He stammered his thanks to Brother Phenotar and took his leave. If he hadn't killed the sub-prior, then
Brother Arranoth's murderer was still at large-and had gone to quite some length to incriminate him. Looking at the darkening spring sky, Drakken headed back to his cell. He had only a few hours to prepare for his meeting with whoever left that note.
Drakken stood quietly in the Upper Cellar, one hand resting lightly on a stack of wooden crates, the other fingering a small set of prayer beads hanging from a belt loop sewn into his simple robe. Despite a bitter chill permeating the dank cellar, the half dragon's spirits were higher than they had been in months. Brother Phenotar's discovery had lifted a dark weight hanging upon his shoulders ever since he'd known of the sub-prior's death. Sure of his own innocence, Drakken could barely contain his relief. He only hoped that whoever had dropped him the mysterious note could shed some more light on Brother Arranoth's murder.
The half dragon was so wrapped up in speculation that he only had a moment's warning before the attack. His keen sense of smell caught a faint musky scent an instant before two figures shimmered into existence before him. Sharpened steel arced toward him in the darkness, but the half-dragon had already begun to move, ducking beneath the whistling edge of one blade. As he turned, a second blade caught in the folds of his robe, slowing him down. He lashed out with a heavily muscled foot, catching one of his attackers in the gut. The assailant let out an explosive grunt and doubled over. Without hesitation, Drakken dived past the assassin and rolled to his feet.
Even in the tomblike darkness of the cellar, his dragon's vision caught sight of his attackers. Both were human. One, a beefy warrior who, by the look of him had once been an extraordinarily muscled man since gone to fat, wielded a wicked looking curved axe. His companion, a whipcord slim human with a well-groomed goatee, twirled a simple short sword in one hand and a hooked dagger in the other.
Despite the half-dragon's disadvantage, Drakken found his blood beginning to warm at the nearness of death. The beast slumbering deep within him began to awaken, and this time, he didn't fight it. In an instant, he knew what he would have to do. A low grumble escaped his lips as he launched himself at the smaller of the two assassins.
The man struck quick, a viperlike attack with the point of his short blade. Drakken didn't attempt to dodge, but almost seemed to leap onto the weapon. As the sword met thick scales, it bent slightly and slid to the side. Still moving forward, the half-dragon stepped slightly to the left of his assailant, grabbed the assassin's neck with a single clawed hand, and pulled the man to him as if in an embrace. In desperation, the screaming attacker sliced wildly with his dagger. Drakken let out a bellow of pain and rage as the blade cut through hardened scales as if they were silk.
Before he could finish his maneuver, however, the half-dragon sensed the second assassin moving in for a solid strike. He spun, holding his captive before him like a shield. As the man's axe fell, it bit deep into the chest of the first assassin, shattering the hapless man's ribs as it ended its fateful arc.
The fat warrior took a step back, releasing the axe as his eyes widened in obvious horror. At that moment, Drakken pounced. Dropping the gurgling remains of his captive, he leaped forward. Batting away his opponent's feeble attempts at stopping him, the half-dragon wrapped two clawed hands around the man's neck and squeezed with frightful force. The assassin's eyes bulged wildly moments before his windpipe collapsed between Drakken's scaled hands. Blood erupted from the warrior's mouth as he fell to the floor.
The half-dragon raised gore-encrusted hands before him and nearly roared with delight. The beast, he knew, was nearly free. He could feel it straining and pounding against the doors of its captivity. Drakken cast one last contemptuous look at the piles of meat before him-and froze as he caught sight of a familiar shape around the finger of the sword-wielding assassin.
He knew at once who was behind the murder of Brother Arranoth, and the knowledge quelled the wild anger within him. Not caring if anyone stumbled upon the two corpses, Drakken bounded up the stairs in search of the murderer.
Somewhere deep within him, the beast raged!
He emerged into chaos.
