Realms of the Dragons vol.1 a-9

by Коллектив Авторов

  "They are true," Abbot Meremont interrupted. "Several younger brothers found Arranoth's body in the root cellar." The abbot paused, casting a glance back at the half-dragon. "His throat had been torn out."

  The half-dragon jumped to his feet, as if burned. The sudden movement upended his chair, and it tilted wildly before crashing to the stone floor.

  "Then, Blessed One, I submit myself to Ilmater's justice," Drakken nearly growled. His head swam with conflicting emotion. Relief at finally being caught warred with anger and underneath it all, a disturbing sense of satisfaction. "Confine me to my cell until you have passed judgment," he continued, the words spilling out in a torrent. "Lock me away before I kill again! I am a danger-"

  "Enough!" Meremont shouted.

  Drakken recoiled as if hed been slapped and found himself staring numbly at the formidable cleric, as if seeing for the first time the man whom the young novices called "The Iron Abbot."

  "Unless something very unusual has happened within the last few minutes," Meremont continued in a softer, but no less unyielding voice, "I am still the spiritual head of this abbey. And-" his eyes flashed a dangerous warning as Drakken opened his mouth to speak-"/will decide the guilt or innocence of those under my care. Is that clear?"

  The half dragon nodded in desultory agreement- though he could feel a dangerous fire growing within his heart. He'd ripped the tongue from many a human for far less an offense against him. A low rumble began deep within his massive chest. His clawed hands twitched, as if eager to part the cleric's flesh. The half-dragon took a step toward the old man.

  If the abbot felt any fear at his advance, Drakken could not see it. The cleric returned his measured gaze evenly. The half-dragon's monstrous face split into a toothy smile. It had been a very long time since he had faced an opponent worthy of his respect. He took another step forward, and stopped. The air within the abbot's chamber grew heavy with anticipation, like the moment before a raging storm.

  And cleared suddenly, as the pounding of fists thudded dully on the chamber door.

  "Blessed One, is everything all right?" came a muffled tenor voice from behind the dark oak wood.

  "Yes, Brother Anwen," replied the abbot, once again the kindly cleric. "We are quite all right. Would you be so good as to bring in some of Brother Rafhard's root stew-and some tea, as well?"

  Drakken heard a heavy sigh before footsteps faded softly in to the distance. Silence ruled the room once more. Meremont smiled, and motioned to the fallen chair. The half-dragon bent down and righted the furniture. Whatever had possessed him a moment ago had faded, like the heat from a bonfire suddenly banked. However, he felt the warmth of its embers burning fitfully somewhere deep within him.

  Another knock on the door followed, as three white-robed novices appeared quietly, two with stoneware crocks in hand. The third carried a tray with steaming mugs. Each bowed carefully to the abbot and placed the food and drink upon the wooden desk before leaving.

  "Something is indeed amiss with you," the abbot said, holding a mug of tea between his ancient hands, "something most unfortunate, if mysterious. But murder-no." He shook his head in emphasis. "I do not believe that you are to blame for Arranoth's death."

  "But how can you be sure, Blessed One?" Drakken asked.

  The half-dragon sat with arms tightly folded across the expanse of his muscular chest. It was the only way he could disguise the trembling of his hands.

  "Do you remember what brought you to us, my son?" the cleric asked.

  "Of course," the struggling penitent responded. Then, after seeing the abbot's expectant look, he protested. "You already know why I came to the abbey!"

  Meremont set down his mug of tea and once more turned his gaze upon the half-dragon.

  "The question is, do you?" he said with a hint of the old iron in his voice.

  Drakken relented. Years following the bloody path of the sword had shown him how to evaluate the tides of war. It was a battle he would not win.

  "My army had just overrun another village," the half-dragon spoke after only another moment's hesitation. "Which one I did not know, for they all began to bleed together in my mind. We had already killed the men and put the women to work, but it was the children…"

  He stopped, unable to continue. The memory of that day lived fresh in his mind, burned there permanently. Talking about it made it more real. The scent of blood, the screams of the dying and those who prayed for death. Fire, sword, and pain-he was among them once again; their master and in truth, their slave. For five years, he had lived each day in the middle of that moment, that never-ending abyss. Peace was a forgetting of sorts, a brief respite from the dark demands of guilt and shame. Remembering it all, however, he felt the stirrings of a darker hunger.

