He would see it fulfilled.
***
Akiri opened his eyes. He was not dead. Yet.
Light filled the room, making it impossible to focus. The pain in his shoulder had subsided. It was little more than a dull throb, though how long it would remain so once he started moving was anyone’s guess. Slowly, as his vision cleared, the blurs of the room resolved into the face of an old monk with gray eyes and the deep lines of a life hard lived carved into his skin staring down at him. He held a clay cup to Akiri’s lips.
The cool water soothed his throat, but he could only drink so much before he began coughing.
“How long have I been here?” he asked eventually.
“Not long,” the old monk replied, in a thin whisper of a voice. He looked weary beyond his incredible years. His posture was bent over almost double, the hunch of his spine level with his head as he leaned forward. “Your resilience is astounding. The bond with the dragon must be strong indeed to have enhanced your merkesh so much.”
Akiri hid his surprise. “You know of such things?”
The old man shrugged and placed the cup on the side table. “A little. Not as much as I should like. Mostly from my studies as a young man.”
“You were a scholar?”
“And a healer.”
“And a man in need of rest,” called a voice from the door.
Julla stood beneath the arch, her arms crossed over her chest, frowning.
“I am all too aware, dear lady,” said the monk.
She waited until he rose awkwardly and tottered from the cell, and still didn’t say anything until she was sure he had left the hallway. She moved to Akiri’s bedside. “Brother Korbyn has been tending to the wounded all night. I don’t know much about healing magic, but each time he rose from his ministrations, it looked as though another little piece of himself was left behind.”
“He’s a mage?” That would be most unusual. It was a rare monastery that allowed a sorcerer to take refuge in their ranks.
“Not really. A healer.” She examined the dressings on his shoulder. “Not all magic is fire and death, you know.” She offered a slight smile at that. “It was a blessing he was here, too. You wouldn’t have made it through the night without his care. When you fought Seyla’s father, he… put something inside you. Or at least that’s how Brother Korbyn described it.”
The thought sent a chill down Akiri’s back. “Did he say what?”
“Just that he had left a part of his evil inside you.”
Akiri touched the wound tentatively, imaging a fate where he became a thing of death like Cammaric. The thought was beyond terrifying. “And he is certain it is gone?”
She nodded. “He said so. But I think healing you did something to him… hurt him somehow, in ways beyond what’s normal. Not that I’ve seen much in the way of magic. But you could see it on his face. Like years had been stolen from his life. ”
Akiri would have to find a way to repay the old monk. To save him from such a gruesome fate put Akiri deeply in his debt. It was another that he would repay when the time came, he vowed silently. “And what of Brother Mallorie?”
“He’s resting. Brother Korbyn did all he could.”
“Can he speak?”
Julla shook her head. “He may never wake. What do you need to ask him?”
Akiri thought about lying, but the woman deserved to know. “He said the creatures had come for the boy. If that is true, I need to know why.”
Julla knitted her brow. “Seyla?”
He nodded. “There are answers here somewhere. The monks know something. I’m sure of it. And if I don’t find out, I fear it will not be the last we see of those things. They didn’t get whatever they came for. And my guess is that they’ll keep coming until they do.”
Akiri tried to rise, but a wave of nausea swelled up to fill his throat. He fought it down.
“Brother Korbyn said you should wait until this evening before getting out of bed.”
Akiri stubbornly tried again, but with the same results.
Julla shook her head and sighed. “Bullheaded, just like my husband.”
After checking his bandages one more time, she left to attend to the other wounded men. There was little Akiri could do save lie there and think. He mulled over everything that happened since meeting the boy at the edge of the burning village, and the one undeniable truth was that Mallorie was right: they were after the boy. They had to be. From the very first one he had encountered in Cammaric’s home, they were drawn to him. But why?
It was early afternoon before Akiri finally rose to face the day, albeit weakened. He should have rested longer, but the notion of remaining in bed had his anxiety flaring. He needed answers, and every minute he wasted in bed was a minute closer to the next attack. It might not end so well the next time.