Despite the late hour, gray-cowled brothers scuttled to and fro, muttering prayers to Illmater as they carried buckets of water, heavy bags filled with grain and flour, and sundry other items. Drakken even caught the glint of steel, illuminated by the soft moonlight, among several of the abbey servants.
"Scouts spotted the humanoid horde outside the abbey gates," he heard some of the brethren say to one another. Still others said, "The orcs were already in the abbey cellars."
The half-dragon ignored it all, intent on his quarry. In the near pandemonium, he found it easy to slip by bands of abbey residents excitedly pursuing their specific tasks. No one accosted Drakken as he made his way to the guest house. A brief search of the guest master's logbook revealed the information he needed. Within moments he stood before a simple wooden door. Briefly, he thought about knocking, but a memory of Brother Arranoth's face, locked in the rigor of death, flashed in his mind. The door cracked and shattered beneath his blows.
He entered the room like a whirlwind, tossing silk blankets, richly woven clothing, and stacks of ledgers in his search. He knew what he sought would have to be there somewhere. Not caring about the noise he made, Drakken began rifling through cedar chests, dumping the contents on the floor. The half-dragon's frustration mounted as the moments went by without any discovery. A cold seed of doubt began to sprout within his mind. What if he was mistaken?
And yet he kept on searching, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. Finally, he reached the simple straw bed in the corner of the room. Angrily, he tore off the bedding, sending old straw reeds spilling to the floor. He was about to crack the whole bed frame when he caught sight of a small slip of paper among the reeds. He nearly shouted with triumph as he looked at the familiar neat lines of Brother Arranoth's handwriting.
It is clear to me now that Valerix has some deeper purpose for staying at the abbey than mere commerce. I have suspected for some time that he may be a dragon cultist, but today I discovered proof. I must tell Brother Abbot immediately upon his return from the village. I only hope I am in time.
Drakken's hands nearly shook as he read the missing journal entry. Valerix … a cultist! It began to make some sense. He would return to the abbot and-
The sound of hands slowly clapping behind him froze the half-dragon in place.
"Well done my scaled friend," the merchant's familiar voice seemed to echo in the room. "Well done, indeed."
Drakken turned to face the voice. Valerix the merchant stood in the entryway to the room, his corpulent face covered in a sheen of greasy sweat. The man's lips were pursed in a half pout.
"I see that you managed to survive the meeting with my associates," Valerix said. "A shame really, but I suppose it was to be expected."
The half-dragon took a step forward, the question already forming on his lips: "Why did you-?"
"Oh, come now," the merchant interrupted, his voice wheezing. "Surely you're not that stupid, are you? You've read Arranoth's journal. He's right. I was sent here by the Cult of the Dragon to see how things were progressing with Foilsunder-and I discovered you.
"Arranoth," he continued, waving pudgy fingers in the air, "simply got in my way."
Drakken took-another step forward, baring his teeth.
"I will kill you myself," the half-dragon nearly roared-the beast was lashing out at its cage once again.
"Ah, I might watch my temper, if I were you," Valerix lectured, a sneer evident upon his sagging face.
"What do you know of it," the half-dragon growled. His fingers twitched with the urge to tear apart the smug man's body. Drakken felt his hold upon himself weakening, and he knew with a terrible certainty that if he gave in to the rage rising within him, he would lose himself completely.
"More than you could ever imagine," the cultist replied
. "The men I hired were supposed to dump another body in the cellar, murdered like Arranoth. I thought that might be enough to break you, to push you over the edge. But when you paid me a surprise visit the other day, I knew you were getting too close."
"So you sent them to kill me," Drakken stated.
Valerix shrugged, the motion sending ripples of bloated flesh bobbing beneath his silk robe.
"It seemed like the thing to do at the time."
"And now?" the half-dragon asked.
"If you kill me, we'll still win," Valerix replied, sweat dripping down from the wide expanse of his forehead.
"How?" Drakken nearly shouted the question.
"You feel it within you, don't you?" replied the merchant. "That sweet, delicious madness. Like a fever in the blood. It goads you, doesn't it?"
