Stone Dragon (The First Realm)

by Testamark, Klay

  He rallied and swung the staff down, nearly knocking the stick from my hand. The hand went numb. Damn, he was strong! I peeked at his aura looking for magical enhancement, but he was just naturally powerful. He swept low and I blocked just in time—the staff cracked against my knee and I howled and hopped away.

  “Do you yield?” he asked.

  “Like hell!”

  I came in high, smashing his guard down and jabbing into his chest. It was like poking a tree. He grunted, but whirled the staff one-handed. I ducked the long-range attack. He went on the offensive and the staff seemed to twist and bend. He jabbed and caught me in the gut, knocking the wind out of me. He was good. I threw a stick. He ducked, but it gave me time to get inside his swing. He brought up the staff but it thumped against my upper arm. I grabbed one of his wrists and used my other stick to beat him around the head.

  He snorted like a bull and butted me in the chest, then surged forward, hitting me with his shoulder and sending me flying. I’d opened a few cuts in his head but he was very much in the fight. Skilled and tough.

  Time to cheat. I pointed the stick at his face and triggered a concussive blast. The gust of wind hit like a punch and was my favorite sparring trick.

  The runes on my stick flared red and what hit the man’s face was a blast of fire. “Aaargh!” he said, and dropped his staff.

  “Damn! I didn’t mean to do that!” I dropped my stick and rushed to his aid, only to get a haymaker to the jaw.

  Things went black for a second. I don’t remember hitting the ground, but the next thing I knew I was trying to sit up.

  “Ugh,” I said, turned my head, and threw up. I wondered what I was vomiting when I’d emptied my guts at the royal palace. I decided not to think about it.

  “I can still hear you,” the man said. “You still want to fight?”

  I shook my head, which only made me dizzier. “You won this one, champ.”

  “You blinded me,” he said. “That’s no victory.”

  Slowly I got to my feet. “How about a draw?”

  He faced me, then sighed. “I guess that’s as good as it gets.”

  “Did I really blind you?”

  “I will heal, in time. Meanwhile I shall be helpless. I won’t be waylaying anybody.”

  “Let me take a look. I know some healing magic and I can have you back on the highway in no time.”

  He was quiet for a second. “You are a wizard, sir?”

  “Journeyman mage.”

  “So you could have ended this fight before it even started?”

  “Uh, yes,” I said. Also, I could’ve just teleported past him. I was in unfamiliar ground, but I could probably have blinked ahead and gotten a head start. Why didn’t I think of that?

  Heh.

  Goddamn dragon. I turned my attention to the human, who now sat with his sword in his hands. “I’m not meant be a thief, am I?”

  “Not in Brandish,” I said. “Look, I’m sorry about the flame attack. I honestly just meant to knock you out. I can fix it. Call it my one good deed for the day.”

  “I am called Heronimo, stranger, and I am in your debt.”

  Chapter 11

  Elves base their magic on the elements of Earth, Air, Fire, and Water, even though those things don’t have any scientific basis. When an earth mage imagines they’re drawing power from the earth, they’re accessing the same energy field as the air mage who’s supposedly drawing power from the air. A fire mage doesn’t really need a hair-trigger temper, either, and a water mage doesn’t need a tub of water, but it helps to associate magic with something. An invisible energy field is, by definition, hard to visualize. It may surround and penetrate every living thing but it’s nothing on which to build a belief system.

  There are many more elements (such as hydrogen and helium) but we stick to the classics because they relate to a mage’s personality. What’s more, helium magic would be ridiculous.

  You can tell a magician’s elemental specialty by how they look and act. Earth magicians are built solidly and the serious ones go barefoot. Air magicians move fast and talk too much. Fire magicians are famous for their enthusiasm in general and their tempers in particular. And water magicians are, I don’t know, caring?

  I realized that water magic wasn’t my strongest suit, but by then I was already passing my hand over Heronimo’s eyes. “Are you feeling any warmth?” I asked.

