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

by Laura J Underwood

  Alaric edged closer now, resisting the urge to grimace. A whispering filled his head, a language he did not know. Dead demon or not, there was a power buried in this thing. A power that cost Ronan his life… A power that called to Alaric even now…

  The urge to touch the skin overwhelmed him, and Alaric could not resist its command. As if he had no will of his own, his mind rebelled against his fear. Before Fenelon or Etienne could even thing to stop him, let alone act, he brushed the surface with the fingers of his left hand—the receiving hand—and a cold fire raced up his arm and flooded his mind. Images filled his head. A hand, severed and dangling on a harp string…that hand whole and plucking eerie notes from a psaltery…that same hand holding this map while its left partner—the receiving hand—traced the runes. A voice sang words that did not make sense to Alaric, yet for some reason, he knew them well.

  “An ghoath a seinne troimhe uchd de sgathan dirich do fosgailte speuran… Air culaibh mi a losgadh machlach de lasair an loisg sin iarr cha a chaidh sguir…”

  “Remember not!” Ronan Tey roared, and pain flashed through Alaric. He jerked his hand free of the parchment, covering his face as he reeled away with an anguished cry. Alaric stumbled into Fenelon who was calling his name. But the pain tightened Alaric’s limbs, and he felt his arms pinioned to his sides as convulsions overcame him. Etienne seized his face in her hands, holding him, looking frightened at what she now witnessed.

  “Alaric, look into my eyes,” she said. “Look into my eyes…”

  He could not. The pain burst like cold flames in him. He could not bear it any longer, and so did the only thing he could to escape its wrath.

  Alaric fell into a faint.

  TWENTY ONE

  A mixture of dreams rattled through Alaric. He was nine when the earliest hints of mage sign appeared in him. Marda showed up almost as quickly, not quite a moon later. She hinted some distant relationship to the former master of Gordslea Hold, and Father never really questioned the kinship by asking for proof. He just accepted her as one of the family.

  “Lark, this is Marda Alfrey, a cousin of our late kin, and she’s going to be your new tutor,” Father said.

  “Lark?” Marda arched those fine grey brows. “Your name is Lark?”

  “Alaric, mum.” He barely whispered those words to her imposing presence when he was left alone with her.

  “Then why did your father call you Lark?” she insisted.

  “I like to sing, mum.”

  “Really?” Her face brightened, revealing hints of the lovely lass she’d once been when she smiled. She even sat down and lowered herself to his eye level. “Well, then, Alaric,” she said. “One day, you shall have to sing for me. Now, let’s find out just how clever a lad you are…”

  She began to teach him the very rudiments of his power that day. It took time for him to produce any results, but within a fortnight, Alaric could conjure tiny mage lights and set flame to candlewicks with his fingers and a word…

  “I’m not leaving him,” Fenelon’s voice filtered through the haze on Alaric’s brain. “Someone has to stay with him in case he wakes up and is confused.”

  “All right, I’ll have the guards fetch a pallet for ye then, but don’t you go risking yer own health by forgetting to eat and sleep yersel’,” Mistress Miranda could be heard to scold. “Granted, he’s young and healthy, but a mage fever that hot could last for days and fry his wits. Try to keep him cool and comfortable.”

  “I’ll see he sleeps from time to time,” Etienne said.

  Mage fever? Was that why Alaric felt so warm? But how did he get a mage fever? How had this fire come to burn in him? He drifted back into the chaos of his dreams.

  There was a fire the first time Ronan Tey came to Gordslea Hold. A small shed was set to blazing by a stroke of summer lightning. Marda used the opportunity to teach Alaric a water spell. He commanded the water from the well to rise and gather over the flames, but it scattered wide and wet down most of the keep and the yard as well. At that moment, Ronan Tey trudged through the gates, wrapped in layers of green and gold that resisted the dampening effects of Alaric’s small storm. Alaric was all of twelve then, and not too terribly shy. He placed himself protectively in front of Marda as the stranger came straight up to her.

  “Ronan!” Marda cried. She pushed past Alaric to embrace the man who gathered her close as though she were an old sweetheart, even though she looked old enough to be his grandmother. He swung her around, kissed her and planted her on her feet, and turned to look appraisingly at Alaric.