He entered the hallway. The moans of the wounded and the sobs of mourning haunted the corridors. They had brought this down upon these people. They had brought the dead to their door. And still he needed to beg them for more help. Julla taking the children down the mountain alone was nothing short of a death sentence, whether the boy was the lodestone drawing the dead or not.
He went from room to room until he found Brother Mallorie.
He was unconscious, as Julla had said. “Where would I find Brother Korbyn?” he asked the monk attending Mallorie.
“His room is in the tower, behind the main building,” he told him. “But I think he’s resting.”
“My thanks,” Akiri said and made his way outside into the courtyard. He knew what he needed to do. It was hard to believe that so many had fallen out here; at first glance it seemed so ordinary. The only trace of the slaughter was the footprints in the snow, which told their own story of the conflict. The bodies of both the enemy and the fallen monks had been taken away, and a thin stream of smoke beyond the wall marked the funeral pyre. They’d decided against the main courtyard, which was wise. The stench would get inside the building otherwise. He scuffed his boot across the blood-stained ground, churning up soil.
Kyra was far to the north, hunting again. Her appetite, he had noticed, had increased lately. The little lore he’d found suggested a fledgling dragon did not require food often and could survive incredible spans of time, months rather than days, between meals. Kyra, it seemed, enjoyed the hunt. But then, she was still very young. Perhaps it still felt like a game to her?
He walked around to the rear of the main building, where he saw a small watchtower. Smoke was rising from a chimney pipe in its roof, and despite the cold, two monks sat outside talking quietly.
“Turn back, slayer. Brother Korbyn can’t be disturbed,” one of the two monks called. His tone was soft, but his eyes couldn’t conceal his anger at the sight of Akiri.
“I must speak with him,” he insisted. “I’ll be brief.”
“I told you – he can’t be disturbed. I don’t care who you think you are, you’re not getting in. Our brother must rest. Now be gone.”
Akiri stepped menacingly forward. “Do not test my patience, monk. Stand aside or I will remove you.”
To his credit, the monk would not be cowed. “Do not threaten me.”
“I do not make threats. I need to speak with Brother Korbyn, and I will speak with him.” Akiri’s tone was as hard and cold as the mountain. “So I will say one last time: stand aside.”
“No,” the monk said stubbornly. Though a full head shorter than Akiri and not nearly as broad in the shoulder, he stepped forward and gave him a defiant stare.
Akiri had no desire to hurt the monk. After all, he still needed them to shelter Julla and the children. And in truth, he was impressed by the smaller man’s courage.
The tension built until a voice called from inside.
“Let him come.”
After a brief hesitation, the monk looked to the door, then back to Akiri. He stepped aside. “He is not well. Be quick. He needs his rest.”
“I understand,” Akiri said, then eas
ed the door open.
Brother Korbyn lay on an old rickety cot that had been placed near a cast iron stove for warmth. His skin was deathly pale, the lines craggier now than they had been earlier that day. The old man nodded toward the single chair.
Akiri moved it beside the bed and sat down. “You are ill?”
“You could say that. I am dying.” The old man eased himself up a little. His gray eyes were clouded over and his lips trembled.
“Because of the healing you performed on me?”
“Because I am an old man,” he replied, with a fragile smile. “It is my time. A man cannot avoid his destiny.”
“We make our own destiny,” said Akiri.
Brother Korbyn chuckled. “If that is so, how is it you came to be here at this time, when you are most needed? Julla told me of your arrival at her village and how you saved them. Do you really think that was chance? That, my boy, is the divine hand at play.” He tapped the side of his nose. “The gods have their eyes on you. Even an old fool like me can see that.”
“I didn’t come here to discuss the gods,” said Akiri.
“I’m sure you didn’t.”
“I need to understand what is happening.”
“I will help unravel it for you if I can.”