  “Well, there was the fireball…”

  “Nevermind.” I concentrated on directing the healing energies according to the morphogenic field I’d superimposed over his face.

  You need to know anatomy to be a healer. You also need to care about your patients. Well, I’d taken a few art classes and felt bad about blinding the man.

  “It tingles,” he said.

  A healer can’t turn dead matter into living matter—that’s hundreds of times more difficult. However, a good one can seal wounds, purge infections, and regulate body functions. A master water mage can even shapeshift.

  Healing eyeballs is delicate work, but my efforts were having some effect.

  “I’m starting to see… but everything’s so dark… wait, it’s still night.”

  Slowly I got the swelling down. The blisters receded. I undid the damage on a cellular level and Heronimo blinked. Then he added his own powers.

  Humans might not be as long-lived or as magically-talented, but they make up in other ways. They’re big, strong, and hard to kill. They can eat almost anything and live in virtually any climate. Many humans make a point of wearing nothing but leather loincloths or fur bikinis, even in winter.

  They do it because they can. And to be honest, if I had those kinds of muscles I’d want to show them off too.

  Humans also have a healing factor. It’s inborn, doesn’t require training, and works whether they’re thinking about it or not.

  “How does it look?” Heronimo asked.

  “Pretty good,” I said, helping him to his feet. “You won’t need to trim your eyebrows for a while, though”

  “I’m hungry,” he said.

  “That’s normal.”

  “No, I’m really hungry. When I arrived in Brandish, I expecting to live by banditry. But brigands do not thrive here.”

  “What did you do up north?”

  “Mostly I chopped wood and carried water.”

  “In the First Realm, Most travelers don’t have much cash. Not with the Bank of Brandish in every town. And for everywhere else there’s Mithish Card.”

  Heronimo’s stomach rumbled.

  “Is there an inn around here?” I asked. “I’m hungry too. Let’s walk.”

  * * *

  “I’m confused. Do elves have no use for silver or gold?”

  We were walking down the road, hopefully toward food and shelter. I looked up at him. “We do have gold and silver coins. We call the silver coin the rupee, and we mostly use it for overseas trade. It’s just too easy for earth mages to adulterate them with cheaper metals. Within the kingdom, we use folding money.”

  “So elves use leaves for money? I thought it was an old bard’s tale.”

  I took out my money clip and peeled off a single. “Here you go.”

  He took the bill and held it up to the moon. “This is money? What’re all these pictures?”

  “That’s one sov’rin. The building is the royal palace and the old man on the other side is our last king, Galdor Lissesul. Stern-looking geezer, isn’t he?”

  “He looks like you, but older.”

  “He does not! There’s not enough light. And all elves must look the same to you.”

  “I can see clearly, thanks to you, and I have a good memory for faces. There’s one that I shall never forget—the face of the elf that killed my parents.”

  * * *

  It was the hottest time of the year. That wasn’t much in the Northlands, but at least river bathing was an option. All you needed was soap, a towel, and a hammer.

  Something was taking the men of the village
. They had begun disappearing during the night, their bodies later found without their skins—or worse. Something was butchering the warriors and taking trophies from their bodies. The chief sent out his finest trackers, but nothing returned from the forest, not even the hounds.

  Then Heronimo’s father, Hrascar, spoke to the chief. “Let all of us men gather in the great hall,” he said. “Let us lie in wait for this monster and kill it together.” The chief agreed and they bedded down in his house.

  Although Heronimo had not yet undergone his initiation, he ran to his father and demanded to be included. His father tousled the boy’s hair. “Sorry, son. This is for warriors only.”

  “I’m almost nine! I will be a warrior!”

  “You shall, but not today. Stay with your mother and keep her safe.”

  “But I wanna see the monster!”

  “When this is over we’ll hang what’s left of it from the gates. How’s that?”

  The boy sniffled. “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  The young Heronimo ran off. He got his wooden sword and played with the other boys. Bones were broken and blood was spilled, but no more than usual.

