D&D - Mystara - Penhaligon Trilogy 02

by The Dragon's Tomb - Heinrich, D. J (v1. 1)

  Enraged, Jo tore into the dwarf. “He’s lying, you fool! He’d say anything to avoid going back to the castle! He’d kill Auroch to save his hide, and he’d kill us, too.”

  Braddoc waved his hand. “The man would have died here if we hadn’t happened—”

  “He faked it! He’s faked it all!” Jo shouted. “Somehow he knew we were here! He hired those thugs—”

  “Excuse me,” Brisbois said in a whisper that cut through the humid air. He tried unsuccessfully to raise his hand. “I don’t mean to interrupt . . . your decision of my fate,” he said, his eyes whirling in his head, “but I think I . . Bris- bois’s expression went blank, a mocking smile seeming to curl about his battered lips, and he crumpled to the wet ground.

  “I knew this would happen! I just knew this would happen!” Braddoc fumed. He handed Jo his battle-axe and knelt by the injured man. Jo refused to move; she watched in stony silence as Braddoc checked Brisbois. “His arm’s broken—thankfully not his sword arm—and he’s got a lot of bad bruises. His face looks awful.” Braddoc stood and began gathering the man’s lanky body over his shoulder.

  Jo licked her lips, and her eyes narrowed. The wind shifted a little, and the stench of the rendering hall hit her full in the face. “Throw him into the dead animal pen,” she said brutally. “Tomorrow he’ll be a candle—not a traitor.” Her lips pulled downward.

  “Wish I had a real squire to give me a hand,” Braddoc barked unexpectedly. “I’m bringing this man back to the inn. He may or may not be innocent, but he is injured. You can either stay here and pout or join us.” The dwarf grunted as he shifted Brisbois’s body on his shoulder.

  Braddoc started walking away, back through the alley they had entered.

  Unmoving, Jo watched Braddoc sway as he disappeared past the lamplights range. Her glimpse of Brisbois saw his broken arm swing loose from the dwarfs hold. The arm jerked and dangled, moving unnaturally. The squire smiled coldly, and her eyes didn’t blink. For a long time she continued to stare after the pair, her expression frozen, until she could no longer hear Braddoc’s shuffling gait.

  The squire turned away, then suddenly raised her fists to the sky. She threw her head back and cried in rage, “Fliiinnn!”

  The rain began again to fall.

  Karleah entwined her fingers together and then stretched out her arms, cracking her knuckles and her elbow joints simultaneously. Granting the boy a sidelong glance, she began to rummage through a basket of dried herbs on the table before her. As her fingers slipped among the dried stalks and tightly woven bags, the old woman peered up at the boy through her bushy brows. It was on the tip of her tongue to say, “You’ve grown,” but Dayin’s expression was too sad and confused for such an innocuous observation.

  “What are you looking for, Karleah?” Dayin asked quietly. His sky-blue eyes were shadowed with pain, but he hadn’t cried. There was an edge to his gaze that had been lacking this morning. Karleah wondered if the boy would ever cry again.

  “Let me present a puzzle to you, boy.” Her long fingers delicately pulled the orcbane from the feverfew. “Let’s see if you get the same answer I did. Sit down.”

  “What’s this puzzle about, Karleah?” Dayin asked, a tinge of interest coloring his voice. His eyes shone a little brighter.

  Karleah frowned as she stared at the boy. “Why do you suppose the dragon brought useless wands of power with him to his fight with Flinn?” she asked. “Verdilith knew he and Flinn would fight; he knew Flinn would finally join him in the glade where they had first fought many years ago. So why did the dragon bring useless gadgets along? And why did he refrain from casting his own spells? Tell me, Dayin.”

  The boy stared at Karleah and then blinked twice. He shook his head and said, “They must’ve been drained, just like your spells were drained.” Dayin paused, waiting for Karleah to say something. She remained silent, and he continued, “So whatever drained the spells must be in the glade where they fought, or in the dragon’s lair itself.”

  “Almost right,” Karleah replied, amused at the boy’s sincerity but gratified to see that he was working out the puzzle on his own. “Where were my spells drained, in the glade or in the lair?”

  “The lair,” Dayin blurted, sudden recognition breaking over him, “so whatever was draining magic must have been in the lair, right?” The boy stopped, his blue eyes clouding a little.

