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

by Laura J Underwood

  “There,” she said. “That be the last of it, lad, and you’re none the worse for the experience, I’ll wager. Bless the Brother, I’ll have ye stitched up proper now, and back on yer feet in no time. You’ll hardly ken there was anything more than a wee scratch before I’m through…”

  Alaric merely gasped, relaxing for the brief interval. He could feel pain tears in the corners of his eyes and gliding across his cheeks which were flushed with embarrassment. If the men noticed, they said nothing, though he felt the one holding his right hand give him a reassuring squeeze, and when he looked up, the brawny face of Sargeant MacRae offered a wink and a smile.

  Mistress Miranda quickly returned with one of her assistants. Her stoic look appraised Alaric, and she shook her head. “This ‘twill nae do,” she said, clucking. “Lilly, fetch the poppy wine. Otherwise, I’ll ne’er get the work done proper.”

  One of the lasses who had hovered in the background to assist now hurried away. Poppy wine. That sounded good in Alaric’s estimation. Perhaps there was a kind bone in the woman’s braw, narrow body after all.

  The lass called Lilly swiftly returned with a small mug. Alaric was released and assisted upright. In that moment, he got a glimpse of the surgery, wryly noticing Fenelon was not in the room. Mistress Miranda clucked and helped Alaric with the mug. The sweet nectar of the poppy wine glided down his throat and rolled warmth through him. And under its sudden and pleasant haze, Alaric realized he could hear Fenelon having words with someone in the next room.

  “I told you…” That sounded like Turlough.

  “Aye, you told me, and you know I would gladly have obeyed, but this was an emergency,” Fenelon said. “What was I supposed to do. Let the demon eat him?”

  “And just why did the demon go after your new apprentice,” Turlough huffed. “Or is there something you haven’t told me? Could it be, the demon is his familiar after all?”

  “No!” Fenelon said.

  “Lie down, lad,” Mistress Miranda said firmly.

  The mug had been taken from Alaric’s hand, and he was feeling a bit more at ease…maybe too much so because when she released him, he dropped hard, and had there not been others to catch his head before it banged the surgery table…It was getting harder to feel his body now. The needle was going in and out as the healer continued her work, but now Alaric didn’t care. He fought instead to train his hearing on the argument.

  “You frightened half the city, throwing fire spells around like that,” Turlough went on. “I warned you that if I felt your essence and a fire spell in the same place…”

  “Oh, will you shut up and listen to me!” Fenelon retorted, and rage was clearly filling his voice. “I didn’t start the bloody fire fight! I was using magebolts and lightning. It was the demon who cast the first fire spells, and Alaric himself who cast the second. I only resorted to fire after that because nothing else seemed to deter the monster. If you don’t believe me, ask the guards who were assisting me…ask Alaric.”

  “Oh, I shall,” Turlough said. “If even one of them tells me otherwise…”

  “And I did not frighten half the city,” Fenelon continued. “Just a few old washerwomen who were not hurt in the least. Now would you rather I had let the demon finish us off and go raging about the city?”

  “I would have used more lightning,” Turlough said. “I would have blasted the beast into collops—or better still, I would have found a way to imprison it so I could prove once and for all your new apprentice is truly in league with the monster…”

  Alaric felt his heart lurch. He still blames me! Horns!

  “I really do hope that poor Etienne never hears how you have just besmirched her fine reputation by implying her truth touch spell was wrong…” Fenelon said. “Why like as not, she would pack her possessions and leave Dun Gealach for good…and take with her that vast store of native spell casting from her homeland you so crave, all because you dared to distrust her skill.”

  “You insolent…I can predict exactly how she would hear such a tale, can’t I?” Turlough growled. “You have stooped to some low and mean pranks in your day, Fenelon, and I suppose this should come as no surprise to me.”

  “But it would not be a lie, Uncle,” Fenelon said. “And if you insist on falsely accusing Alaric of consorting with this demon again, I fear I would have no other recourse but to share the whole affair with her.”

  “Really,” Turlough said, sounding triumphant. “And what if I were to ban you so you could never step foot in Dun Gealach ever again? I could do it now, and she would never know. I could tell her your research of this matter has taken you elsewhere.”

