“But the promises of fathers and mothers are not always kept by the daughters and sons. And so it was the children of light continued to quarrel with the children of dark. Each sought to overthrow the other with magic and mayhem. Quite often, their fighting caused earthquakes and floods and volcanoes to erupt on the earth their parents had made. And like the giant Ymir, they quickly grew bored.
“Now according to the Haxons, one among these children of light and magic was known as Wotan, and unlike his brothers and sisters, he was curious about many things, and because he liked to create things he was rarely bored. One of the tasks he had performed was to take ash and oak and make woman and man, and breathe life into them so they became the first mortalborn. He knew when Ymir was killed, a great tree had grown from the giant’s brain, and so Wotan decided to climb to the highest spot in that tree. There he found three old women, and they were spinning at an enormous wheel and snipping the thread to various lengths. And when Wotan asked them what they were doing, they answered as one that they were spinning lives for his mortalborn as well as for himself and the other gods, and the children whom these gods would breed. When he asked how they knew what length to cut the threads, they told him of the Well of Knowledge, and how drinking water from that well let them see many things. And when he asked for a drink from this well, they told him he would have to pay the price.
“What price?” Wotan asked them.
“One of your eyes,” they replied. “For seeing truth requires only one.”
“And so it was that Wotan gave them one of his eyes, and in exchange, they allowed him to take their dipper and go drink from the well. But they warned him he could take but one dipperful, and no more. Wotan filled the dipper full and poured a great draught into his mouth, but some of it, he allowed to pour down his chest and caught in a cup he had hid beneath his beard. And suddenly, he saw the world more clearly with one eye than he had ever seen with two. He saw the past and the future as one. He saw how the lines had been snipped for him and the other gods, and knew when each of them would die. And he saw that wrapped about the roots of the great tree there slept a wyrm who would one day bring terrible darkness upon the land of mortalborn men.”
“Na’Sgailean,” Alaric whispered.
“Perhaps,” Etienne said and sighed. “My land tells a tale of the final battle that took place among the gods, when the dark wyrm rose to blot out the sun. She killed Wotan in that battle and Wotan’s son Thunor struck her a mighty blow with his war hammer called Mjolnir. Everyone thought she was dead, and that Thunor fell poisoned by her breath.
“But she had not died, for the thread the hags of destiny had woven for her and the dragon of light had never been cut. She could never die, not so long as there was warm darkness for her to lie in and regenerate herself. And that one who had been the avatar of Thunor, she who was called the Hammer Maid, knew this and so did strike the dark wyrm again, over and over, smashing her into tiny pieces and scattering them across the land and sea.
“Alas, it is said that one of the dark wyrm’s was creeping about the shadows as the Hammer Maid worked, and that this child of darkness stole a piece of the wyrm and hid it in a secret place, and that to punish this child, the gods who survived turned the land of the Haxons into ice that the dark wyrm’s grave might never be found.”
She fell silent, blushing and smiling.
“My word,” Alaric muttered in awe.
“Well, at least that’s the story I have been told,” Etienne said. “And I may not have remembered all of it as well as I should.”
“Oh, no, it was wonderful,” Alaric said. “You could be a skaldi yourself.”
“You are too kind with your flattery,” Etienne said.
Alaric glanced over at Fenelon. The master mageborn had shifted so he could stare thoughtfully into the fire. And now he stirred.
“Well, now,” Fneleon said with a sigh. “It is getting late, and if we are to officially teach you the ways of greater magic, Alaric, I think we’d best take our leave. Etienne, would you be so kind as to escort us back to the Wall?” He grinned as he said that.
“Fenelon, one day she will sit on you, and you will deserve it,” Etienne said as she rose. Alaric scrambled to his feet as well, snatching up his psaltery.
“Oh, I’m not that desperate for attention yet, love,” Fenelon said, flashing a lascivious smile. “Unless you are planning to toss me over for the affection of another…”
“You,” Etienne said, shaking her head as she started for the door. “Why do I bother?