  Karleah nodded and said, “Yes, Dayin?” Let the boy work it through, she told herself

  “But that’s not quite right, either,” Dayin said suddenly. He propped his chin with his hand. “Because I wasn’t ever in the lair, and I lost my spells, too. And you lost more spells after we left the lair; your staff kept being drained, even after we got to the castle.”

  Karleah played with a forget-me-not twig, then looked at the boy. “And . . . ?” she queried.

  Dayin s brows knit again. “And . . .” he said slowly, then his brows rose, “and so that means somehow I’ve been near whatever drained you and the wands of magic. It must have been something that attached itself to you in the cave. . . . Something like dust, or water, or spores . . .”

  “. . . or treasure,” Karleah nudged impatiently.

  Stunned, the boy stared at the wizardess. “Do you think all that stuff works like a magic magnet, Karleah? Sucking out enchantments from everything the treasure comes near?”

  Marshaling her patience, Karleah responded gently, “You saw all the things Jo and Braddoc brought from the lair. Tell me about them.”

  Dayin’s eyes wandered to the ceiling. “Jo had a really pretty opal, I remember, and a crown with some blue gems on it. She had lots of coins, a weird dagger, some pearly things . . .”

  “And Braddoc?” Karleah coaxed.

  “Braddoc had, let me see, a jeweled dagger that you could hide stuff inside the hilt. And he had a giant goose egg encrusted with gold and gems.” Dayin pointed suddenly at Karleah. “Oh! And a box! That funny box that wouldn’t open!”

  Karleah smiled, touched her nose with one finger, then reached out and touched Dayin’s. “You’ve got it, Dayin! Dragons hoard treasures of great value. All the objects you mentioned would fetch a fortune in the marketplace—all except that plain iron box. It had to have some reason for being there, some great value to the dragon, and I think drawing magic must be what it is.”

  “Are you sure, Karleah?” Dayin said, suddenly discouraged. “It was awfully plain—Just iron and all that.”

  “Ah, but you saw what happened when Braddoc tried to open that ‘simple’ box,” Karleah rejoined. “There’s much more to that box than meets the eye, my boy.”

  “But the box didn’t even seem magical . . .”

  “Of course not,” Karleah replied, a bit more harshly than she intended. “It’s antimagical. It somehow acts as a magnet for magic and draws it out of anything that is near it.” She smiled at Dayin, well pleased at his deductive powers. “So, the riddle is solved.” Dayin responded to her keen-edged smile with a look of concern. “Don’t worry about it; I’ll have Braddoc drop it in the bottom of a deep gorge in the Wulfholdes. That should . . .” Karleah’s words trailed off as the boy’s expression of concern deepened into one of horror. “Dayin?” Karleah asked worriedly.

  Dayin shook his head. “K-Karleah!” he whispered. “Didn’t Braddoc say in his message—? Didn’t he give the box to a mage at the castle, since he couldn’t open it? Didn’t he?”

  Karleah stared at Dayin. She scratched her lower lip with her strong white teeth. Finally she said, “Well, I’ll be damned.” The crone shook her head, then grabbed her staff and used it to stand. “Saddle up, boy. We’ve a trip to make.”

  “Stand away from the window.”

  The noise came from somewhere behind him. Verdilith couldn’t make out who might be speaking, nor did he try. The words were simply part of the dull roar of pain that sometimes hummed and most often screamed through his fragmented mind. Pain. It was both curse and blessing to him. It wouldn’t leave him, not
even long enough to let him sleep. But, by its very intensity, it defined the core of his being—it kept his mind from dissipating on the wind. He cradled his maimed arm, watching with mild delight as his body restlessly changed from the form of Lord Mal- drake to that of the blacksmith . . . of Brisbois ... of the bitch squire . . . of Teryl Auroch. He had neither the will nor the attention to keep any form for long. Besides, surely his transformations unnerved the speaker behind him.

  “I said stand away from the window! You’ll be seen.”

  Verdilith didn’t know who spoke, and he didn’t care. He only knew that it wasn’t Wyrmblight.

  Wyrmblight.

  If there was a name for his pain, it was Wyrmblight. It grated on him that the sword still remained, out there in the hands of a fool, out there, ready to strike from the darkness. The sword haunted him. The thought of the four runes, glowing and bright, burned like brands into his spasming mind.