  “Interesting challenge, Uncle. You could indeed keep me out of Dun Gealach and away from Etienne for a time, but in my vast experience, magic has no power to stop a mere piece of paper delivered in the hands of a mortalborn messenger and bearing the seal of the King himself…or have you forgotten that I have many friends in the palace where you do not?” There was grim triumph ringing with Fenelon’s words. “Once Etienne got such a message, I suspect she would leave this place so fast, you’d barely feel the wind of her passing. And I shall enjoy hearing how you convinced the rest of the council her departure was not your fault. Too bad I won’t be there to see it, but I’m sure I’ll hear all about it from any of a number of the mageborn who will be here long after my departure, considering how many of them are friends of my father, grandfather and great grandfather. In fact, there are still a large number of mageborn on the council who were much opposed to putting you in charge when your own brother, who was much in favor, declined. Or do you plan to ban the entire council and tell the King that you alone rule magic in his realm?”

  “You…what do you want?”

  “I want you to back off, old man, and leave me to do what I do best,” Fenelon said. “You and I both know perfectly well I am the only mageborn here who is capable of handling this matter with any real satisfaction.”

  “You are an arrogant knave, and I curse the day you were born to our illustrious line…”

  “Well?” Fenelon said, apparently ignoring the insult.

  Silence briefly filled the air. Alaric frowned, sensing a crackle of magic. Then the door to the surgery opened, and Fenelon stepped quietly into the room. His face was set in a hard mask broken by just a hint of a ragged smile.

  “There now,” Mistress Miranda suddenly said, startling Alaric. “All neat and new. Now, lad, just close your eyes, and I’ll give you a healing so you’ll be up and about on that leg in no time.”

  Alaric sighed and did as she asked. He felt her hands settle on his leg, but it was as though the touch were not really there. Softly she began to speak. “Blessed Brother, hear my plea…”

  The rest of the chant was lost to him. A cool sensation flooded his leg, removing the last remnants of the pain. But Alaric’s mind was set on other things.

  Turlough still believes I brought the demon here. Horns.

  TWELVE

  Pain filled Vagner as the demon crouched on the floor. He had pulled every ounce of reserves into play against it to no avail. Tane was using the demon’s True Name, sending fire raging through essence and flesh, and all Vagner could do was scream.

  Tane’s anger was not silent either. “You idiot fiend! I told you to bring me the bard, but you could not obey a simple order if you tried. You did not have my permission to go rampaging about the countryside. The damage you did to that farm could cost us dearly. If word should get back to the Council of Mageborn about what you did there, all hope for my success would be in vain. They would hunt you down, and in finding you, they would find me!”

  With each statement, the pain grew. Vagner could hardly breathe…

  “And if they were to find me before I am able to find what I desire…” Tane continued. “I shall have to see to it now that they never find you, demon. I shall bury you in the deepest hole for what you done, but not before I have finished torturing you. A simple task and you failed…”


  “I had no choice!” Vagner screamed through his pain. “I tried to take the bard, but he was too well versed in fire magic…and there were the others…”

  “What others?” Tane shouted.

  “The master mage!”

  Tane reached down and seized the demon’s jaw, drawing the bat-like head around. Vagner felt the blood mage’s power as it bore into his eyes, tore into the demon’s brain and ripped forth images from Vagner’s memories.

  The scene played itself behind the demon’s eyes. A youth on the verge of true manhood, his blond hair thrown about in disarray, his leg bleeding, crouched on the path. He stretched forth a hand and threw white fire into the demon’s face, blotting out the scene. Then the world reversed, showing the demon’s aerial ballet about the outer bailey, sweeping past the guards and the mage with hair like fire and eyes richer than a summer sky…

  Tane broke off both physical and mental contact and abruptly stepped away. The torments stopped as the bloodmage crossed his arms and covered his mouth in thought. Vagner slumped to the floor, every inch of his flesh shivering with the aftermath.

  “Horns, it would have to be him,” Tane said and drew a deep breath as he stalked over to the window to stare out at the gloaming.

