“And the cloaks we battled did not rot. If
they vanished, they vanished into dust, and if they remained, they
remained as shreds of simple cloth. The page indicates that these
fragments of bone come from the cloak-creature’s claws, and the
beings we fought had no bones,” Deacon added. “We shall set it
aside for study through mystic means when the cursory assessment is
through.” He selected another page. “Now this, to all appearances,
is indeed what we would call a dragoyle.”
He shared the sketch with Myranda. At a
glimpse it might first have seemed to be a dragon, but even drawn
as it was based on descriptions, there were telltale signs of its
unnatural characteristics. There were no eyes in the sketch, only
dark sockets with gleaming points of light within them. The head
lacked flesh and scales, appearing as little more than a skull. The
sketch showed seams running along the monster’s hide, making it
resemble a doll sewn together from scraps of cloth too small to
form it individually.
Myranda grasped the skull and raised it,
turning it about in the light. It was white, or at least it might
have been if it was clean. In its present state it was stained with
brown and smeared with black. Ribbed horns curled down from the
skull’s temples with a smooth, natural curve. They were joined by
other irregular spikes that seemed to have erupted at random from
the top, back, and sides of the skull. The jaws were lined with
jagged bone. It looked broken, but the more intact portions formed
cavities where teeth might once have been.
“It is small for a dragoyle’s head, though we
found beasts of many sizes… The color is wrong, too. The dragoyles
we knew were black, or at their lightest a deep purple. The colors
could have varied as well, though. This here… this looks to be
dried red blood. That is wrong too. Dragoyles had black blood. And
this seems to have once been teeth. The dragoyles had only serrated
beaks. I cannot be certain, but this looks more like a ram’s skull
that has been twisted into a new form,” Myranda observed.
Deacon picked up the vial. “This, the page
says, is the beast’s breath.” He tipped it side to side, watching
the viscous substance ooze down the vial. “Look how it has pitted
the glass. The page says this is not the first vessel the stuff has
been poured into. It eats at everything it touches.”
He eased the cork from the end, only for it
to crumble away in his fingers. The scent that filled the room was
sharp and acrid, and it conjured dark memories.
“That is the miasma…” Myranda said, no hint
of doubt in her voice. “I know it all too well.”
“Have you known anything but these…
dragoyles
to produce such a substance?” Valaamus asked.
“Nothing,” Myranda said.
“And have you known anything but the D’Karon
to utilize such creatures?”
“They are a product of the D’Karon,” Deacon
said.
“In all of the years that history records, we
have encountered these D’Karon and their creatures
only
at
or near the battlefront and
only
operating on behalf of your
people. If you are certain that this substance is genuine and a
result of their influence, then to our military it will be seen as
damning evidence that you have resumed hostilities despite the
ceasefire,” Valaamus said steadily.
“Let us not jump to conclusions. I suggest we
begin the mystic analysis,” Deacon said.
Myranda nodded, but she scarcely needed to
open her mind’s eye to know that the spells that tainted these bits
of flesh and bone had the shape and color of D’Karon workings. It
wasn’t the same ghastly perfection that seemed to define most
D’Karon magic, but it was certainly drawn from the same roots,
grown from the same seeds. Deacon’s face made it all too clear he
had come to the same conclusion. Valaamus saw it as well.
“What does your magic tell you?” Valaamus
asked.
“There is unmistakable D’Karon influence in
the residual enchantment of these samples… But I can say with
certainty that this is not the work of a true D’Karon.”
“A true D’Karon?” Valaamus asked.
“These spells are imperfect, incomplete,”
Deacon said. “This skull was certainly that of a sheep, and these
bones and that hide are from a goat. The D’Karon conjure the
substance of their creations. They are entirely constructed with no
element of what we would call nature.”
“This means little, does it not? Even the
most experienced mystic can miscast a spell or take liberties in
the interest of speed or ease,” Valaamus said.
“You don’t understand. Spell craft is sacred
to the D’Karon. To miscast them would be tantamount to
blasphemy.”
“They have been committing war atrocities for
generations. Blasphemy would not be beyond them, I’m sure,”
Valaamus said.
“While I agree with Deacon’s assessment, it
does not change the fact that D’Karon knowledge is at work here. I
would not liken this to an attack by an enemy. With the evidence we
have, we can at best make the claim that we know for certain that
an enemy’s weapons have been used,” Myranda said.
“Which in any case would be an act of war,”
Valaamus said.
His carefully measured diplomatic tone had
not faltered, but his words were increasingly carrying the threat
that the damage had been done.
“I realize that my assurance on this matter
carries little weight, but no force within the Northern Alliance
would ever rely upon D’Karon spells,” Myranda said. “Not after what
very nearly happened to us while we were under their thumbs. Before
you make your final determination, I implore you to allow us to
continue the investigation. Again, these are merely the weapons.
Until we find who has been wielding them, we must not assume that
the Northern Alliance is behind the attacks.”
“Of course I agree. Anything is preferable to
an unnecessary war. But as diplomats you must realize that the
investigation can only continue with the blessing of the military,
and I am obligated to present these findings to them,” Valaamus
said. “They may not agree that war is unnecessary.”
“When do you present your findings?”
“We are all expected in the capital for a
banquet in your honor in two weeks. My first formal briefing of the
military is expected on the evening of my arrival, some days
earlier. As I will be traveling by carriage, I do not expect to
reach the capital in less than five days. I may be able to suggest
some alternate routes that would extend that journey to a full
week. Anything beyond that and a military representative will be
dispatched to meet us en route. With the evidence currently
available, it is very likely that they will call for an immediate
termination of the diplomatic exchange, and they could very well
close the border in preparation for troop deployment. You
must
find something compelling to suggest that it is not the
work of a Northern Alliance ally that has blighted our lands with
such treachery, if such evidence exists, and return it to me before
I deliver my briefing.”
