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

by Laura J Underwood

  “NO!” she heard Fenelon shout. He ran towards the conflagration like a mad man. “Alaric…!”

  Etienne threw herself after Fenelon. She seized his arm and jerked back, and digging heels into the heath, she used her weight to deter him. He flailed, so she wrapped arms around him and refused to be shaken.

  “No! Let go!” he ranted.

  “Fenelon, we can’t go in there!”

  “But he’s in there!” Fenelon cried and struggled to pull free. “I know he’s in there! Damn you, Tane! I will hunt you to the ends of the world, you bastard!”

  Etienne tightened her grasp. By the horns, Fenelon would get himself killed just trying to avenge poor Alaric. She would help him, she knew, but not like this. Not when Fenelon was spewing curses at the sky and the flames…

  Then something tickled her senses with dread. Moments later, the burn of demon essence tore the air. Shona shouted and pointed to the sky, and Fenelon’s struggles ceased. Etienne’s eyes were drawn to the source of the bitter essence. High above them, blackness had warped the air, and disgorged a fiend with chiropteran wings.

  “It’s got someone in its arms,” Shona said, half hopeful and half afraid.

  It was difficult for Etienne to agree. The demon moved swiftly and became a small speck in the firmament. But suddenly, it stopped and began to descend, coming right at them.

  “Get back!” Fenelon shouted and shoved Etienne away.

  The fiend landed a few wing lengths away. At first, it crouched and snarled at them as it clutched something to its chest. Etienne did let go of Fenelon this time, but only because she felt him drawing essence to fuel his lightning spell, and she didn’t want to be in the way when it struck.

  “Wait!” a familiar voice cried weakly. “Stop! Don’t…”

  Only then did Etienne realize the bedraggled and bloodied shape in filthy rags that seemed to flop out of the demon’s arms was Alaric. He struggled to keep on his feet, though it was obvious the task cost him. Still, Alaric staggered forward, keeping himself between Fenelon and the demon.

  “Alaric, get out of the way!” Fenelon said harshly.

  “No!” Alaric said. “Vagner…run!”

  “What?” the demon said. “And leave you with this spell-happy fool?”

  Alaric sang a wordless song that seemed little more than a jumble of notes then shouted, “By your True Name, leave this place!” The demon hissed and lurched away, looking stung and indignant as it threw itself into the air.

  Fenelon shifted, preparing to call the lightning spell once more, but Alaric clumsily hurled himself forward, tackling Fenelon. They went down, rolled and stopped. Cursing, Fenelon scrambled upright, but by the time he made it back to his feet, the demon was already gone.

  Alaric did not get up, however. He remained a tossled heap of limbs and rags on the grass. His breathing was hoarse and belabored as Etienne knelt at his side. At least his heart was beating. Shona crowded close behind Etienne.

  “Is he alive?” Shona asked.

  “What in the name of Cernunnos did you go and do that for, Alaric,” Fenelon snapped. “I could have accidentally killed you!”

  “Fenelon, he cannot hear you just now,” Etienne said as her experienced eyes took in the multiple injuries with dismay. “He needs a True Healer…and quickly too. Poor lamb. Look at him. He’s been tortured.”

  Fenelon stopped ranting and knelt at Alaric’s side. “Oh, Horns! Etiennne, look at this!”

  Fenelon lifted Alaric’s right hand and drew the fingers back. The palm bore a livid cut, a glyph, and even Etienne recognized a demon’s mark. Alaric, what have you done… She touched the raw mark, fighting tears.

  “We can’t take him back to Dun Gealach,” Fenelon said. “Not wearing this. Turlough will have Alaric’s head on a pike if the old fart sees this.”

  “But Alaric needs a True Healer, Fenelon,” she protested. “I haven’t the skill to deal with all this.” She gestured to the cuts and bruises, many of which were unhealed.

  “Then we’ll take him to Eldon Keep,” Fenelon said. “I know a True Healer named Storne who is usually hanging around Bengore this time of the year. He’ll come, if asked, and question nothing. I know he will. Give me a hand with him.”

  Etienne sighed and helped Fenelon to lift the young man from the ground so they could carry him through a spell gate. Shona insisted on lending a hand to the task, and the women supported Alaric between them, which left Fenelon free to begin his spell.