  Night came and the entire village lay awake in their beds, ears straining to catch the slightest sound. They heard dogs, cats, and even mice, but of the monster there was nothing. In the morning they stumbled into the light, eyes red and heads numbed. Nobody had died, however, and the chief declared it a good enough plan to be worth trying again.

  The next night, the same thing happened: Exactly nothing.

  And the next night.

  And for an entire week after.

  At that point, people were secretly wishing that somebody would die, if only for a change of pace.

  Heronimo was playing outside the stockade when the crone appeared. She was shriveled and bent, with more wrinkles than pores. She carried an odd bundle and peered at him with her one good eye. She cackled.

  The boy screamed and ran. He returned with his mother, Grimalda, who asked the old woman what she thought she was doing.

  “Just passing through. Thought you might want to see what I’ve got here.” She opened the bundle and revealed a wyvern head. “Found this beauty dead in the mountains. Its nest was lined with swords, spears, axes, knives. Reckon it rolled over too enthusiastically, cut itself, and died from infection. It was bloated when I found it—it popped when I stuck me knife in.”

  “Ew,” Grimalda said. “But why cut off its head?”

  “There were also human bones in the nest, fresh ones. Reckon it went insane for shiny things and started killing for them. Have you been missing warriors?”

  “Gods. This must be it!”

  She took the old woman to see the chief. The warriors looked at the wyvern head and nodded among themselves. Wyverns were more than dangerous enough, they liked shiny things, and it was possible for one to prey on people. It looked like they had their monster.

  The chief yawned and nodded. “Old woman, you have done this village a service. What would you ask of us?”

  The crone cackled, as crones are wont to do. “I have no need of treasure. Only, if someone would escort me to the next village I would be grateful.”

  “I will do that,” said Grimalda.

  “But Ma!” Heronimo said.

  She smacked him upside the head. “It’s only half a day’s journey. I should return this evening.”

  He watched her mother leave with the crone. He forgot about them when his father nailed the wyvern head to the village gates.

  The chief had ordered a party in honor of the fallen warriors and in celebration of the fact that the monster was dead. Hogs were butchered and set to roasting. Sheep were slaughtered and set to stewing. Cakes were battered and set to baking. All manner of things were deep-fried. Children ran from house to house, stealing from the kitchens. The village was hip-deep in festivities by the time Grimalda returned.

  “Hello, Ma,” Heronimo said as she came in through the gates. “Did you bring me anything from your trip?”

  “What? No, I hurried home as soon as I could.”

  He watched as she went into the storeroom. It happened that Grimalda was the village brewer, and famous for her meads and ice beers. She emerged with a keg of honeyjack.

  “That’s your best stuff! Are you just going to give it for free?”

  She smiled. “It’s a party. I’m going to give everyone a cup.”

  “What, even the slaves?”

  He watched his mother distribute the distilled mead. She made sure to give everyone, including the children, but Heronimo stayed away. Something was wrong.

  The people danced and laughed and, more often than not, swilled honeyjack. In the mead hall his father did backflips over the table, the chief and his warriors exchanged poetic insults, and the bard sang outrageous lies.

  People began dropping.

  Still singing, the bard stumbled into the fireplace and didn’t get up. Women screamed, staggered, and slumped. Children curled up where they fell.

  The chief drew his sword and called to arms, but a fireball came from nowhere and blew his head off.

  The warriors grabbed and spears and tried to get into formation but the fireballs kept coming. They shot from the rooftops, they shot from the windows, they shot from the rafters and shadows. Those who hadn’t fallen to poison died by fire. When only a handful of men remained standing, something hit the floorboards and began shredding them.

  Heronimo was under a table. His father had his sword out. He reeled from the honeyjack but was still in the fight. He charged at the thing but it avoided him. It seemed to be made of blades. His comrades fell and still it eluded him.

  “Face me, damn you!”