  “Him, master?” the demon said in a weary voice and slowly pushed upright to watch the bloodmage from hooded eyes.

  “Fenelon Greenfyn,” Tane replied. “Son of Garreth Greenfyn, grandson of Colm Greenfyn, and great grandson of Phelon Greenfyn…damn them all…”

  “I have heard that name mentioned in my search for what pleases you, Master,” Vagner said. “I heard the others in Dun Gealach speak of him from time to time. He and the young bard appear to be friends.”

  “Friends?” Tane said and turned to glare at the demon. Vagner hitched back a fraction in response. “This does not bode well at all. If Fenelon Greenfyn should figure out what I am after before I can find it, the bastard will likely go after the Dragon’s Tongue for himself.”

  “But he is not a bloodmage,” Vagner said. “What use could he possibly have for the item you seek?”

  “You truly are a stupid beast,” Tane said. “The Dragon’s Tongue is power. With it, a bloodmage could bring back the darkness that spawned the age of the Shadow Lords. He could become one of the Shadow Lords and be worshiped as a god!”

  Vagner cringed, unsure why anyone would want to become what the Shadow Lords had been. While it was true that they were looked upon as gods, they were evil and some were rather ugly…not unlike demons, only nastier. It was said Arawn was the most beautiful of them, and now he was a god of death, trapped in the dark realms of Annwn where he filled his Cauldron of Doom with the souls of the damned. There he waited for the day the Dark Mother would set him free.

  “Fenelon Greenfyn, like his illustrious ancestors, would not use the Dragon’s Tongue as it was intended. He would study it, ascertain its power and seek to pervert it for some good, and if that proved impossible, he would bury it in the coldest, deepest vaults beneath Dun Gealach. And if he is so fortunate as to find it before I do, creature, rest assured, I will never forgive you!”

  Tane’s words increased in fury.

  “In fact, monster, I do not forgive you now, and for your bungling, you will pay…”

  Tane stretched his hands and words began to spill across his tongue. “Bi ann na caileige…” he charged. “Falaich do fior na naduir…” Magic fingers stretched from the ends of his hands. They seized hold of Vagner before he could rise in an attempt to flee. He felt them literally reshaping and molding him into form against his will. Pain filled him as the scales and fur of his normally chiropteran shape were stripped and changed into soft flesh. He writhed on the reeds, unable to resist as his form shrank to a smaller size.

  At last, it stopped and Vagner lay panting, prying open eyes in time to see Tane touch his own face and whisper another spell. Youth fled those aqualine features. The bloodmage’s hair turned white and thinned. Wrinkles covered his face, and a beard of equal luminescence tumbled from his chin.

  “There, now,” Tane said. “If you want something done proper, you must do it yourself.”

  Vagner groggily pushed upright and froze at the sight of his own hand. Instead of claws, he had thin fingers, beautifully tapered and lithe. His chest appeared to have sprouted budding breasts, small and firm in their ripening. And when he gasped, he no longer heard the demon baritone, but a sweet feminine coo.

  “What have you done to me?” the demon wailed.

  Tane smiled from his ancient face and helped Vagner to rise, leading the demon over to the mirror. “Behold, my granddaughter, Vagnera…” Tane said.

  Vagner beheld a winsome face, mouth open in utter astonishment. Beauty stared back at the demon, the fresh face of a lass with thick curling tresses the color of straw and rich green eyes. A child on the verge of womanly bloom, still thin in adolescence.

  “What have you done?” Vagner repeated.

  “Why this is your punishment,” Tane said. “And part of my new plan. I am now to be called Baron Tallos of Grune.”

  “Grune?” Vagner said. “Where’s that?”

  “It’s a small village in the far east of Elenthorn…I’ve been there once or twice in my life. Hardly anyone there, actually, and the old border keep is in ruins now, but that does not matter. I am a traveling scholar and I have brought my fair granddaughter to Caer Keltora as we travel the world. And always conscious of broadening her education, I seek a bard to give her music lessons, and I was told that a certain…” Tane paused.

  Vagner sighed. “Alaric Braidwine of Gordslea Hold…” The demon remembered that much from the first night at the inn.

