Dragontiarna: Knights

by Moeller, Jonathan

  “Thank you,” said Accolon. His heart hammered in his chest, and he felt his palms grow damp. The thought of speaking with Caitrin’s sister, of telling her what had happened, all but unmanned him. He would have rather drawn Hopesinger and fought a thousand ogres by himself. Furious at his cowardice, he took a deep breath and strode into the lodge.

  A large fire had been built in the hearth, likely for the comfort of the monastery’s guest. Accolon had passed his night here in cold and discomfort as penance. He looked at the bed, the table and chair, at the fire crackling in the hearth.

  There was no sign of Julia. Or of any woman. Puzzled, Accolon started to turn. Had she stepped out for a moment…

  Pain exploded through his back as the dagger plunged into his side.

  Accolon let out a bellow of pain and rage and staggered forward, reaching for Hopesinger’s hilt. But a shivering numbness spread from the wound in his left side, and his attempt to draw his sword turned into a spin, and he fell to his knees, facing the doorway.

  Abbot Caldorman stood between him and the door, a dagger smeared with blood and greenish poison in his hand, his blunt face twisted in a smirk of glee and hatred. He had been standing behind the door with the dagger, waiting for Accolon to enter.

  “What?” said Accolon. “Why? I…I…don’t…”

  Caldorman sneered and spat in Accolon’s face. He tried to rise again, but his shaking muscles would not allow it. He felt so desperately cold, and the blood running down his side felt molten hot. Part of his mind realized that he was badly hurt.

  “Kill him,” said Prior Simon, stepping into the lodge. “Kill him quickly. The Herald instructed us to do it. We can dump his body outside the wall, and when it is found, they will think a goblin did it.”

  Caldorman said nothing, his face still twisted in its smirk of hate and triumph.

  “Kill him,” said Simon, a hint of fear in his voice. “We have to…”

  “Wait!” snarled Caldorman. “I want him to know. I want him to understand before he dies.” He glared down at Accolon. “You stupid, arrogant shit. Like all nobles. You never understood. None of you understood. Well, a new day is coming.”

  “What?” said Accolon, his teeth chattering. “Why?”

  “Look and see the future!” said Caldorman, and he jerked up the right sleeve of his robe, turning the inside of his forearm to show Accolon. For a moment Accolon saw nothing but the pale flesh of the abbot’s arm.

  And then lines of blue light glowed on the skin. A symbol appeared there, a strange, stylized mark. At first, Accolon’s reeling brain could make no sense of it, but he thought it looked like a dragon-headed man.

  “Behold,” said Caldorman. “The mark of the Drakocenti. The future.”

  “A cult,” spat Accolon, understanding starting to come. “You’re all…you’re all damned cultists. Worshipping an urdmordar or…”

  “A cult?” said Caldorman in a sing-song, mocking voice. “A cult? A cult?” He slapped Accolon across the face and spat on him again. “No. Not a cult, an order. There’s no God, you stupid boy, no Dominus Christus, no heaven, no hell, no saints. Only power. And the path of the Drakocenti will lead us to power. We shall become gods, each of us, and we shall rule the cosmos for all time.”

  “The Enlightened thought…” started Accolon. He couldn’t push the sentence through his shaking jaws.

  “The Enlightened were fools,” said Caldorman. “The High One proved it. The dark elves went down to ruin, and the Enlightened served the same power that destroyed the dark elves. No. Our path is better.”

  “Stop talking and kill him,” said Simon. “If someone comes across us before…”

  “Fine,” said Caldorman. “But I want him to know first. I want to see the expression on his smug face when he understands.”

  “Know what?” said Accolon.

  “The Herald of Ruin commanded us to kill you,” said Caldorman, “and to make it look like an accident. But how? The crown prince of Andomhaim was too well-guarded, and we are but humble monks.” He added a sneer to the last two words. “But the prince had a weakness.” His smirk widened. “His women.”

  Something dark started to tremble in Accolon’s mind.

  “Then the rumors started flying,” said Caldorman. “The prince had impregnated some minor Cintarran noblewoman. And then I understood how to bring you to me. Do you know how easy it was to get close to Caitrin Rhosmor?”