“Because you’re such an optimist, and no matter what, you love me a much as I love you,” Fenelon said, catching her arm and pulling her into an embrace that went beyond polite affection. Alaric stood back, stunned as he watched Fenelon kiss Etienne, and she did not bother to fight or pull away. Face burning hot, Alaric suddenly turned away. Oh, Horns, he thought. It was true. They were lovers…
“Just as long as you remember that, you rogue,” he heard Etienne say in a breathy voice. “Now, enough of this nonsense. You’re embarrassing poor Alaric, and you’re likely to give him the wrong idea about us…”
And what would be the right idea? Alaric wondered curtly. He started when her hand touched his arm, and he turned to find her smiling.
“Come,” she said. “You may escort me.”
She drew Alaric towards the door, leaving Fenelon to trail behind.
“And I hope one day Cora does sit on you, Fenelon,” Etienne said. “Then you might learn some manners.”
“Oh, I’m so frightened,” Fenelon said.
Alaric held his tongue rather than let it be known how much he agreed with Etienne.
FOURTEEN
Alaric had been having dreams from the time he was about seven. Not the ordinary dreams, but those that thrummed with magic and dark prophecy. Nightmares so real, he would often wake up screaming and earn himself the animosity of his sisters. When Marda came to Gordslea Hold to be his tutor, she told him it was perfectly natural. She assured him that all mageborn suffered from bad dreams. Knowing this did not make Alaric like dreaming any more.
The wine that evening made him tired as it always did. When they left Etienne’s apartments, Alaric was stumbling more than usual. Still, Fenelon had insisted they should stop at Alaric’s chamber to collect the rest of his personal possessions. “You’re my apprentice now, and I’ve more than enough space to house you at Eldon Keep, and once you learn the gate spell, you’ll be able to pop back and forth as you please,” Fenelon said. “And this way, you won’t have to sleep in that tiny little garderobe…”
The last suggestion held more than enough appeal to Alaric, though at that particular moment, he was too tired to express gratitude. He dutifully gathered all he owned with Fenelon’s assistance, and carried the lot of it out of Dun Gealach. On the way, they passed Wendon who looked rather disappointed, and Alaric wondered if it was because Wendon actually thought of Alaric as a friend, or because he was losing what he considered a gullible source of information? Fenelon’s words of warning to that end were still firmly in mind.
Outside the demon wards, Alaric glanced around, stretching mage senses as unease slid through his thoughts, but he did not sense the demon anywhere. Not a trace. So he relaxed a little more as Fenelon entered the gate spell circle and split the world open to Eldon Keep.
Alaric was given the chamber across from Fenelon’s own. It was a large room, clean and airy. The bedclothes had been turned back as though Alaric was expected, and a fire was already lit. Loughan’s weather was decidedly better, in spite of being further north, but nights were still chilly, so Alaric was glad for the warmth. Fenelon graced him with directions to the nearest garderobe should the chamber pot prove insufficient, and then bid Alaric goodnight. He was left alone, and took a little time to look through the mullioned windows at the crenulations, the walk and the forest turned indigo and silver under the light of a full moon. Beautiful, peaceful, and more space than he really needed, he mused.
Still, he was not going to complain of this blessing. He shucked out of day clothes and into a sleeping shirt, and crawled into a bed at least four times the width of his cot in Dun Gealach.
Sleep quickly claimed him then, and with it, the dreadful dream…
He heard his own voice singing The Ballad of Ronan Tey, but instead of entertaining in a chamber, he appeared to be hovering over a lonely road. In the distance, he could see a craggy black range of mountains that interrupted the rolling green, and nearby, he could see the stones that littered the wayside, as well as the ruins of an ancient rath which topped the nearest hill.
A figure moved towards him, following the winding road. It was a man all wrapped in hunter green and gold, and carrying a harp sack over one shoulder. He had long black hair braided back, and intense blue eyes set in an eldritch face that seemed both young and old. Alaric felt his heart lift with joy to see Ronan Tey ambling towards the younger bard as he sang.