“Mallorie said that the creatures were after the boy.”
Korbyn nodded. “He bears the mark of the necromancer. His father brought him to us when he was still very young. He said that it had appeared overnight after the boy had suffered a fever. Fool that I was, I told him that it was nothing to worry himself over; a latent birthmark brought on by his illness. A scar of sorts. But I was wrong.” He breathed a weary sigh. “I think that perhaps I knew the danger even then. But I refused to admit it. And that is the shame I shall bear into the next world.”
Akiri remembered the peculiar mark he’d seen on Seyla’s arm. “What does it mean?’
“Put bluntly, it means dark magic has touched him. It draws evil to him. And it will not stop until the darkness has him. More than that, I don’t know. Such lore is forbidden. I may be old, but I am not eager to open the door to that kind of evil.”
“But he isn’t damned, surely. There must be a way to save him.”
“Not one that I know.”
Akiri considered this for a moment, and then asked, “Yarrow? Does the word mean anything to you?”
“Yarrow? Where did you hear that?”
“It doesn’t matter. Do you know what it means?”
“I don’t see how Yarrow could have anything to do with this,” the old man said.
“What is it?”
“Yarrow is both a what, and a who,” he explained. “It’s a rare herb found near the Cliffs of the Dragon, believed to have arcane properties, though only the most skilled alchemists would know how to use it. I have heard it said that it can prolong the life of any mortal creature. Others claim it has extraordinary healing properties.”
It didn’t make sense that Cammaric would waste his final word on an herb unless he was begging for its healing touch, which didn’t seem likely. “You said it’s also a who?”
“Yes. The herb was named for a legendary sorcerer, a man of vast knowledge and incredible power… and unsurpassed evil. He searched ceaselessly for the secret to immortality; hence the mockery in the name of the herb and its alleged properties. He’s been dead for centuries, though, fallen prey to his own dark desires.”
“How?”
“He believed the secret rested in the life force of the Elder Dragons. The first dragon, to be more specific. The mother of them all. He sought to drain the life force out of her for himself, but perished in the attempt. You have to understand, it was all so long ago. Yarrow is nothing more than a cautionary tale, a name that has lost all meaning apart from how far a man can fall, how evil his desires can become should he give in to the dark arts. It may be nothing more than a myth. Who knows? But even if the wildest aspects of his story were true, I don’t see how this has anything to do with the boy.”
“It was the last word Cammaric spoke, from beyond the grave – a final message. It has to mean something.”
Korbyn lowered his eyes. “Julla told me the boy saw everything.”
Akiri ignored the comment. “You saw what happened out there. Nothing about this attack was natural. It has to be the work of dark magic,” he mused. “The dead don’t rise on their own. Someone is driving them to purpose.”
“Perhaps someone is using Yarrow’s name. A pretender. Someone who has chosen the dark path.”
“If so, I need to find him. But first I need to find somewhere safe for the boy.”
“Seyla can remain with us.”
“If they return, you cannot protect him,” said Akiri, bluntly.
“We can mask his presence here for a time,” said Korbyn. “We have gifts of our own. We were caught unaware before. It will not happen again.” His body convulsed as the coughing took hold, and Akiri reached for the clay cup beside the bed and offered it. He accepted, though was only barely able to hold it to his lips. It was painfully obvious the monk’s time was nearly up.
“Do you have an idea where I should start looking?”
Brother Korbyn handed back the cup and thought for a long moment. “If we can hide the boy, the creatures may return to their master. That’s all I can think of.”
If there are any left that Kyra hasn’t torn to pieces, he thought. He would need her eyes to scour the mountainsides. If the old monk was right, there might be a track that led eventually back to this Yarrow… or whoever it was behind this. He looked to Korbyn. The old man was all but spent. He could barely keep his eyes open.
“You saved my life. I owe you a debt I will never be able to repay.”