  Oh, Alaric, what have you done, Etienne wondered as the air shimmered and parted to reveal a friendly hall.

  She looked at Shona’s pitiful expression of anguish and fought the urge to weep in sympathy.

  THIRTY EIGHT

  Freedom! Vagner flew northwest and let the wind pass over his wings. Freedom! No more Tane. As far as the demon’s first master knew, Vagner was dead. He had no fear of being summoned back out of the demon realms now.

  To celebrate, Vagner stole a pair of fat, shaggy Keltoran cattle, swooping down on them in dragon form and carrying them up into the snow-capped bens. There, he settled down on a ledge and promptly devoured the bawling bovines, along with a wild ram who made the mistake of wandering in on the demon’s feast.

  Sated on warm blood and flesh, the demon leaned back like a lord and sucked the marrow from the bones strewn about him. Ah, this was the life he had dreamed of so long. The life he had left when he became a prisoner of Tane’s whims.

  Go, be a god if you like, Vagner thought. Once I am home, what will I care for the puny matter of even punier men. May they all come to rot and ruin.

  His only regret was that he would not be able to hear any more of the little bard’s songs. Small loss, he assured himself and closed his eyes. A ray of sun broke through the ever-present clouds and warmed his fur ruff and sleek scales. Vagner smiled…

  And then he felt it. The whisper of his True Name.

  The demon sat bolt upright and cast about him with a snarl. Who dared!

  It came again, soft and gentle as spring rain. His True Name vibrated in his demon soul, a feather stroke, yet ever so clear. The little master? No, not Alaric. Another sang Vagner’s name and slipped honeyed magic into every note.

  “No!” he cried and launched into the air. This could not be. Tane could not be calling for the song of Vagner’s True Name never sounded so sweet and tempting on the bloodmage’s tongue. Tane always filled the call with acid and pain. This came as soothing as a mother’s caress. Over and over, it summoned the demon, and though he rushed northward towards Mallow, he could not evade the beckoning. With an anguished cry of frustration, Vagner stepped into the Between and waited, but even there, the ethereal call found him.

  What have I done?

  Still raging, Vagner followed the summons, slipping out of the Between and into the air over a keep perched atop a tor and skirted in a thick forest. The summons came from this place. Vagner rushed at it, determined to end the call and escape.

  But he could not reach the keep. As soon as Vagner tried, he felt a wall of pain. Demon wards marked everything, and someone had recently tightened them.

  He could do nothing more than circle the outer edges and rage at the voice inside still singing his True Name. In desperation, he broke limbs from trees and chucked them over the walls and into the courtyard, and at the walkways and windows. His anger attracted a good deal of attention too. A laundry woman about to hang wash ran screaming when a branch took down her line. Stable hands and servants rushed about shouting and pointing towards the sky.

  Then the Greenfyn who was master here came out atop the keep. In anger, he tossed lightning bolts, but Vagner saw they were merely intended to drive him away. He dodged them easily enough and continued to scream and rage at the voice. His high-pitched chiropteran shrieks echoed all around, but did nothing to silence the call.

  At last, the demon bored of his fury. He settled into the forest below, hiding among the rocks, howling each time the voice called.

 
Perhaps he should just bury his head in the dirt to see if that would rid him of the agony.

  ~

  “I think he’ll be quite useful to us in the long run,” Ronan Tey said and plucked an apple from the branches of the old tree.

  He sat up in its branches, though Alaric sort of wondered how since this was just a dream. And anyway, Alaric was on the ground trying to shake the last of his own painful memories back in order. He wanted to bury everything in him that had been fouled by Tane.

  “Very useful,” Ronan said and took a bite of the apple. All around them, the demon’s name swirled, and the wordless song was starting to get on Alaric’s nerves.

  “And what makes you say that?” Alaric asked, lying back in the soft grass, trying to ignore the song.

  “Demons can be very useful,” Ronan said. He smiled as if enjoying a private jest.

  “Only to a bloodmage,” Alaric said and frowned. “Which I am not.”

  “Ah, but bloodmages merely abuse demon powers… In the old days, the Old Ones knew their true worth. Besides, we have his True Name, and we still have to stop Tane…”

  “We?”