“Ronan!” Alaric cried… or so he tried. But his voice continued to issue the words of the song.
“Ronan Tey, Ronan Tey,
Crossing the moor
Bright was the moon
With her milky white lure…”
“No!’ Alaric thought. He was singing the ballad, and knew too well the next line.
“Dark were the shadows
That hid by the stones
And shielded the blades
Of the bandits…”
In his dream, Alaric tried to move forward, to warn the man who had fed his own love of music, but Alaric quickly discovered he was no more than a shadowy observer to this tale, unable to interfere in any way. Ronan passed the uneven row of the lower wall of the rath when a figure leaped out of hiding, brandishing steel. The bard stepped back and held up his hands.
“Your purse or your life,” the bandit said.
“Be careful what you try to steal, mortalborn,” Ronan replied. “Either will cost you dearly.” His hand suddenly went to his own sword, drawing it free. Moon turned the blade into a strip of brilliance in the bard’s hand just as several more bandits cleared the stone wall, surrounding him.
“Ronan Tey, Ronan Tey,
Wild as the wind,
Fought like a falcon
And laughed like a djinn…”
Their numbers seemed to grow, and still, Ronan battled them with steel. Alaric was crying out words unheard, begging Ronan to use magic—to save himself with spells.
But the scene began to slither askew, running away from the tale Alaric knew. According to the ballad, Ronan, exhausted by the sheer number of foes, had been stabbed in the heart. But as Alaric watched, the bandits crowded Ronan instead, seized his arms and pulled them back, and deprived him of his weapon. Only then did he start to cry out the words of a spell, and Alaric felt the drawing of essence from the world to feed it. However, one of the bandits was well versed in mageborn ways, and the heavy hilt of his dagger lashed across Ronan’s mouth, cutting off his words with a wicked blow that left blood trailing down his chin. The bandit followed by slamming the pommel of his dagger into Ronan’s stomach. Ronan doubled in pain, dropping to his knees in the grasps of his enemies. He was helpless to defend himself as the bandit reared back to strike down.
A sonorous voice shouted, “Hold!” and the bandit froze.
Alaric’s singing had ceased, and his dream vision turned towards the source of the sound. A tall figure wrapped in black leather and furs whose face was hidden in the depths of his hood now emerged from the shadows of the rath. Bits of long blond hair slithered from the dark. They had been braided and weighted with odd-shaped beads that gleamed like bone under the moonlight.
“He will be of no use to me if you break his head and addle his brains, you insolent rogue,” the man said, stepping forward.
The bandits parted to let him through their numbers. His gloved hand snaked out to capture the bard’s chin and pull his face up. Ronan recoiled from the grasp, eyes wide with revulsion and recognition.
“You!” Ronan hissed through lips left swollen by the bandit’s blow. “You’re dead!”
“Aye, it is me, Ronan,” the figure said venomously, stepping back. “You were a fool not to make certain, you know.”
“I will make certain now,” Ronan said and sought to gain his feet. His captors proved well versed in the ways of giving pain. Alaric’s silent cry echoed Ronan’s as the bard’s arm was twisted back to a nearly impossible angle. The figure waited a moment then reached out once more to cup Ronan’s face in one hand.
“You have only to give me what I want,” the man said, “and the pain will stop, and I will set you free so that you may continue your merry way.”
“Never!” Ronan snapped through gritted teeth. “As long as I live and breathe, you will never have the key…”
“Hmmm,” the man said and sighed. “So you would force me to do this the hard way. Very well. Since you will not give me the key, I shall have to find it on my own…now where is the map?”
“Gone,” Ronan said.
“Liar!” the man hissed and struck out with the back of a hand, rocking Ronan’s head back. “I know perfectly well you were careless with it. Eleron Blackwind stole it from you a hundred years ago.”
“He is dead and has it no more,” Ronan said with a tight smile. “Colm Greenfyn saw to that. The thing has been buried in the catacombs of Dun Gealach where none of your kind will ever be able to reach it.”
