeing them. Let’s get inside. We’ve little time as it is…”

  He whisked Alaric on through the doors.

  ~

  That was too close, Vagner thought as he dove for the ground and waited. The young one was overly sensitive to demon essence. Vagner had barely managed to get himself below the level of the towers in time. He could only hope the other one had not sensed him too.r />
  Vagner had taken raven form to hide among the many. Keltora was full of the scavengers. Whole flocks of them roosted about the King’s city, and Vagner figured one more would not be noticed.

  Of course, he had discovered ravens had terrible singing voices. Rough as sandstone, they sounded. Still, the demon had not been able to resist qworking a few strains of “The Merry Lad of the Lea” as he flitted among the rooftops.

  He had already circled Dun Gealach twice when he felt a familiar essence invoking a spell that was not hidden, and had been pleased to see his quarry was returning to the nest. But there was still the problem of getting to him, and it would do no good for the demon to be noticed now. The young one would likely become suspicious and avoid coming outside if he thought the demon was waiting for him.

  But wait I must, Vagner thought. Tane Doran would be displeased if the demon failed to return with his quarry. So he winged past the walls once more and settled himself atop one of the gatehouse towers when he felt it was safe enough to return. From here he would have a fine view, and be well away from the demon-sensitive wards.

  His perch also overlooked the outermost bailey and the practice yard where a group of young guards were trading blows with swords and targe. Their movement seemed almost clumsy to the demon. But then, there were few men alive who had sufficient reflexes to battle a creature like himself. Vagner would have smiled at that thought, but raven beaks did not lend themselves to curving up at the corners.

  With a sigh, he qworked a few strains of the melody to “The Lass Who Loved the Heather Downs” and waited for his victim to reappear.

  ~

  Fenelon led Alaric into the musty gloom of the great library of Dun Gealach, and while Alaric could feel a number of wards, he sensed no real magic in this place. This puzzled him, for Marda had spoken of the number of items of power that were supposedly housed here. So where were those powerful items, those scrolls that gave off the scent of magic as much as parchment?

  Fenelon stopped long enough to ask one of the mageborn at the entrance a question. Alaric noticed the fellow’s eyes slid briefly in his direction, and heard, “So he’s the one…” But whatever that conversation entailed, Fenelon apparently was not willing to listen to more gossip than necessary. He merely waved the mageborn librarian aside and motioned for Alaric to follow.