  “Well, I can hardly desert you now after all I have put you through. I need you, Lark…more than you will ever know.”

  “Oh, good,” Alaric said and closed his eyes. “At least you acknowledge that all this is your fault…but this is just a dream, Ronan, and you’re nothing more than a memory and…”

  “Nothing more than a memory?” Ronan said. His sudden laughter rang, nearly drowning the demon’s name. “Surely you jest, Lark…or can it be…?”

  “What?” Alaric opened his eyes and looked up at the sly mockery in that smile.

  “Marda didn’t tell you after all,” Ronan said.

  “Marda couldn’t tell me,” Alaric rebuked and lunged to his feet. He felt like shaking the tree and seeing if he could dislodge the bard. “You made her give her word not to tell me!”

  Ronan continued to smile. “Poor Lark,” he said. “You have so much more to learn, and we have so little time. But you’ll figure it out, I’m sure. You’d better wake up now.”

  “I don’t want to wake up,” Alaric said.

  He seized the tree and found he could actually shake it as though it were little more than a sapling. Ronan yelped as he was tossed from the branches. But he somersaulted like a professional tumbler and landed on his feet, finishing the move with a sweeping bow.

  “I want answers, and I want them now!” Alaric said and lunged at the master bard.

  “No time,” Ronan said, and still laughing, he just disappeared. Alaric passed through the place where Ronan had stood and began to fall. The grass disappeared as well, leaving Alaric tumbling through empty space.

  The sense of floating gave way to weightiness, and the sensations of warmth and sweat and pain. Alaric moaned and opened his eyes.

  “Ah, so you are still with us after all, Bless the Brother,” an unfamiliar voice said.

  Alaric looked up at the friendly face of an older man with silvery hair tied back from his round face, and a smile that held a promise of comfort and ease. Gentle hands sopped sweat from Alaric’s brow.

  “My name is Brother Storne,” the man said. “Do you know where you are?”

  “No,” Alaric said, “and I don’t care…”

  Brother Storne’s bushy brows rose just a hint, but his friendly smile never wavered.

  “As long as it’s not where I was,” Alaric added with a sigh.

  “That is most understandable,” Brother Storne said. “Here, now. Let’s get a bit of this in you.”

  He took up a beaker from a table by the bed and poured a portion of its contents into a mug, then added water and stirred the mixture. Alaric watched the process, feeling a little dazed and bemused. Brother Storn’s meaty arm easily lifted Alaric from his pillow so he could take the liquid without choking.

  “Just a few sips at a time…there we go. Easy now…”

  Alaric found the gentle words a comfort especially after all he had been through over these last few…days? He had no concept of time.

  At last the mug was empty, and Alaric was allowed to sink back into the soft pillow. Wooziness flooded him, and the edges of pain grew dull.

  “Better?” Brother Storne asked.

  Alaric nodded. “Where am I,” he asked, now curious for all he could see in the soft light was Brother Storne and the bedclothes.

  “You are in Eldon Keep,” Brother Storne said.

  “Then it wasn’t a dream,” Alaric said. “The demon got me out…”

  Brother Storne cocked his head. “Why don’t you rest?”

  “Where’s Fenelon?” Alaric asked. “I must see Fenelon.”

  “It’s late, and the others are resting,” Brother Storne said. “Just relax. I’m going to fetch you a bit of broth from the hearth…”

  “No, please,” Alaric said. “I need to talk to Fenelon. Please, there’s so little time.”

  Brother Storne sighed. “Very well, I will go see if I can awaken him. But first you must swallow the broth. And you must promise you’ll try to sleep.”

  “I won’t have much of a choice, will I?” Alaric said wearily.

  “No, you won’t” Brother Storne said with a good-natured chuckle. He rose from his seat by the bed and disappeared for a time. And then he was back with a cup of broth. He propped Alaric upright once more and brought the cup to his lips. Warm and thick, the broth flowed into his mouth, and the realization he had not eaten in a while rose with the audible rumble of his stomach.

  “Easy now,” Brother Storne said, “I’ll not have it all coming back up because you were greedy…”

  Alaric tried to be patient.