“You will,” he said, his voice a hush. “Save the boy. Save him from this fate… and my folly.”
SIX
CHAPTER SIX
Julla saw him to the gate. It was an hour before dawn.
“Don’t worry about Seyla,” she told him. “He’ll understand in time.”
The monks had moved the boy into the main chapel and set up a cot near a massive stone altar, above which hung a burnished golden image of Mishna in all of her glory. Akiri had no interest in setting foot inside that holy place. There were no prayers for his lips these days. He offered the brothers more coin to cover the boy’s keep, and assured them he would return for Seyla once whoever had loosed this evil upon the world was answering to the god whose laws his abominations defied.
Kyra flew ahead to scout the mountainside. He watched her in the distance, a crimson jewel in the blue sky.
By the time Akiri reached the cave where they had sheltered, she had hunted out three of the creatures wandering aimlessly about the lower reaches of the valley, dragging themselves forward on broken bones.
It would take days to make his descent. The trail was covered with thick snow under sheets of ice. The horse was nowhere to be found, though hoofprints in the snow suggested that she had decided to make her own way down the mountain.
He kept walking.
When he reached the village, he took a moment to sift through the rubble of Cammaric’s ravaged home. The charred bodies of his family remained, perfectly preserved in the cold, as did the first creature Akiri had fought. Though he did not have time to give them a proper burial, he promised himself he would upon his return. He found his friend’s Dul’Buhar dagger and tucked it into his belt. This he would pass on to Seyla as his inheritance. Everything else was burned beyond salvaging
He studied the dead over the next few days as they wandered aimlessly, no thought or reason driving their motion. None attempted to ascend the mountain. He took that to mean the monks were good to their word, and their wardings had successfully hidden the boy from their sight. He only wished it could have happened sooner and saved a few lives in the process.
Kyra picked off five more over the next two days, careful always to leave one alive in case it heard the call to head for home. When he
finally reached the mouth of the pass, they had yet to do anything other than walk in meaningless patterns, scattered across the valley floor and into mile upon mile of dense forest.
Akiri made his way to a vantage point that offered a good view of the landscape below and where he could easily follow them should they flee to their master’s side. He took up position and waited.
Kyra filled his mind with images of their shuffling wanderings. They would not escape him. The following day, the clouds returned, heavy with snow. It was rare for more than a few days to pass at this altitude without fresh falls, and with the temperatures so low for such a long part of the year, the frost was near permanent.
Akiri’s patience was sorely tested. It was hard to do nothing. As a Dul’Buhar he had waited with near infinite patience: watching his enemy, gauging their weaknesses, planning his assault. But this was different. The need for vengeance was driving him. It scattered his mind, forcing him to use his years of training and discipline to focus. Once, he found himself on the verge of stealing into the valley below intent on hunting the things down one by one and ending their miserable existence, but before he could, Kyra spotted a new figure emerge from a densely forested area just beyond a sapphire blue lake far below the ice line in the eastern shadow of the mountains. She shared her vision, and at first, he was inclined to think she had merely rooted out another of the undead. But as Kyra fed him more details, filling his mind with the man in blue and black robes, he realized the others had stopped, turned, and begun to drag themselves toward the newcomer.
Was this their master?
Stay out of sight, he told her.
He could feel her anger swelling; her desire to mete out justice; to bring death from the sky raining down like the wrath of the gods.
Wait, Akiri said firmly. You’ll get your chance.
Kyra reluctantly obeyed and ascended far above the clouds, out of the sight of mortal eyes.
Tracking the undead in the snow was a simple enough task; it demanded little in the way of woodland lore to read scuff marks in the otherwise pristine white. Even if the newcomer fled, there was nowhere he could run that Akiri could not follow. Not with Kyra watching from her lofty position. Akiri concentrated his attention on the newcomer, the intensity of thought conveying his intentions to Kyra. The dragon understood him. She knew him better than he knew himself at times.
Akiri: Dragonbane Page 10
