by Adam Carter
“No, Asp, we weren’t. Faeries don’t make enemies. You see, we’re beyond the confines of mortal emotions. I never understood you people. The apepkith see themselves as better than the humans, the sorcerers think themselves better than everyone; but at the end of the day you’re all the same. All tired little primitives squabbling in the mud for whatever power you can seize.”
“If the faeries are so much better, let me go. Be the big man.”
“Oh, Asp, haven’t you yet realised? I’m no longer a man.”
The laces struck like a cobra, pressing into Asperathes’s throat and sliding round and round and round. He struggled, tried to get away, but the faerie was holding him fast. Stretching his legs, Asperathes attempted to reach the ground: if he could get but one toe to touch the floor it might prove enough to break the spell. But it was futile. The faerie was too powerful, yet Asperathes had always known that. The dungeon with its iron bars was the only thing which had managed to contain Kastra and it was too late to put him back in there.
The laces looped several times about the apepkith’s throat and he panicked, for there was nothing he could do to save himself.
“Kastra, please.”
For a single moment a flicker of doubt, perhaps even remorse, passed across Kastra’s face, but then it was gone and Moya’s brow settled once more.
Asperathes gasped as the laces pulled tight. He had not managed to pull in as much air as he intended and could not even raise his hands to pull the laces away. He could not speak, but knew pleading for his life would have had no effect. Kastra simply did not care.
His body shuddered as it failed to take in more air and Asperathes’s brain began to sway. His mouth opened and closed without purpose and slowly, slowly he drifted away. Visions flowed into his mind, images of a time just after his escape from the dungeon. He, Crenshaw and Moya had been free and relatively happy. Back then, they had not known it, but those were good times.
Good times.
Good …
*
Her head hurt like blazes, but Wren struggled to a sitting position and focused her eyes. The baroness stood looking annoyed, while Moya was indifferent. Asperathes hung in the air, his limbs dropped to his side, his head lolling. Just as Wren wondered what was going on, Asperathes dropped into a curled heap upon the flagstones.
Wren had seen enough death in her time to know what had just happened.
“Now her,” the baroness said imperiously.
“I think not,” Moya said. “You were right, Thade. This one should be kept alive.”
“She defied me.”
“Oh, that she did. And for that I have a fate far worse than merely killing her. This one, Baroness, is going to pray every day for death.” She smiled cruelly. “A death which will one day come. First, though, she shall know what it is like to know torment.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The plan had its faults but Crenshaw had never doubted Asperathes for a moment. Of the two of them, it was Asperathes whose mind was always sharper and Crenshaw had often envied him during their little games. Therefore when Asperathes had suggested he and Wren travel to the castle and use the amulet against Moya, Crenshaw had gone along with the idea. It meant Asperathes had little in the way of backup, but it was not his place to tell Asperathes what he should or should not risk.
The incident with Mannin had changed things. Crenshaw could no longer sit around waiting for the plan to either succeed or fail, and the only thing he could think to do was return to the castle and help his friend. It was not sensible, nor was it original, but it was something.
Mannin was buried outside the hamlet and Crenshaw remained silent throughout. He had not known her especially well and while he did not like either of his two companions he respected the sanctity of the funeral.
Once it was done, he told them he was heading back to the castle.
“I think it’s been long enough,” Valok said. “I may as well tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“Moya will be coming here.”
Crenshaw frowned. “Why would she do that?”
“Because what Asperathes is doing will have made her angry and she’ll come after us.”
Canlin had listened to their exchange and cut in. “I agree with Crenshaw. We shouldn’t be waiting here, not when the captain’s in danger.”
“She’s dead already, Canlin,” Valok said. “They both are. There’s nothing they can do against Moya and you know it.”
“They’re not attacking Moya,” Canlin argued. “They’re going to get the truth to the baroness, to get her to realise what’s going on.”
“And they’ll fail.”
“Why didn’t you say this before?” Crenshaw asked.
“Because if I did, it would have ruined my own plan.”
The two soldiers exchanged glances. Crenshaw could see Canlin had no idea what he was talking about, either.
“We’ve been jerking ourselves around for long enough, I think,” Valok explained. “The rate we were going, we’d have been picked off until we were all dead. This way we lost Asperathes and the captain, but it means we have a better chance.”
“What have you done?” Canlin asked. “Valok, what have you done?”
“What I had to. I’m sorry about Wren, I truly am, but Kastra needed to know we have the power he seeks.”
“The amulet,” Crenshaw said. “That’s what you’re talking about. But you gave it to Asp.” He paused. “You didn’t give it to Asp, did you? What have you done?”
Valok produced the amulet and Crenshaw’s heart froze at the sight. “I gave Asperathes a fake,” he explained. “It won’t protect him, but Kastra’s no fool. He’ll know the real amulet is with us, and he’ll come after us with everything he has.”
“Wren,” Canlin said, dazed. “You just killed the captain.”
“There’s a chance she’s alive,” Valok said, “just not a good one. Believe me, Canlin, if there was any other option I would have taken it. But this is the only way we could have guaranteed …”
Canlin launched himself at Valok and Crenshaw did not stop him. He was too stunned to do much of anything, and since Canlin’s reaction could well have been his own it was as though he was living the other man’s assault.