  “And who is this handsome young lad?” Ronan asked.

  “This is Alaric Braidwine, son of Master Braidwine and my pupil, so you’d best watch yourself,” Marda said. “Alaric, this is Ronan Tey, the greatest bard in Ard-Taebh and a very old friend of mine…”

  “Well met, Alaric Braidwine,” Ronan said and thrust forth a hand.

  Alaric hesitated, then took it and immediately spied the lute hidden under the folds of Ronan’s cloak. His wonder at the sight of the instrument was all it took to form a bond of friendship between man and boy, something Alaric’s sisters envied him for. They primped and preened like grouse in the spring, and all their efforts went sadly unnoticed.

  Ronan became a regular visitor to Gordslea Hold after that, and once he discovered Alaric natural skill at song, Ronan became tutor as well. Sometimes, he did not show his face for moons, and Alaric would fret he would never be able to move through the levels of bard training he so loved, but always Ronan came with new songs to teach and new stories to share.

  At least until that last time. Ronan was moody when he arrived, behaving more like a badger than his foxy self. He and Marda spoke alone for such a long time. Then he asked…no, he demanded the psaltery he had gifted Alaric with on his eighteenth birthday. Alaric gave it over, voicing uncertainty when Ronan said it needed new strings.

  “And who should know better, you or I,” Ronan said in a sharp manner that stung. He offered no more explanation than that as he took the psaltery and retired alone to the tower.

  When Alaric expressed concern, Marda told him not to fret, and insisted they take a walk in the fields and leave Ronan to his affairs. They went but a short ways, and she sat under an oak while Alaric sang. Eventually, lulled by the warmth and his songs, she fell asleep, tired old thing she was then. Alaric left her there and crept quietly back to the tower. He moved up the stairs like a shadow, his heart thundering in his ears. If he were caught, there would be a price. But he managed to slip into the conjuring room unnoticed, and there he witnessed a wonder that terrified him. For Ronan was singing to the psaltery, words in an unfamiliar tongue. Magic filled the air around him, and the psaltery glowed.

  Marda arrived at that moment, her face white with fright and exertion. She seized Alaric, startling him as she tried to drag him from the tower room. Ronan heard them both, and he turned. Alaric’s heart surged into his throat, for Ronan’s eyes were filled with fire. They shone blood red, like twin embers in a hearth. The demonic stare set such terror into Alaric that he turned to flee, practically running over Marda to escape. Only the door barred itself and refused to submit to his frantic battering. Marda surged towards the circle as though she knew what was about to happen.

  “Ah, that is what I need,” Ronan said. “Alaric, come here.”

  “No, Ronan, you must not,” she said.

  “I have no choice,” Ronan said and his voice had the power of a chorus of singers. “That which I carry must not be lost, or all hope for the world will be lost. I cannot risk this secret getting into the wrong hands. This is a better way…the only way. I told you long ago this day would come. I told you why as well, and you agreed to help me then. Would you break your bond to me now?”

  “But the psaltery…you could still keep it there. Alaric will take care of it. I know he will. I’ll see to it…”

  “The risk is too great, Marda,” Ronan said. “The psaltery could be stolen, lost or destroyed, and then…I
would be destroyed, and with my destruction all hope for the world would be lost as well.”

  “He’s only a lad, Ronan,” she said. “He’s too young to bear such a burden…Choose another, someone older…someone like yourself.”

  “There are no others like me in this land,” Ronan said, shaking his head. “Alaric’s youth will be his salvation. No one will ever suspect him. Come Alaric. Do not be afraid. I have something very important to give to you…”

  Alaric thought only of escape, but his will failed him as Ronan crossed the room and pulled him into the circle of power, and sealed it for all time. Ronan filled it with magic and a song that burned through Alaric like a fire gone wild. Its power coursed through his body and soul and he saw dragons and demons and all other manner of strange beings. This was a secret, Ronan said, and no man or woman or child could take it from Alaric until either the time came to pass it on to another or the need for it rose. “Or I take it back from you,” Ronan said, and his tone had a dreadful, ominous sound. Alaric cried, for it was both beautiful and frightening to behold the magic entwined in that song as it wove itself through flesh and bone and became a part of him along with the essence that Ronan had to give.