  The trembling of the dark thing in Accolon’s mind worsened.

  “I just told her I had come to pray with her,” said Caldorman. “Everyone trusts a monk. When I hit her over the head, she never saw it coming. It was so easy to tie her up and to wind the noose around her pretty neck. She started screaming for you when she woke up, right until the rope cut off her air.” He laughed and slapped Accolon again. “I really think Lady Caitrin believed that you were going to save her. Right until she couldn’t breathe anymore. She soiled herself when she died, did you notice that? I hoped you noticed that.”

  The trembling in Accolon’s mind turned to screaming.

  “After that, it was easy to steer you here,” said Caldorman. “All those months, waiting for the signal from the Herald, watching you rebuke yourself for that whore’s death…and the entire time, I knew the truth.” He laughed again. “I was disappointed the goblins didn’t kill you in the courtyard as planned. But this…ah, this way is better!”

  “You know, you were right,” said Simon. “Look at his expression! But we really should kill him now.”

  “Yes,” agreed Caldorman, turning the dagger over in his hand. “Think about this when you die, Prince Accolon. Your death is just the beginning. The Drakocenti will sweep the old order of things aside and pave the way for mankind to become gods. You are nothing more than the first step on the path.”

  He raised the dagger, and a lot of things happened at once.

  There was a flicker of motion behind the abbot, and a sword exploded from Simon’s chest. The prior let out a gurgling scream, and Niall stepped back and started to pull his sword free from the dying man. But Simon’s weight yanked the sword down, and Caldorman whirled and sprang upon Niall. He had to release his sword and step back. But Niall had his shield on his left arm, and he managed to raise it. The abbot’s dagger rebounded from it, and Caldorman attacked, hammering at Niall with the blade.

  Rage more violent than anything Accolon had ever known exploded through him.

  He jerked to his feet, his legs trembling, and flung himself at Caldorman. He wanted to get his hands around the abbot’s throat, to throttle Caldorman until his face turned the color that Caitrin’s had been. But Accolon could barely move, and instead of getting a grip on the abbot’s neck, he slammed into the larger man. They both went down, and Accolon’s head hit the doorframe. Stars blazed behind his eyes, and he was too stunned to move.

  Caldorman snarled and raised his dagger again, which was a mistake because Niall swung his shield with both hands. It hit Caldorman’s head with a tremendous crack. The abbot’s expression went slack, his eyes pointing in different directions, and he fell to the floor with a thump.

  “Lord prince,” said Niall, breathing hard. “You’re hurt! We have to get you to the Keeper. Lord prince!”

  “Hand,” croaked Accolon.

  “My hand?” said Niall.

  “No. Mine.” Accolon felt the darkness closing around him. “Put…put my hand on my sword hilt.” He could no longer move his arms.

  Niall complied at once, taking Accolon’s left hand and pushing it against Hopesinger’s hilt. Accolon’s shaking fingers closed around the hilt, and he drew on his link to the soulblade. Warmth flooded through him, and Accolon felt the sword’s power fight against the poison and the wound.

  He stopped feeling worse.

  After a moment, he felt better.

  A few moments later, he was able to sit up, his head spinning, his heart shuddering. But he was no longer dying, and the soulblade’s magic would keep him alive lo
ng enough to reach Calliande or Antenora.

  He glanced at Caldorman. The abbot's eyes were open and unblinking, and he wasn't breathing. Niall had hit him hard.

  “Lord prince?” said Niall. “You’re…not dead.”

  “Soulblade,” said Accolon. “It will help. But I do need to see the Keeper. Help me to stand.”

  Niall obeyed at once, helping Accolon. “What…what happened? Lord Ridmark told me to watch over you, so I followed. Then I heard the abbot talking a bunch of rubbish about worshipping the devil and murdering some woman and saw that he had stabbed you!”

  “I don’t know,” said Accolon. “But we’re going to find out.”

  Oh, yes. Accolon was going to find out. He was as certain as that as he had ever been of anything. His guilt and grief for Caitrin had transformed into grief and molten fury. If these Drakocenti, whatever the hell they were, were another wretched secret society like the Enlightened of Incariel, then Accolon was going to hunt down every last one of the murdering bastards and destroy them all. He had seen the horrors the Enlightened had wreaked upon the realm.