  "There was a man," Drakken continued, forcing his mind away from the swamp of his inner thoughts, "dressed in old rags. He was weeping loudly, sobbing over the broken bodies around him. It was as if I could hear in his voice the wails of every dead man, woman, and child in the village. It made me angry. I drew my sword and approached him. I could see that his body was scarred, broken as well. I angled my sword above his head, ready to drive the point into his brain-and he looked at me. Those eyes…" Drakken paused again, his own face suffused with wonder. "They were like stars burning into my heart. I knew at once who he was-and that he wasn't crying for the villagers who died."

  Another pause, and Drakken leaned forward before speaking. His voice, when it finally came, rumbled with emotion.

  "He was weeping for me."

  "I dropped my sword and stared at the man, not caring who witnessed. I turned my head for a moment, and when I looked back, he was gone. I searched the village high and low for him, bellowing hard at my men when I could not find him. I sent out scouts into the wild woods beyond the camp, and when they eventually came back empty-handed, I wandered the hills myself. I searched for days, driven on by the wound his long gaze had made in my heart. The next thing I remember, I found myself kneeling before the door to White Willow, begging to come in."

  Drakken rested his scaled head against the back of the chair, closing his eyes, and finished, "I am so sick of blood."

  "There, you see," said the abbot. "You have your answer. You could no more have killed Brother Arranoth than I."

  Drakken swallowed hard. The weight of Meremont's faith pressed in upon him.

  "How can you be so sure, Blessed One, when I doubt myself so?"

  The old cleric took a careful sip of tea from the earthenware mug, and his thin lips parted in a gentle smile.

  "It is not your belief-or lack of it-that I find important," he said. "For good or ill, Ilmater chose you. You did not choose him. I trust that choice."

  The half-dragon frowned, still unconvinced. Though the time he had spent at the abbey had watered the seed of his own faith, Drakken found the concept that a god would take special interest in him disturbing. Besides, he thought bitterly, no one could deny the damning evidence of his dreams. Perhaps he was beyond the reach of any god.

  He shared none of his thoughts' dark turnings with the abbot.

  "If I didn't kill Arranoth," he asked instead, hoping to direct the course of the conversation away from him, "then who did?"

  "The truth is," the abbot replied, "we don't know. Some opposing power frustrates our attempts at divination. I have sent a letter to the temple near They-marsh, hoping that the Ilmatari clerics there can send someone with greater skills than we have here in our humble abbey."

  Meremont paused, setting down his mug before continuing in an even voice, "Which is why, ultimately, I wished to speak with you."

  Drakken stared at the old cleric, trying not to feel like a rabbit caught in a carefully prepared snare-and failing.

  "Until we have received help from Theymarsh," the abbot said, "I want you to investigate the murder of Brother Arranoth."

  "Me?" the half-dragon nearly shouted. "Why-?"

  "Simply because," Meremont interjected, "I ask it."
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  Drakken caught the dangerous flash of fire in the stern abbot's eyes and stifled his protest.

  "Besides," the cleric reasoned, "you have been servant to the brethren for many years. Your coming and going will remain unnoticed by any of the brothers. You are uniquely suited for this investigation"

  "And," Drakken said at last, not quite keeping the bitterness from his voice, "if the murderer does dwell among us, I am quite capable of 'dealing' with him."

  "Perhaps," the abbot offered with a slight frown. "But there is something else, as well. Rangers from the Winterwood have reported a large band of humanoids-ores-heading out of the forest toward the surrounding hills."

  "What do they seek? Are they a warband? What are their numbers?" Drakken asked.

  Despite his time as a servant to the Servants of Ilmater, martial instincts long buried flared to life. He found himself calculating the best means of defending the abbey walls from orcs.