“Pity,” the man said, shaking his hooded head. “Are you sure you want to go through with this? It’s won’t be pleasant.”
“The key will never be yours,” Ronan said. “I have already seen to that. I will keep it from you, no matter what the cost to myself.”
The figure sighed and turned to the bandit leader. “Take him into the ruins,” the man said.
Ronan was dragged into the rath to one of the flat stones that had served as a bench in ancient times. He struggled, but his captors were many and strong. They forced him to his knees beside one of the stones and stretched his arm down the length of it. The twang of a string being cut from his harp made Ronan flinch. They wound the length of bronze wire about his wrist and used its cutting tightness to keep his hand in place.
The hooded figure moved around, and with delicate ease, he drew a slender dagger from his belt and slipped its length under one of Ronan’s fingernails. Ronan shrieked, bucking in vain. The dagger was withdrawn and quickly pushed under the next finger, invoking the same response.
No, Alaric’s dream self cried, and his own hands hurt in sympathy. No! He might as well have screamed at the moon.
“Well?” the figure said. “Tell me, and I will stop. A bard needs his hands, Ronan, as much as his voice and his wits. Tell me what I want to know, before I am forced to start on the other hand as well.”
Ronan sobbed, but he shook his head. “Cut them off, for all I care,” he said. “I will never give you the key, and you will never know where I have hidden it…”
“Fool!” the man snapped. “Then I shall take that secret from you!”
He seized Ronan’s hair, forcing the bard’s head back so their eyes locked. Yet Ronan smiled grimly as the force of their wills and essence locked in magic battle. Alaric could feel their skirmish dancing through his very being. Ronan trembled hard for what seemed like an eternity as the two traded glares, and the cloaked figure’s hand was becoming a tight fist that threatened to rip open the leather of his gloves. Then abruptly, the man in black cried out with a mixture of frustration and pain, and released his grasp, falling back to brace himself against the corner of the stone.
Ronan bowed his head, gasping for breath. The cloaked one staggered then righted himself with a bestial snarl. He suddenly drew a sword.
Alaric raged in vain. He had no control of the events he watched. The figure turned and with an angry shout, he lashed downward with his blade. There was a clang as the steel struck stone, severing Ronan’s hand at the wrist. Ronan cried out and stumbled against his cap
tors, no longer retrained by his harp string. The cloaked man roared and rushed the bard, and the bandits let go of him in a panic and pulled away. The sword flashed straight at Ronan, it point thrusting into his chest. That fine point found Ronan’s heart, and the tip suddenly protruding from his back. Such wounding would have killed a mortalborn outright, but Ronan was mageborn, and because of that magical blood, he would not die so swiftly.
The cloaked one turned and seized up the severed hand. He rushed back, thrusting it against Ronan’s chest, and whispered words of power. “Mi glac do beatha…”
Alaric was screaming too loud in his own head to hear the rest of the spell. He only knew that Ronan stiffened as the remainder of his life essence was torn from his body. The severed hand glowed like a fire in the twilight. Ronan fell. His corpse stared blankly at the night sky, while the cloaked one stuffed the hand into a sack and turned away, glaring at his trophy.
“Thought yourself clever, did you, bard,” the cloaked one said. “I will have that key, Ronan, if I must search to the ends of the earth to seek it. Once I have found it, I will be a god, and I promise I will use my power to punish your spirit for an eternity…and as for you…”
The figure suddenly strode towards Alaric’s dream self, seizing his shoulders and forcing him to the ground to shake him hard. Blue eyes glowed from the depths of the hood where the bones rattled like a last breath before death.
“Wake up, Alaric, wake up!” the voice commanded.
Alaric threw up his hands, flailing at his captor and continuing to scream in mad rage and terror. He heard curses, a woman’s worried voice, and other men murmuring about possession.
“Alaric!” How did the cloaked one know his name? He had no time to think on this for the call was punctuated by a powerful backhand blow that rocked his head over against a soft surface.
Dragon's Tongue: Book One of the Demon-Bound Page 11