  Through human ears—Maldrake’s ears, to be precise— the dragon heard the noise again. “Maldrake! For the last time, get away from that window! I don’t want anyone to see you.

  Verdilith turned his head toward the sound. It was the paltry human speaking, the mage who called himself Mal- och Kine . . . and Teryl Auroch. Ah. yes, his “rescuer” from the Knights of Penhaligon, the dragon’s friend and master. But Verdilith knew Aurochs true motives—it was Auroch who had given him the box that ate magic, Auroch who had drained his power, Auroch who had made him vulnerable to the sword. Soon, Verdilith would have his revenge. But first, he would accompany the mage, play his games long and well. Only then would he gain a magical means to break the damned-blessed blade.

  Verdilith withdrew from the window into the inn room. He walked with shuddering steps toward the mage, past the bed where he had spent the last week in sleepless fits, past the mage’s tables crowded with magic paraphernalia. Jars and vials and tubes bubbled with Aurochs foul concoctions, the smell of which was sweet to Verdilith. Surely, with the aid of these accoutrements, Auroch could devise some magical means of destroying the hated sword. Indeed, Verdilith wondered if the man already had the means. But Auroch would surely force the dragon through a maze of lies before providing any solution. Such was the way with Auroch: everything he spoke was a lie, especially his offers of healing.

  “Maldrake? Won’t you sit down?”

  Concentrating to retain the form of Maldrake, Verdilith forced his spinning mind to focus on that little room, on the little man that still called to him. As his vision cleared, Verdilith let his human face twist into a small, almost polite, smile. He approached the withered old mage and felt the wound across his arm burn like acid. But he allowed no sign of agony to show on his face, his green eyes gleaming wide and eager. He took the proffered chair, greedily scanning the bubbling beakers.

  “My men should have finished with Brisbois.”

  Verdilith glared at the mage through slitted eyes. For a moment, Auroch stepped back, away from the intense gaze. The dragon let a small plume of poisonous gas escape from Maldrake s nose.

  “Why didn’t you simply kill Brisbois yourself?” he hissed. Remembering the reason for tolerating Auroch, the dragon added politely, “Such a thing would be simple for you.”

  Auroch at first made no reply, turning as a beaker cradled above a small burner begin to boil. He removed the glass container with his bare hand and placed it inside a small wooden black box. As the mage placed another beaker atop the flame, he said, “Brisbois is a mere mouse in the house. I’m far more interested in the master.”

  Verdilith let Maldrake s head nod slightly, again scanning the room. He was familiar with magic and its creation, but did not recognize any of the mage’s devices. The items Auroch toyed with seemed not of this world, as alien as the box that ate magic. “Ah, and I assume that the master you refer to is me.”

  “Of course you assume so,” Auroch replied with a hint of annoyance in his voice.

  Verdilith shifted uneasily in his chair, but the wound on his side rubbed against the leather. It was as though Wyrmblight itself were jabbing him, reminding him of his torment. “Surely we agree, human, that you desire to keep me within your grasp.”

  “So that I may heal your wounds, Maldrake, so that I may heal your wounds,” Auroch appeased smoothly. “These things you see about you—”

  “Are part of your self-promoting machinations,” Verdilith inteijected mildly. “As, you think, am I. And now you wish to blackmail me into carrying out your schemes.” The magician lightly dropped the tools he was using onto a table, frowning in irritation. He ran fingers through his thick hair and sat down heavily in a chair behind the table. After a moment, he sighed and raised his eyes.

  “What is it you want?” he asked leadenly.

  Verdilith would not allow himself to be fooled by the human s theatrics. The man was too powerful, too otherworldly to be so affected by the dragon’s moods. Clearly, Verdilith was pivotal to Aurochs plans to destroy all things magic. But Verdilith didn’t care if Auroch would engulf the world in flames, as long as Wyrmblight, the sword blessed to destroy him, were first shattered.

  “You know what I want, Auroch. And to get it, you know I will do what you want,” he softly replied, letting another trail of poison seep from his lungs through the body of Maldrake. He was lying. He cared nothing for the mage’s desires.

  “You distrust me,” Auroch noted calmly.

  “Return my magic, and I will return my trust,” Verdilith replied.