  ~

  Etienne roused first to the gentle knock on Fenelon’s bedchamber door. With a deep breath, she rose, pulling a robe about her. Fenelon hardly stirred. Quietly, she padded across the floor, flicking mage senses at the essence beyond, and feeling the warm aura of Brother Storne. He stood in the corridor, hands slipped in the sleeves of his robe, as Etienne opened the door.

  “He’s asking for Fenelon,” Storne said in a whisper. “He says it’s important.”

  “I’ll see if I can wake Fenelon,” she said. “How is Alaric faring?”

  “Weak at the moment,” Brother Storne said, “but quite happy and relieved to be here…”

  Etienne nodded. Horns, she didn’t really want to think about what Alaric must have been through as she made her way back to the bed. She had assisted Brother Storne with the dressing of Alaric’s physical wounds. Those marks left by a slim dagger had oozed and looked poisonous before the Brother called his True Healing into play. She had given up counting the number of cuts and bruises poor Alaric wore.

  “Fenelon,” she said softly, and crawled onto the bed. “Fenelon…?”

  “Hmmph?” he murmured, his breathing still shallow and even.

  “Fenelon, Alaric is asking for you,” she said.

  Fenelon’s eyes flashed open. He sat up quick, then grabbed his head and groaned. “Ahhhhh…” He took a deep breath. “He’s awake?” he finally asked.

  “I would assume so since it’s unlikely he could ask for you in his sleep.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him,” Fenelon said, rubbing his face. “He can sing in his sleep, you know…”

  “Yes, I know. Brother Storne was just at the door,” she said. “I don’t think he’d be here if it was Alaric talking in his sleep.”

  Fenelon nodded, scrounging for clothes. It took some effort for him to get them on right. Etienne used the time to dress. She wasn’t sure of the hour, but it could have been close to dawn. Alas, it was too dark to tell at the moment.

  She watched Fenelon wash his face, rake fingers through his red hair and put himself in order. Still, Etienne could see the strain of being awakened in the dark circles under his eyes. No doubt, she had them as well.

  Once they were ready, they crossed the hall and quietly entered Alaric’s ro
om. Brother Storne had returned to his place at the young man’s side. Alaric’s eyes were closed. His dank hair stuck to his face in limp strands. He looked whiter than the linens just now. Etienne glanced at Fenelon’s stoic mask. Whatever he felt at seeing Alaric looking so frail, he kept to himself.

  “Alaric,” Brother Storne said in a soft whisper, leaning close to his patient. “Fenelon is here.”

  Alaric’s eyes fluttered open. “Fenelon,” he said. His voice was a weak whisper. “Tane…Tane Doran has the secret of the Dragon’s Tongue. I tried but I just couldn’t stop him…”

  “It’s not your fault, Alaric,” Fenelon said. His cheerful expression fell away. Worry seethed across his face as he moved to the opposite side of the bed and sat down on the edge. “How are you feeling, old friend?”

  Alaric’s eyes filled with tears. “Better…I think…I don’t really know. Fenelon, I’m sorry. I should have listened to you. I should have…”

  “Hey, don’t,” Fenelon said and took Alaric’s right hand. “You have no reason to apologize to me. I’m the one who should swallow his pride and beg for your forgiveness. I was just carried away, that’s all. I should never have pushed you like I did when Marda died. I should have listened to you.”

  Alaric opened his mouth, but the only sound to fall from his lips was a ragged sob.

  “Shhhhh, it’s okay,” Fenelon said, and in spite of Brother Storne’s grave disapproval, he slipped arms around Alaric and gathered him close. “It’s all right, Alaric…we’ll fix it…We’ll fix everything. I promise.”

  Etienne bit her lip, hoping to keep her own tears in check as she watched Alaric weeping against Fenelon’s shoulder. For moments, those sobs were the only sound to fill the chamber. Eventually, the sobs became snubs. Alaric looked limp and weak, his grip on Fenelon slowly relaxing. At last, Fenelon let go, sliding Alaric back into the pillows. Brother Storne offered a bit of dry linen to Fenelon who used it to clean Alaric’s face.

  “Look,” Fenelon said and smiled. “There’s a lot we need to talk about, but you’re in no condition, and I really need to catch up on my sleep.”