  And then, stone by soft stone, Ronan built a wall to keep it safely hidden in Alaric mind.

  Remember not, Alaric…remember not…

  He sucked a deep breath of air and opened his eyes.

  The room was dark. Sweat coursed his face, yet his throat felt as dry and gritty as weathered sand.

  “Well, well,” a voice said. “Welcome back.”

  Alaric tried to focus and to speak. Nothing but a croaking dry cough emerged.

  “Hey, easy,” Fenelon said.

  An arm gently slipped under Alaric, and a shoulder bolstered his head, lifting him up enough so that moisture could be brought to his lips. Greedily, Alaric sucked at it, wanting to drown the dryness of his throat.

  “Not so fast,” Fenelon said.

  “Fenelon?” Alaric whispered.

  “Good, your mind is intact,” Fenelon said. “You’ve been wandering in and out of lucidity for almost a full day now.”

  “I saw Marda,” Alaric said.

  “You called her name a time or two. And Ronan’s and your sisters, and you even sang a little…all quite entertaining, I might add,” Fenelon said and smiled. “Fever dreams. Do you remember any of them?”

  Alaric blinked. The wall was back. The memories of his dream state were gone. He couldn’t remember…He wasn’t allowed to. His hesitation must have been visible in his eyes.

  “That’s okay,” Fenelon said. “You just rest. I’ll talk. Etienne has translated more of the runes, but none of it makes any sense, all convoluted gibberish if you ask me. But no stranger, I suppose, than you suddenly developing the ability to sing a song in an Old Tongue you could not possibly know.”

  “What song?” Alaric asked.

  Fenelon shrugged, shifting the bed. “If I knew I’d tell you. Here now, you do need to rest, and Mistress Miranda will tie me to the wall if I don’t let her know you’re awake. Something about trying to get some food in you.”

  Alaric sighed. “You’ve been here the whole time?” he ventured, unsure if he should feel touched or amused.

  “Aye, and I’ll tell you, that pallet Mistress Miranda brought me must be stuffed with thistles. That’s the most lumpy, prickly bed I’ve ever rested on…”

  Alaric managed a half smile. “Sorry, I’ve been nothing but trouble for you since I came, haven’t I…?”

  “Not really,” Fenelon said. “I haven’t had this much fun in a long time.”

  “May I have some more water?” Alaric asked.

  “Sure, but you go slow this time.”

  Alaric nodded, fighting the urge to gulp when the water was brought to his lips. He took as much moisture as Fenelon would allow, then lay back, exhausted from the effort as Fenelon slipped away.

  Then Mistress Miranda came by. She called him “poor wee lamb” and insisted he swallow some thick beef broth. He obliged her more because he figured she would just force it down his throat. And only when he did swallow most of it was he allowed to sink back into his pillows and fall asleep.

  ~

  Tane chose a house not too far from Dun Gealach on the northern side of Caer Keltora, for which Vagner was grateful. The demon was more than happy to be well away from the mage wards and demon traps. Even in this form, the faint hints of that power plagued him.

  In this part of the city, the houses were fine and well kept, almost small castles nestled side by side with large gardens, stables and multiple servant’s quarters.

  The dwelling Tane chose was empty of most luxuries since its true owners were away. For a reason Vagner did not dare question, so were the servants. In fact, the demon was startled to find a contingency of bandits dressed in livery scattered about the place looking none too happy. They were the ones who served Tane from time to time, and all of them looked ludicrous to the demon.

  About as ludicrous as I do, I imagine…

  “Just how do you plan to get him here,” Vagner could not help but ask.

  “By invitation, of course,” Tane said. “And a bit of bribery.”

  The demon leaned around the high backed chair Tane now claimed, as watched the bloodmage open a small sack. Tane drew out a large red ruby.

  “That’s worth a king’s ransom, I’ll wager,” the demon said. Not that he cared for gems that possessed no magic.

  “Yes,” Tane said, smiling, “and worth the sacrifice.”