  He would not allow these Drakocenti scoundrels to do the same.

  They had already killed Caitrin. Oh, God, Caitrin. Accolon had been blaming himself for her suicide for months, but she hadn’t killed herself at all. She had been murdered, and the entire time Accolon had been confessing his sins to the man who had killed her.

  He stumbled, and Niall caught him.

  “Lean on me, my lord,” said Niall. “We’ll get you to the cathedral.”

  “Thank you,” said Accolon. “Thank you for my life, Niall. And for more than that. If you hadn’t come along when you did, no one would have ever known the truth. Caldorman would have murdered me and blamed the goblins for it. And no one would have ever known that Caitrin was murdered, that she didn’t kill herself.”

  “You’re welcome, lord prince,” said Niall. “You know, I don’t like to think the worst of people…but I wondered why the prior and the abbot were so harsh. Guess I know now.”

  ***

  Chapter 21: A Secret Cult

  Accolon’s and Niall’s return to the cathedral created quite a stir.

  Immediately after Calliande had healed the prince and he had finished telling his story, Ridmark summoned fifty of his men-at-arms and militia and marched to the monastery accompanied by Accolon, Niall, Calliande, Antenora, Caius, Kharlacht, and all of Kharlacht’s warriors. Once Sir Tyrcamber had heard the account of the symbol of the dragon-headed man, he insisted on coming as well. A secret society in the Empire, Tyrcamber said, used that symbol, and it seemed strange that the Drakocenti in Andomhaim, whoever they were, would use the same sigil.

  Ridmark was inclined to agree, and he intended to get to the bottom of it.

  When they arrived, they found the monks in considerable agitation. The abbot and the prior had been murdered, and the monks asked Ridmark what they should do next.

  He responded by arresting every single one of them and ordering them held in the church. The monks and novices protested, but Ridmark’s men had swords, and they did not. While Ridmark held the monks in the church, he sent his men, Antenora, and Caius scouring through the dormitory, the crypts, and the abbot’s house.

  Calliande had devised a simple method of determining if a man was a member of the Drakocenti cult that Caldorman had described. She summoned a shaft of white fire and swept it through the church, sending it slicing through the monks. The fire was drawn from the Well of Tarlion, and would not harm mortals, only creatures of dark magic.

  One of the monks reacted to the spell, his right arm sizzling and smoking as the hidden mark of the Drakocenti came to life in response to Calliande’s power. Some of Ridmark’s men went to take him captive, but the monk yanked a vial from his robe and drank it in a single swallow. He fell thrashing to the ground and was dead by the time that Calliande reached him.

  The Drakocenti feared their masters more than capture. Or perhaps the monk had panicked and killed himself to escape his fate.

  “That was Brother Philip, the almoner,” said Accolon, his voice as grim as his face. Calliande had healed him of the stab wound and the poison, but the healing had taken a great deal out of him. Ridmark thought the prince ought to have been resting, but Accolon had insisted on coming. Ridmark could hardly blame him. The depth of Caldorman’s treachery had been profound.

  “Suppose that explains why the monks were not interested in helping the men of Ebor,” said Ridmark.

  Vegetius approached with a pair of men-at-arms. “The bursar, the librarian, and the chief scribe are all gone. We can’t find them anywhere in the monastery. But three horses are missing from the stables, and the outer gate is open. I suspected they took the horses and fled once they realized that the abbot was dead.”

  “Which means they are likely Drakocenti,” said Ridmark.

  “That would be my guess,” said Calliande.

  Ridmark nodded. “Vegetius, send ten men on horseback out after them. Men who know how to read a trail.” He grimaced and rubbed his jaw. “I suppose it’s a useless effort, but we might as well try.” Vegetius turned and started to give orders. “I would have liked to capture at least one of these Drakocenti and find out what they intend.”

  “Perhaps will find something useful somewhere in the monastery,” said Calliande. “Caldorman would not have had time to burn his papers and his correspondence. Maybe Antenora will discover something there.”