Suddenly was Canlin blasted away, falling in a heap.
“Wren’s intention all along,” Valok said through his bloody lip, “was to do what was right for the land, for the baroness. This gives us the best possible chance of defeating Moya, and that’s what Wren would have wanted. So she didn’t survive to see it through: it’s the result that counts, Canlin, and if you can’t see that then you’re not the soldier I thought you were.”
Slowly Canlin dragged himself back to his feet. “I’m going to kill you, Valok. You sorcerers are all the same. I thought you were different, thought you saw yourself as one of us, but at the end of the day you’re just another arrogant mage.”
“Knock it off,” Crenshaw said, stepping between them. He had lost everything in his life – Asperathes had been the final thing he had. Now he was gone as well and all Crenshaw could think of was the sight of Canlin hacking down upon Mannin’s throat and her head violently separating from her body. It was an image he would never forget, for with a different face it was precisely what he knew he would have to do. With his final link to sanity dead, there was nothing preventing Crenshaw from ending this.
“Moya’s coming,” Valok said. “Kastra, whatever we’re calling it. The enemy will be here soon, and we have to be prepared.”
“She’ll suspect a trap,” Canlin said, begrudgingly talking about matters other than the sorcerer’s death.
“She can’t,” Valok said. “That’s why I didn’t tell them my idea. Even should Moya tear the truth from their minds, they don’t know anything. They both thought the amulet was real, for all they know I got rid of the real one months ago.”
“Kill him later,” Crenshaw told Canlin. “Right now we have to prepare. If M
oya’s coming, we’re going to need Valok.”
“We can stick a pole up his backside and use him for a scarecrow.”
“Or we could have his magic hold her back.”
“And then we kill him.”
Crenshaw did not argue. He told himself he wanted Valok dead with equal vigour, but he was lying. Crenshaw no longer felt anything. He was a man who had nothing else to lose, which meant everything – everyone – around him was now a resource in his fight against the faerie.
“What do you have prepared?” Crenshaw asked the sorcerer.
“Nothing we have will work against her. All my spells are useless and she knows it. So we use the only thing we can which might actually work against her. We use love.”
Crenshaw blinked. “Have you lost it, Valok?”
“Or hate, whatever. Faeries don’t understand emotions too well, but we can use emotions against her.”
“How?”
“This is some stupid funnelling thing, isn’t it?” Canlin asked. “We all have to share our love and she’ll wither and die?”
“Not at all,” Valok said. “Moya wants to rule this land through the baroness. So we fight her here and show everyone she’s an evil, vindictive harpy.”
“And?” Crenshaw asked.
“And they turn on her.”
“And?”
“And we win.”
“We die,” Canlin corrected.
“If Moya loses the support of the people,” Valok said, “she can’t possibly win. The baroness will disown her and she’ll be vulnerable. And that’s when we move in and kill her.”
It was a stupid idea, but Crenshaw could not think of a better one so was willing to give it a shot.
Canlin still looked like he wanted to kill Valok more than listen to anything the man had to say, but there was a chance Wren was still alive and Canlin was not about to sacrifice that for his own revenge.
In the next moment the sky turned black and Crenshaw knew the time for debate was over. It was not the slow dip into darkness of the falling evening, nor was it the sudden loss of light caused by an eclipse. Rather one moment the early evening sun was waning, the next Crenshaw could hardly see either man before him. His eyes adjusted in moments, and as they did so he saw something large and ridiculously unreal approaching from the distance, as though the darkness was a sponge to soak up the unnatural horrors of the world.
“Now that,” Canlin said to Valok, “is a dragon.”
The beast soared over their heads and curved down to land upon the ground some distance from them. It was larger than that which Valok had conjured and more ferocious than the horned creature hunting through the lower levels of the baroness’s abode. Its skin was covered in thick, plate-like scutes as large as any dinner plate off which Crenshaw had ever eaten. Its body was lithe and sinewy, with four short legs projecting off and ending in sharp, chipped talons.
Folding its large, thick wings, the dragon lowered its long neck and fixed them with a smug expression of victory before even their bout had begun. Its hard, toothless beak was incapable of smiling, but certainly behind it, two beady eyes were laughing.
“This isn’t right,” Crenshaw said. “Dragons don’t exist.” He could feel both Canlin and Valok suddenly looking at him. “Well they don’t.”
“If that’s a magical construct,” Valok said, “it’s the best I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s also about to kill us,” Canlin said.
Crenshaw drew his sword. “Who has anything to live for anyway?”
Charging the dragon was the worst move Crenshaw could have made, but it did not matter. All he wanted now was to confront Kastra and if there was a dragon standing in his way, real or otherwise, it would die.
“You cannot fight me,” the dragon said. “The only way you can survive, little human, is to flee and pray to your worthless gods that I don’t care enough about your existence to seek you out.”