  “Sacrifice?” the demon said, sounding hopeful. Sacrifices generally meant leftovers to feed the demon.

  “Well, I can hardly expect to bribe the High Mage of Dun Gealach with anything less than a grand token of my esteem,” Tane said as he held the gem on eye level and allowed the light of the candle on his table to play through its facets. “And I certainly can’t risk sending him anything false or imbued with magic. Besides, once he has this lovely gem, I think he will more than show his gratitude by sending young Alaric Braidwine here to teach my darling granddaughter about playing the psaltery.”

  Vagner wrinkled his tiny nose in disgust. Humans and their greed. He would never understand how they could think amassing wealth made them important. If it had no magic and could not be eaten, what good was it?

  With a sigh, the demon slipped away. He would seek other sport while Tane composed his letter to the High Mage. There were plenty of rats in the cellar. Vagner could sense them…

  He was hungry again, and rats were better than nothing.

  ~

  Alaric surfaced again after a hard sleep without dreams. He felt the urgency of his bladder as he tried to sit up. The room was filled with grey light—morning or evening, he pondered—and Fenelon was dozing on the pallet across the way.

  Horns, Alaric thought as the effort to get upright exhausted him. He made it to the edge of the bed, and clinging firmly to the wooden frame, he leaned over to look for the chamber pot.

  Not good, he quickly learned. In his weakened state, his shift of position only served to slowly pitch him forward.

  “Hey!” he heard Fenelon call, and just when Alaric thought he would be bouncing his nose off the floor, hands caught him by the shoulders, and a body worked him back upright.

  “I don’t think you’re ready for that just yet,” Fenelon teased.

  “Chamber pot,” Alaric muttered.

  “Ah,” Fenelon said. He used one hand to hold Alaric in place and reached under the bed for the chamber pot. “One chamber pot. Do you need a hand?”

  “I’ve got two,” Alaric muttered and tried to stand.

  Fenelon held Alaric down and pushed the pot between his knees. “I’m pleased to know that bardic wit is also intact, but I think you should sit this one out,” he said with a grin.

  Fortunately, they had stripped Alaric down to a nightshirt, reducing the need to fumble with laces or breechclout. And he was too weak to argue modesty as he reliev
ed himself. Once the chore was finished, Fenelon put the chamber pot out of the way and got Alaric back under the blankets.

  “How do you feel?” Fenelon said.

  Alaric flopped himself into the pillow, lying on his side. “Like I was in the path of a stampede of boulders,” he said. “How long did I sleep?”

  “Most of the night,” Fenelon said. “It’s nearly dawn. Mistress Miranda ought to be making the rounds in a short time. We’ll see what she says about getting you healed up, out of this bed and back on your feet again.”

  “Do I have feet?” Alaric muttered and closed his eyes. Right now, his whole body reminded him of limp cabbage.

  Fenelon chuckled. Alaric heard the chair bump the side of the bed. He pried open one eye and met a smile.

  “Aye, you’ve got them, and I need you on them as soon as possible,” Fenelon said.

  “Why?” Alaric asked.

  “Because, we need to go visit Marda.”

  “Marda? Why?”

  “I’ve been thinking. This thing you’ve got walled up in your head…it’s not that old. It’s something more recent.”

  “How can you tell?” Alaric asked, sounding puzzled.

  “Trust me I was introduced to its presence enough to figure that out.”

  “Are you suggesting Marda put it there?” Alaric said.

  “No, but she might know who did,” Fenelon said with a guarded smile. “And her knowledge could be in some way tied to the map and all the recent events…”

  “How?”

  “Well, I don’t know that you’re up to all this information just now,” Fenelon said.

  “How?” Alaric repeated and tried to push his face out of the pillow. The effort cost him dearly. He dropped into the soft surface again, too weak to try a third time.

  “All right, all right,” Fenelon said and leaned forward. “I did a little checking on the origin of that map—or rather, Etienne did it for me since I’ve hardly left your side. My grandfather Colm Greenfyn was the one who wrested it from a bloodmage named Eleron Blackwind.”

  Alaric frowned. Why did that name sound familiar? Something to do with one of Alaric’s dreams?