  "From what the rangers have reported, they are fleeing the depredations of the green dragon known as Foilsunder. A few tendays ago, the beast began rampaging through the Winterwood, apparently destroying everything in its path. The rangers have not been able to come up with a final tally, but they suspect the band of orcs measures over a hundred, with several shamans in tow."

  "Then we should seal the abbey gates and post scouts in the hills." Drakken stood and began pacing back and forth. "There is much to do."

  "Yes," agreed the abbot, "and I have already done it. Messengers are even now making their way to the nearby villages and offering sanctuary at the abbey. Every brother is preparing for the influx of refugees. That is why I need you to focus on finding Arranoth's killer. I can spare no one else."

  "But I wouldn't even know where to begin," Drakken protested weakly.

  He was born for war, not slinking around in the darkness. Somehow, he would make the abbot see the mistake he was making. But Meremont held up his hand in a gesture that forestalled any further deliberation.

  "Begin by looking in Brother Arranoth's cell," the abbot ordered. "Perhaps you will find something useful there."

  A knock on the door interrupted the cleric.

  "That will be Brother Prior," Meremont said. "We have much work to do. Now go, and report back to me anything that you find."

  Drakken nodded numbly, unable to fathom exactly how he had been drafted to that duty when danger threatened the abbey from without. The abbot called out Ilmater's blessing on the half-dragon as he turned to walk out of the abbot's room.

  Night covered the abbey like a shroud, cloaking the chill stone halls of the chapter house in inky darkness. Drakken held a battered lantern in one hand, its feeble illumination casting a gray pall before him. Thick shadows danced madly at the edge of the meager lamplight. For the third time in as many minutes the half-dragon found himself cursing the strange fate that brought him to wander the halls of the brothers' residence like an ancient wraith.

  Twice that day he had attempted to see Brother Abbot, hoping to convince the abbey's leader that he would be of greater use to White Willow coordinating its defense, if indeed the fleeing orcs made their way to the monastery's borders. Both times Meremont had been locked away with his advisors. Drakken had eventually resigned himself to carrying out the abbot's orders until such time as he could plead his case once more with the cleric. So, the half-dragon had gone about his regular duties-cleaning, cooking, and otherwise serving the needs of the abbey's inhabitants-all the while keeping a careful ear out for any hint of gossip or whisper of truth that might have a bearing on Brother Arranoth's murder.

  One thing was certain, Abbot Meremont's belief that Drakken would remain largely unnoticed as the Ilmatari spoke freely among themselves proved quite true. Though at first treated with a fair degree of suspicion, anger, and-among some brothers-downright hatred, the half-dragon's attempts at humble service and penance, while not completely successful, especially in the early months, had eventually softened the community of clerics. Quite simply, the gray-robed half-dragon realized that he had, over the intervening years, become a quiet fixture in the monastery, as much a part of the daily rhythms of contemplative life as was the bowl-shaped bell that called the brothers to prayer. It was amazing that Drakken had never realized it before.

  Once he had noticed, however, he had felt a rising surge of anger at the casual dismissal he witnessed in the eyes of the Ilmatari. All day this anger had ebbed and flowed like the raging tide of a tumultuous sea. More than once he had stopped himself from challenging an unsuspecting brother, forcing the man's attention by an act of violence. He had fought this growing anger, all day as he went about his duties, focusing ultimately on the task at hand-bringing Brother Arranoth's killer to justice.

  It would have been a great deal easier, however, if the signs didn't point to him.

  Despite his privileged position as a nearly invisible eavesdropper, Drakken had heard nothing of real substance. To be sure, Arranoth's murder had been on everyone's mind. In fact, it was the most popular topic of whispered conversations in the whole abbey. No one, however, had made mention of anything useful. The most interesting thing that he had heard involved three ancient abbey servants and their belief that Arranoth was murdered by the angry ghost of a novice who had drowned near the abbey a decade past.

  And so he found himself skulking through the sleeping expanse of the chapter house.