  Auroch nodded, as if to himself, and stood. He turned to a large cabinet directly behind him. “Restoring your magic is a feat I cannot perform. But to prove my good intentions to you, I shall give you what you desire before you ever act on my behalf” He made a gesture with his left hand, and there was a loud click from the cabinet’s door, which swung partially open. Verdilith tried to peer inside, but his wounded side forced the air from his body. A small trail of venom dropped from Maldrake s lips and fell on the floor. The rug burned.

  The sorcerer closed the door with another gesture and placed a long, reddish gemstone on the table. The stone, about the length of Aurochs shaking hand, ratded heavily on the wooden tabletop, and its edges flashed a sinister light in the mage’s eyes.

  “I have no use for riches,” Verdilith muttered, eyeing the shimmering gem. “Your ‘rescue’ deprived me of a hoard worth more than a million such stones.”

  “Doesn’t the shape look familiar?” Auroch teased, running a finger along the edge of the stone. “The shape and the color?”

  “Ail abelaat stone?” Verdilith asked in a growling voice. “What good is that for destroying Wyrmblight?”

  “Not an abelaat stone,” Auroch corrected, smiling evilly, “but an artifact fashioned to look like an abelaat stone”

  “What good is that?” Verdilith repeated, purposely spewing noxious breath into Auroch s face.

  “This stone will give you a window on the progeny of Flinn—on Squire Menhir, the bearer of Wyrmblight. You will know everywhere she goes, every word she speaks. You will learn every secret of the blade she bears, of its magnificent strengths, of its one, great weakness.”

  Verdilith eyed the softly glowing gem. “What weakness? I clutched that sword between my own fingers and wrenched it against stone, but it would not break.”

  “Every weapon has its weakness,” Auroch replied, “just as every man does. You found Flinn’s weakness in his glory and relentless pride . . . and his wife, Yvaughan.” “Yes,” Verdilith mused, gently stroking his maimed arm. “But I could speak direcdy to the mind of Flinn, plant the seeds of destruction in him.”

  “You can speak to the squire through this stone, too,” Auroch said, lifting the gem from the table and setting it gently in Verdilith s hand. “You can take the form of Fain Flinn and appear to her in the stone.”

  The gem felt hot in the dragon’s human hand. He peered into its bloody depths, a line of bilious drool sagging across his lip.

  “You can poison her heart, like you
poisoned the heart of Flinn,” Auroch continued, breathless. “You can twist her so she will happily give you the sword—even help you destroy it.”

  Yes, Verdilith thought, gazing into the crystal. Yes, this gemstone could deliver the sword of Flinn and the squire of Flinn into my hands. In the glinting light of the stone’s facets Verdilith’s mania to smash the blade calmed and deepened, and he began to desire a more satisfying, more poetic vengeance. Certainly, Wyrmblight would be shattered and the squire destroyed, but only after Verdilith had insinuated himself into the heart of the girl.

  Johauna was her name.

  He would steal Johauna away from Flinn as he had stolen Yvaughan. With a clicking, whirring sound, the wheels within wheels had begun to spin in Verdilith’s dragon brain.

  “How can I track the squire with this?” Verdilith asked, allowing his rumbling dragon voice to issue from the mouth of Maldrake. “How can I see her? Speak to her?”

  “Simply give her the stone,” Auroch said. “Tell her she can use it to see Flinn. Tell her she must keep it secret, or the stone will shatter. Then, to see or speak through the stone, you need merely peer into a mirror and wish it so”

  Verdilith raised his eyes from the gem, now clutched tightly in his palm. “Why would you give this to me?”

  Auroch walked back to the table and leaned comfortably on it. He fixed his deep blue eyes on to the dragon’s green ones and said, “It serves my purposes, as do all things. In exchange for this priceless gift, I ask only a simple service from you. There is a boy named Dayin traveling along with the bearer of the sword. I want the boy returned to me.”

  “Why don’t you retrieve him yourself?” Verdilith asked through Maldrake s lips. He continued to stare at the gemstone.

  Auroch s eyes flashed angrily. “Do as I say, dragon, and I may let you work with me again.” His wizened features softened, and he said, “As a token of my friendship, I will tell you a secret. The wounds you suffer so mightily are incurable while Wyrmblight is whole. But, when you break the blade, your wounds will finally heal.” The mage leaned forward slightly, staring deeper into the great serpent’s eyes. “But, if you don’t bring me the boy, I shall make certain you are torn limb from limb, and nothing will heal you again.”