  “Master Braidwine has come to Caer Keltora as well, and I would be most appreciative if he would consent to give the child of my dearly departed son a few lessons on the psaltery.”

  “This is an outrage!” Vagner said and felt the tiny body begin to shiver in protest of the cold his old form never seemed to notice. The rushes on the floor were digging into his bare feet, stinging like nettles. By the deepest pits of the Void, all this discomfort, and for what? So Tane could play games. Vagner could not even summon his own magic. It was locked inside him like a cold stone. “I do not like this form, Master. Unbind me…change me back!”

  Tane chuckled as he pulled off his cloak and wrapped about the slender shoulders. He brushed the pale tresses aside, his hand suddenly catching the demon by the now-thin throat. Vagner stiffened, startled by the alien sensation of human-like physical pain.

  “Be grateful, monster,” Tane said. “I had considered turning you into a lapdog. Now, go find yourself some clothes. We have a long journey ahead of us. In order to keep them from detecting the origins of my spells, we must travel as mortals do.”

  As mortals…? Vagner reached inside himself and uselessly battered the cold wall that separated him from his center of power. “My magic! I cannot feel it! What have you done?”

  “Your magic is buried deep within this mortal flesh, as is the essence of your true self, and only by your True Name uttered by one bound to you as master can the binding be broken,” Tane said. “It’s a precaution, you see. Master Braidwine, being sensitive to your essence, would know you immediately if I did not take this step…after all, we don’t want Master Braidwine to fathom out little trap, do we? If you wish your true form back, Vagner, you will have to earn it. Once we have Master Braidwine, I will consider changing you back…perhaps. Then again, I may enjoy keeping you in this form for a time.”

  The hand on Vagner’s throat lightened its grasp and stroked across the demon’s chin. That touch sent wild and fearful shivers coursing through the demon. He closed his green eyes—her eyes—and sighed.

  I will have revenge for this, Tane. One day, you shall pay for this indignation.

  But for now, the demon had no choice but to obey.

  ~

  His leg felt good as new now, but Alaric was still a bit woozy from the poppy wine as he follow
ed Fenelon into the private sectors of Dun Gealach. This was one of the places Wendon had said was forbidden to apprentices and students and even master mageborn of the wrong gender. Yet Fenelon strode into the entry corridor without a hint of unease. Alaric felt magic buzzing, like a warning of some sort. He frowned and looked around as they were stopped and met by a pair of formidable matrons, one of whom was three times Alaric’s width. She eyed the pair with a critical eye.

  “State your business,” she said.

  “Good evening, Mistress Wallace,” Fenelon said with a short bow. “I and my companion Alaric Braidwine are here to see Mistress Savala and join her for dinner.”

  Mistress Wallace looked most disbelieving, but she closed her eyes and grew still as stone. Alaric felt the tickle of magic again, and the woman opened her eyes. “Yes, Mistress Savala is expecting the both of you,” she said. “Come with me.”

  The woman turned and started to lead them through an impossibly narrow hall. There was barely room on either side of her, and Alaric wondered if she had been chosen for this task for that very reason. It would be difficult for any man to get past a woman of her size. She had a good thick staff and a powerful arm rippling with muscle was visible under the loose sleeves of her overtunic. I’d be afraid to have her hug me. I bet she could probably break the ribs of a horse.

  Mistress Wallace took them straight to the door and knocked. It opened and revealed the familiar face of one of the lasses Alaric has seen in the hall earlier in the day.

  “Your visitors,” Mistress Wallace said.

  “Thank you, Mistress,” the lass said as the older woman stepped aside. “Mistress Savala said to tell you she would escort them back herself.”

  “As she wishes,” Mistress Wallace said. She cocked her head at Fenelon. “Well, in with you two or I shall be unable to return to my post.”

  “Do come in,” the young lass said with a smirk.

  Fenelon led the way, and Alaric followed, quietly musing Mistress Wallace’s declaration. Of course, if they did not go in, she could not go back. However, she must have seen his slight smile before he looked up to thank her, because her gaze narrowed in warning. He could do little more than whisper his gratitude and hurried on inside, relieved when the door closed to his back.