Drakken took a step back, horrified by the truth in the cultist's words. The maris eyes shone with a feverish light.
"Why do you let these damned clerics treat you like a servant?" Valerix continued. "They have tried to make you what you are not. Kill them. They deserve to die. Unleash your anger. Let it go. You've kept it within you for too long."
Drakken shook his head in denial, but in his heart he knew that Valerix was right. For just a moment, he saw the broken bodies of the Ilmatari, dead at his hand. He felt no remorse or guilt, but rather a deep sense of satisfaction. Then he remembered who it was who had taken him in when he was lost and alone. He remembered, too, the fact that the man before him had poisoned the only friend he really had in the world.
The vision ended.
With a growl, he took a step toward the sweating cultist. When the man squealed like a pig being butchered, Drakken found himself smiling.
At that moment, the monastery bells began to ring.
"Ahh," the cultist blubbered, "it appears… it appears that the orcs have breached the abbey gates. You'll have to make a choice now. Take your revenge and kill me j …or… or save your brothers from certain death." 1
The bells rang with renewed urgency, and even from | the guest house Drakken could hear the screams. He 1 hesitated for a moment, then with a roar that shook ‹ the room, he pushed the cultist out of the way and ran toward the abbey gates.
"Farewell, my friend," Valerix called after him in a sneering voice. "I doubt we shall meet again."
The half-dragon ignored him.
When he arrived at the gates, he found the courtyard strewn with the bodies of orcs, goblins, and humans alike. A group of Ilmatari were backed against a wall as a band of orcs pressed in. Drakken grabbed a pitted sword from a corpse and charged forward, yelling his defiance.
The beast was fully awake inside him, all but out of its cage. Three bounding steps brought him in the midst of the orcs. He swung the ancient sword with all the force of his anger. Two other blades cracked beneath the blow as the orcs erected a hasty defense. With another swing, he gutted an axe-wielding orc and ducked beneath the wild swing of another opponent.
He would have cleaved the heads of two other orcs except that a goblin darted forward and threw a weighted net, tangling Drakken's legs. The half-dragon stumbled slightly, giving the other orcs an opening. Three glowing spears pierced his chest with enough force to knock him back a few steps.
Red rage crested through him like a vast wave, carrying his pain, anger, and madness. He let out a roar and it changed, deepened, as the Rage spilled out of him in a single acidic blast. He watched in delicious satisfaction as the band of orcs before him fell back before the acid, skin sloughing off bone like melting ice. With a strangled groan, the remaining orcs fled, leaving sizzling flesh behind.
With a triumphant roar, he snapped the wooden hilts of the spears imbedded in his chest and turned to survey the foolish humans cowering before him. He was free at last! Free of their damned meddling, their concern, and most of all, their damnable prayers. He took a step toward them, ignoring the blood streaming from his wounds. With a single, painful motion he tore off the gray cloak, delighting in the feel of chill wind on hardened scale.
Another step brought him face to face with the cleric standing irt the front of the others. He wasn't cowering. The man stood before Drakken with his head held high, one arm held back as if protecting the others. Anger coursed through the half-dragon's veins.
This one, he thought, will pay for his insolence.
A single swipe of his clawed hand raked the offending cleric's face, sending him to his knees. Drakken stepped forward, intent on snapping the maris neck, but when the cleric looked up, the half-dragon saw the eyes of another old man, someone who, even in the midst of his madness, he remembered.
Time froze with that memory. He stood there with his hands poised to strike, gazing into eyes that were not simply eyes, but mirrors, reflecting his own soul.
This is not me/a voice from somewhere deep within the madness screamed.
This is you, the eyes seemed to say. And it is this that I love.
Drakken would have fled before the reality of that love, but his feet were rooted to the ground. Beneath the weight of that unyielding gaze he realized that for the past five years he had been running from himself, trying to be something that he wasn't. He looked upon the beast in all of its power, and he knew that he would never truly be free of it if he kept trying to lock it away. He and the beast were one. In the end, all he could do was let it go.