  As if her words had summoned him, a man-at-arms jogged up, saying that Antenora wished for Ridmark and Calliande to join her at the abbot’s house. Ridmark sent the man-at-arms back to say they would arrive soon and left Vegetius in charge at the church. He strode into the night, Calliande, Accolon, and Sir Tyrcamber accompanying him. Niall followed Accolon. He seemed to have appointed himself Accolon’s bodyguard, which seemed justified given what had happened.

  “Lord Ridmark,” said Tyrcamber. “The monk who committed suicide. The symbol upon his right arm, the dragon-headed man? I have seen it before.”

  Ridmark blinked. “You mentioned that. But where?”

  “More often than I might wish in my homeland,” said Tyrcamber. “There is a secret brotherhood there called the Dragon Cult.”

  “The Dragon Cult?” said Ridmark. “I assume they worship dragons?”

  “Not quite,” said Tyrcamber. “They worship themselves, more or less. As you might have gathered from what I told you, the men of the Empire have spent centuries trying to keep the dangers of the Malison at bay. But some among us have said that the Malison is not a curse, but a blessing. That the power of the Dragon Curse can transform men into dragon gods.”

  “That sounds a great deal like what the abbot told me before Niall killed him,” said Accolon.

  “It is all a lie, though,” said Tyrcamber. “The cult follows the teachings of a book called the Path of the Dragon. The book was written by a dark elven sorcerer called the Theophract, and he wrote it to lure men into transforming themselves into dragons so the dark elves could enslave them.” Tyrcamber let out a sigh. “To become a true Dragontiarna Knight, master of both forms…it is nearly impossible. Few can manage it, and ever fewer without aid. Most who embrace the Malison become dragons. But there is a way…a way to artificially become a dragon, but it involves the deaths of countless innocents in a blood spell. Such a creature is called a Dragonmaeloch. While they cannot be magically controlled, they are always insane and brutal. After the battle of Sinderost two years ago, one of the Dukes allied himself with the Dragon Cult and became a Dragonmaeloch. He and his army are a terrible foe.”

  “Then the Drakocenti murderers are like the Dragon Cult in your homeland?” said Accolon.

  “Perhaps,” said Tyrcamber. “I do not know. We know nothing about the Drakocenti. Only what the false abbot said about his teachings.”

  “But why would the Drakocenti arise here?” said Calliande. “There is nothing like the Malison in this world. Until the battle of U
rd Maelwyn three years ago, I had never even seen a dragon. I don’t think any human on this world ever had.”

  “I don’t know,” said Tyrcamber. “Perhaps the abbot’s letters shall hold a clue.”

  The monks lived in a communal dormitory with their own cells for prayer, but the abbot had a fine house behind the church. It was, Ridmark noted sourly, out of sight of both the monastery’s eastern and northern gates, no doubt so visitors to the monastery would not see the abbot’s luxurious lodgings. The front door was open, and Ridmark saw a fiery light coming from within. He walked inside, strode down a corridor, and came to the abbot’s study. It was a large, spacious room, with a shelf holding several copies of the scriptures and the writings of the church fathers, and a wide desk with several stacks of papers and ledgers.

  A sphere of yellow-orange light floated near the ceiling, providing abundant illumination. Antenora stood at the desk, sifting through the papers. Caius gazed at the hearth, and he had opened a stone panel above the mantle.

  “A secret compartment?” said Ridmark.

  “The stonework is simply incompetent,” said Caius. “One should never try to hide such things from a khaldari.” He sounded as if the sloppy stonework offended him almost as much as the abbot’s crimes. “Inside, I found several vials of poison, a pouch of gemstones and gold coins, and what Antenora says is an object of dark magic.”

  He pointed at a small iron statuette that sat upon the mantle. It was a crude thing, roughly cast, as if it had been made by a smith or a metalworker who wasn’t confident of his abilities. It stood about four inches tall, and it looked like a human man in armor with the head of a dragon.

  “There is dark magic within it,” said Calliande. “Not a great deal, and certainly not enough to be dangerous. I think the spell is…a signature, yes. Or some kind of identifying mark.”

  “It is,” said Tyrcamber with a scowl, his eyes on the statuette. “I’ve seen things like this before. The members of the Dragon Cult in my homeland carry them.”

  “Then are the Drakocenti and the Dragon Cult connected?” said Ridmark.