  Drakken stopped his reverie as he came to a closed wooden door. Pushing it open, he entered the brother's vaulted dining hall. He had to move carefully through the large room, avoiding long wooden benches and thick oak tables. Not for the first time, the half-dragon cursed his adopted habit of carrying a light source-even though his draconic vision would more than suffice for piercing the veil of darkness around him. He'd given some of the abbey's older inhabitants quite a fright the first few times he'd surprised them wandering through the pitch black halls in the dark. Since then, he always made sure to carry a lamp or candle with him to warn others of his presence.

  Beyond the dining hall, Drakken found himself in a curving stone passage. Three more turns brought him to the simple staircase leading to the second floor of the chapter house. A few more twists and the half-dragon stood before the stone door to Brother Arranoth's cell.

  He hesitated for a moment, listening to the soft murmurs of whispered prayers and the creaking of settling stone and timber. All around him in the darkness, the holy house hummed. Drakken took a deep breath, and opened the door, blowing out the wildly flickering lamp as he did so.

  It took a moment for the half-dragon's eyes to compensate for the darkness. Drakken experienced a passing disorientation, and the contours of the room resolved in ever crisper detail. A simple straw mat lay neatly against the far wall, coarse wool bedding folded neatly at one end. Beneath a closed and shuttered window, Drakken could see a solidly made oak desk and a simple, straight-backed chair. A somewhat drab armoire stood in the far corner. The half-dragon found the starkness of the dead cleric's quarters heightened by the black and white lens of his darkvision.

  Everything in the austere cell, from the placement of the simple furniture to the orderly arrangement of quill, paper, and ink upon the desk, spoke of the man that Drakken knew. For Arranoth was an ascetic, even by the rigorous standards of the Ilmatari. Contemplative and serious, the cleric's wisdom was known throughout the community, and yet he had carried himself with an air of true humility. The sub-prior's only concession to his exalted place within the abbey's leadership was an old, dented coal pot stored beneath the writing desk. For some reason, the presence of the decrepit metal pot brought a smile to Drakken's face. He thought of the bright light that shone behind the sub-prior's eyes whenever he was asked a question that required thought, a light that death's domain had dimmed. The smile faded.

  Remembering why he had come, the half-dragon gave the room a perfunctory search, uncomfortable with the thought that the ghost of Arranoth might even then be looking at his killer as he ransacked
the man's humble sanctum. He rooted through the cleric's frayed robes hanging in the armoire, looked around the mattress and bedding, and scanned the surface of the desk. Besides several prayer beads and a small silver symbol of Ilmater, the half-dragon found nothing that might point to the man's killer.

  Frustrated, he sat down on the chair and gave the desk one final look. Beneath a neatly arranged pile of paper, he found a thin book, covered in calfskin-something he had almost missed in his first hurried examination. He opened the book, instantly recognizing the crisp, flowing script that was so characteristic of Arranoth's hand. Drakken traced his finger along the uneven cut of the page's edge, marveling at the simple beauty of the cleric's work. The lines of script eventually resolved themselves into words, and soon the half-dragon found himself engrossed in the inner thoughts of the dead cleric. Wry observations about abbey life were interspersed with prayers to Ilmater and to Drakken's great surprise, insights about the nature of the spiritual life that touched him so deeply he would have shed tears if he were able.

  Without warning, the journal came to an end mid-sentence. The effect jarred Drakken out of his reflective mood. He would have slammed the book closed, but saw, at the last second, a jagged strip of paper along its spine. Looking closer, the half-dragon could see that the last few pages of the journal had been torn out.

  But why would Arranoth tear out just those pages when he showed no sign of editing the rest of his journal? Drakken's mind raced with possibilities. Perhaps someone else tore those pages out. The question of why, however, still remained.

  He flipped through the rest of the book, quickly examining the empty pages. As he neared the end, a small swatch of dyed wool fell into his lap. He picked it up between clawed fingers. His darkvision couldn't reveal much else, but the acrid stench of the dye still hung about the wool. Drakken started to stand up and reach for the unlit lantern he'd placed on the floor- and he froze.

  At the edge of his hearing, barely perceptible in the night, something scuffed against the stone floor. The half-dragon cocked his head, listening more intently. There it was again, but closer.