At once, the pain of his wounds became too great to stand. The half-dragon fell to his knees before the wounded form of Abbot Meremont.
"Forgive me," he whispered as a bubble of blood appeared on his lips.
"You are forgiven, my son," the abbot said, laying a bloodied hand upon Drakken's face.
And so, on a chill spring night, with three spears piercing his heart, Drakken Thaal yielded to love and gave himself up to a mystery older even than the gods. He toppled to the ground.
Finally at peace.
HOW SHARPER THAN A SERPENT'S TOOTH
Dave Gross
25 Ches, the Year of Rogue Dragons
Act I
Because…" said Talbot Uskevren, his voice rising with each syllable until it echoed throughout the Wide Realms playhouse, "… we… dorit …do… commissions!"
Mallion retreated so quickly that Ennis had to grab him before he fell backward off stage. Sivana flinched at the force of Talbot's outburst, and Presbart closed his eyes and grimaced. Not since his father's death had Talbot lost his temper so badly. He feared the worst, but a glance at the clenched fist he had been shaking at Mallion showed that his hands, at least, still appeared completely human.
Thank Tymora for small favors. His fellow players knew all too well that, despite appearances, the leader of their troupe was never completely human. It had been over two years since Talbot had become a werewolf-far more than a werewolf-but in that time he had learned to master the change, even when the moon was full. In moments of great anger, however, it was hard not to let the black beast emerge.
Talbot opened his hands and relaxed his big shoulders. He considered apologizing but knew that would only weaken his position, morally if not legally. He remained the majority shareholder of the playhouse, so any decision was dependent upon his approval, but he did not want to lose any of his company, especially his fellow owners. They had been nibbling at him for tendays on the same matter, and he supposed that it was at last time to have it out. He waited for Mallion to speak again, since he was the instigator.
Mallion looked at Sivana for support, but she shrugged and looked to Presbart. As the eldest player in the company, one who had traveled the Realms with Mistress Quickly long before she established the playhouse in Selgaunt, Presbart enjoyed an air of authority that far outweighed his relatively few shares in the company. As patiently as if he were merely considering what to eat for supper, the old thespian stroked his mustache and pretended not to have noticed Sivana's prompting gaze.
Sivana turned instead to Ennis. The hulking player was almost as big as Talbot, but unlike Talbot's, his dim
appearance was not, alas, deceiving. He looked curiously back at Sivana until a dopey smile creased his face. He loved her, as did all the company, and he would gladly support her in any argument, but Ennis would do the same for any other friend, making him useless in an argument among the players.
With a sigh, Sivana finally crossed her arms and turned back to Mallion.
"Don't look to us, my bonny lad," she said. Since the death of the troupe's former leader, the younger actress had picked up many of Quickly's quaint expressions. "You are the one who found a patron."
"W/ia??"Talbot's voice shook the timbers of the playhouse's new roof, a creaky flat cone that shielded the open yard from the rain while leaving a ring of open space between its edges and the eaves of the original circular building. The resident tasloi shrieked and swung through the rafters to their nest in the "heavens" above the stage. Even Lommy, the diminutive father of the clan of jungle creatures, who had been listening to the discussion from the edge of the balcony, pulled his pointed green head back from view as Talbot rumbled, "I never said you could solicit-"
"Sheapproached him" offeredPresbart.
His smooth and reasonable tone blunted Talbot's ire. No one could shout back at the distinguished player of kings and high priests, but Talbot raised a skeptical eyebrow.
"It's true!" insisted Mallion. "She liked what she had seen of our performances this spring. In fact, she specifically mentioned your role in AzounP
"It's true," said Sivana.
Her hair was just coming back in from having shaved it for their previous production, but she had already dyed it grass green, perpetuating the eternal speculation on her original color.
"And just what did you tell her about our policy?" said Talbot.
" 'We don't do commissions,'" Mallion replied, not quite mocking Talbot's tone, which was fortunate for him, Talbot thought.
Realms of the Dragons vol.1 a-9 Page 25