“The problem there, dragon, is that you can’t care about my existence less than I do.” His sword slashed out, slicing clean through the dragon’s leg and sending a spurt of ichor spattering the ground. The dragon did not seem bothered by the attack and Crenshaw watched as the wound healed before his eyes.
“You have courage, little human. It won’t save you.”
Crenshaw span his blade and shoved it between two of the dragon’s scales, pushing it deep into the beast’s throat. Blood gushed from the wound as he withdrew the sword, but again it closed in moments. “Are you in there, Kastra? I’ll cut you out if I have to.”
“There’s no Kastra here, little human,” the dragon said. “I’m curious. You seem to consider me a figment. I am not so.”
“Then Kastra’s fooled you, dragon, but he shan’t fool me.”
“You are beginning to annoy me.” The beast flicked Crenshaw with the most meagre of contact and the old soldier went flying. He landed hard and began to rethink the idea of the dragon being an illusion.
Valok dropped by his side and helped him to his feet. Crenshaw could see the dragon was still interested in him, as were the people of the hamlet, who had formed a brave, possibly foolish, crowd.
“Your audience is here,” Crenshaw told him. “Now all you need is to get rid of this dragon and bring Kastra here.”
“Crenshaw, you fool, I think that really is a dragon.”
“There are no dragons.” He angrily shook his arm free. “And I can get to my own feet, thanks.”
“That thing is real.”
“Maybe it is. I hope so. I may not believe in dragons, but my dreams are already dead so I know full well fantasies can be massacred.”
“You do talk a lot of nonsense, little human,” said the dragon.
“If you’re real, why are you here? Why turn up right now, just when Kastra would have sent an imaginary dragon after us?”
“There’s a simple answer to that, if only you could think of it.”
“I’m through with mind games, dragon.”
“More like politics, although I can see how you could get the two confused.”
With a roar, Crenshaw attacked, his sword hacking away at the legs and body of the creature. He did not stop to watch the injuries seal and reasoned if he caused enough blood to flow the dragon’s physiology might not be able to catch up with him. As he hacked and slashed, Crenshaw put aside the fact that the dragon could not exist, and after the span of a lifetime fell back, exhausted and defeated.
“Have you quite finished?” the dragon asked.
“Give me your best shot, wyrm.”
The dragon nestled itself with its rear legs and shot forward. It moved with such speed that Crenshaw was not ready for it, although he twisted his body and parried the attack from claws which would have torn him open. The dragon’s snake-like form wound back, snapping its beak at him. Crenshaw thought back to his confrontation with the beast beneath the baroness’s castle. He had termed that dragon also, although it was of a vastly different species to this creature before him. He recalled his strategy back then had been a simple one: run. The situation had resolved itself when the dragon had become entangled with the hairy men. There were no such hairy men present this time, and Crenshaw was not about to use the milling villagers as an alternative.
“You have no idea what you are doing, little human. Best to surrender now, so all can see you are a coward.”
They were odd words for a fight but so long as the dragon was talking it wasn’t trying to eat him. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he realised the dragon wasn’t trying all that hard to kill him. Its talons he had blocked, its beak had not come close enough to pose any real threat, while all its great sinewy body did was flow around and did not attempt to crush him at all.
He understood something of the beast now, of why it was there. Backing away, Crenshaw twirled his sword and stood ready. The dragon paused, sizing him up. He knew what it was doing now; it was determining whether he was prepared to do the very thing it wanted him to. For sev
eral moments it stood there, uncertain; then it lunged for him regardless.
Bringing back his arm, Crenshaw waited, fearless. The dragon’s maw yawned wide and Crenshaw hurled his sword with undeterred precision. There was nothing easier to hit than a target that was presenting itself so brazenly. Sailing through the air, the blade disappeared into the creature’s mouth, the throw so precise it pierced the dragon’s brain. The great beast continued to run, its momentum carrying it forward even after death. Crenshaw leaped to one side and heard the villagers cheer, which made him wonder why they didn’t just run away and hide somewhere. Behind him the majestic beast crashed to the ground, blood pouring from its mouth and nose. It shuddered once, dramatically, and then lay still.
Jobek Crenshaw had slain a dragon.
Which would have been fine, had the dragon not wanted to be slain.
The crowd of villagers cheered and swamped him, but Crenshaw was in no mood to accept their praise. Something strange was going on and he did not like being a pawn.
“Good show, Crenshaw,” Canlin said, joining him.
“Fat lot of good you were.”
“True, but I’m not stupid enough to attack something like that.”
Thunder shook the sky and Crenshaw was not all that surprised. He could see the lightning building in the heavens; then a shaft shot into the ground, leaving a solitary figure in its wake.
“You’ve slain my dragon,” Moya said. “No single man should have the strength of mind to do such a thing.”
Crenshaw did not tell her that he knew she had wanted him to. Until he understood why she had done that, he would not tip his hand. He could not imagine it had all been simply for him to lose his sword.
“It seems I’ll have to tend to this myself,” Moya continued, her hands crackling with magic. “So be it. Let this mark the end of our long battle.”
She raised her arms and prepared to fight. Looking at her, all Crenshaw could wonder at was whether she had any further cliché she wanted to spout.