  The thing beheaded a warrior. The blood sprayed. Now a red shape danced among the humans, twin blades slashing and killing.

  “Face meee!” Hrascar roared.

  Then it was just him and the monster. Heronimo’s father brought up his sword. “I am Hrascar and you shall die for this!”

  The monster giggled. The sound gave Hrascar pause.

  The monster let the curtain slide away. The bloody water, now useless as an invisibility cloak, flowed down its legs. It wore a steel fox mask and Grimalda’s dress.

  “What?” Hrascar said. He lowered his sword as the monster sauntered closer. It made one shark-toothed saber disappear. It reached up and removed its mask—it was Heronimo’s mother.

  “Hi honey, I’m home!” she said. She closed the distance and opened his throat with a sawing motion, cutting deeply into his neck.

  Heronimo’s father died silently, shocked speechless. The monster watched him bleed and chuckled to herself. “Muscle-bound idiot,” she said.

  Grimalda wiped her sword on Hrascar’s shirt. Her features softened, melted, and became someone else’s. It was an elf. A male elf, as far as Heronimo could tell.

  “Very good, apprentice.” Another cloak dropped. Another masked elf stood in the great hall. “Cute dress, though.”

  “Whatever. Do I pass?”

  “Certainly. You got all the warriors. Nice touch, poisoning all the villagers. But are you sure you got everyone?”

  Heronimo couldn’t breathe.

  “Quite sure,” the apprentice said, but he didn’t sound like it.

  “Then what is this?” Something grabbed Heronimo and threw him between the two. Another cloak dropped and there were three elves in the room.

  “What did I tell you about situational awareness?” said the elder elf.

  “Failed a spot check,” added the third elf.

  “Give me a second and I’ll take care of this loose end.”

  The elder elf shook his head. “I’m going to let him go as a lesson to you. Our order demands absolute thoroughness. If you set out to murder an entire village, you better not leave survivors! You show much talent, my apprentice, but also much arrogance. Let this be a lesson in humility.”

  “Maybe this kid will grow up into a hero,”
said the third elf. “Then he’s going to find you and kick your arse.”

  “Shyeah, right.”

  Heronimo glanced from elf to elf. He had long since soiled himself. He looked to the elder elf and fought to keep his voice steady. “Can I go? Where is my mother?”

  “Go, little barbarian,” said the elder. “Tell your people a single elf did this.”

  “Go to the next village,” said the apprentice. “You will find your mother on the way. Grow into something worth killing.”

  Heronimo ran, ran from the hall and from the village. He ran from the corpse of his father, from the ruins of his life. He ran for his mother, the last thing in the world. He ran until his legs ached and his lungs burned.

  He was halfway to the next village when he saw her. She was hanging from an elm tree.

  Chapter 12

  Heronimo raised his beer and drank mightily. I, too, had to drink from my own mug.

  “That was some story,” I said.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to unload on you.”

  I shook my head. “S’no problem. Besides, as you’ll soon find, I’ve been through some heavy stuff too.”

  I signaled to a barmaid for another round. “And can we have some whisky shots too? My friend has never had a boilermaker.”

  Over the remains of our bread and stew, I quickly filled him in on my situation. Our drinks arrived and I sank the whisky shots into our beers.

  “What sorcery is this?” Heronimo said. Not sure if he was serious.

  We drank and leaned back. We sat in a booth in the empty dining lounge. Most everyone was asleep, but inns always had at least one night owl employee to attend to travelling dark elves. The barmaid, a shapely dark elf herself, was currently scrubbing the floor.

  I pulled myself away from the view and looked at Heronimo. “So your plan was to eventually mug this murderer?”

  He frowned. “Give me some credit. I was only going to live as a highwayman until I had the funds to continue searching. How hard would it be to find an elf that wields a pair of saw-toothed sabers?”

  “Dual-wielding is pretty common, actually. Off the battlefield, many elves carry matched personal weapons. Even I have my sticks.”