“Then there is no time to waste. Where were
these creatures encountered?” Myranda asked.
“At the most northerly fringe of the Southern
Wastes. I don’t pretend to know how quickly your dragon can carry
you, but given a guess I would say it would take every bit of six
days for you to reach it. That would leave you no time at all to
seek out any evidence, let alone deliver it to me. It was my great
concern that such would be the case, and you must believe me that I
fought for every moment of time I could for this mission, but… a
nation so long at war, allowing figures such as you to pace its
lands…”
“I understand. But for the return of the
information, at least, I have a solution. I will leave a messenger
pad with you,” Deacon said.
“A… messenger pad?” Valaamus asked, his tone
indicating he believed he had misheard.
“It is really quite simple, you see—”
“While you explain it to him, I’ll have a
word with Myn, Grustim, and Garr about our plans,” Myranda
said.
“That is wise,” Valaamus said.
Deacon, Myranda, and Valaamus gathered and
stowed the samples, hiding them once more in their bundle before
Myranda opened the door to seek out the dragons and Rider.
#
Outside the cabin, Myn sat patiently, eyes on
the door. She had the remaining deer from her hunt clutched beneath
her claws. Garr lay across from her, eyes shut but still alert.
Grustim had shed his armor and reclined in the curl of his mount’s
tail. He whittled idly at a piece of wood, ostensibly sculpting it
but mostly just making it smaller and passing the time.
The group had only just returned from the
hunt, the kill still warm beneath her claws, but Myn couldn’t help
but let her gaze wander from time to time to the other dragon. She
sniffed the air as the breeze carried his scent to her. It was
strange. The scent of the man was present on the dragon, not just
from the ride, but from days and weeks earlier. Likewise the man
seemed steeped in the scent of the dragon. It was clear at a single
whiff that the two were together, always. She felt the flutter of
envy in her chest at the thought.
In part the envy was for the togetherness.
She and Myranda had been inseparable at one time, but Myranda had
others in her life. Many depended on her. Myn understood. The
others would be helpless without Myranda, while she could handle
herself if required. But at times she longed for the old times.
Yes, the nights had been long and cold. Yes, the danger had been
ever-present. There had been little food and much traveling to be
done. But Myranda had been with her, warm and safe beneath Myn in
her early days and folded beneath her claws in the days that
followed. Seeing a dragon and his human sharing such togetherness
made those days seem so far away.
A whisper of the envy, though, was for the
dragon himself. Myn may not have been able to spend as much time
with Myranda as she would have liked—if she did, they would never
be apart—but she did get to spend plenty of time with her. In all
of her life she’d had only a few months during which she’d had the
opportunity to spend time with another dragon. It didn’t seem fair
that a human should be allowed to spend so much time with one when
she did not.
Her thoughts vanished in a puff of excitement
when she heard the door open and saw Myranda walking toward her.
The dragon hopped to her feet and snatched up the deer, taking two
steps forward to meet Myranda and dropping the deer at her
feet.
“For me?” Myranda said with a smile. “Still
my little hunter. Come here.”
Myn lowered her head and received a good,
hard scratch.
“I think you should keep this one for
yourself, though. We’ve got a great deal of travel ahead of us, and
I don’t want you pushing yourself too hard without a full
belly.”
Always happy for another morsel, Myn snapped
up and gulped down the remaining deer.
“Grustim, Garr, may I ask something of
you?”
The Rider looked at her. “I have been
instructed to treat you with deference and respect. What do you
require?”
“You are more familiar with your land than I.
There is a place in the Southern Wastes that we must reach as soon
as possible. How quickly do you think you can guide us there by
dragon-back?” she asked.
“The Southern Wastes are a big place,
Duchess. Garr could reach the nearest of it in four days. The
farthest in seven. But you will not be able to reach it so
quickly.”
“Why not?”
He paused for a moment. “I don’t know that I
can answer that question with deference and respect.”
“Then answer it with honesty. We don’t always
have the luxury of gentility.”
“You’re a duchess, Duchess. And he is a duke.
When I travel, I travel with my lance, my armor, my dragon, and the
dagger of command that affords me the right to issue orders to
troops when the need arises. Though I’ve never known nobility to
travel by dragon, look at the bags you’ve brought. You bring
civilization with you where you go, and that slows travel.”
“Nobility is a recent development, Grustim.
I’m quite accustomed to traveling light. To be honest, I’m not
accustomed to having any other choice.”
Grustim did Myranda the courtesy of not
voicing the doubt that was clear in his expression. “Even so. The
dragon will need to carry you and the duke both. Garr is bigger,
faster, and will have to carry only me. Even without a passenger,
your dragon would lag behind. She is an able hunter, that much I
have seen, but she lacks the training and conditioning of a dragon
worthy of a Rider.”
Garr’s eyes slid open, peering through the
iron mask he wore.
“You will slow us,” Grustim continued. “I
think eight days will be enough.”
The low roll of what might have been thunder
rattled in the air, though there were no clouds. Myranda smiled and
looked to Myn. Her tail was scything back and forth, her eyes
locked on Grustim with a burning intensity.
“I think Myn respectfully disagrees with your
assessment.”
“Then tomorrow we shall see.”
In a desert stronghold in Tressor, Commander Brustuum
returned to his primary task. He was an older man, his black hair
slowly succumbing to gray. He marched with purpose through the airy
halls. Like most Tresson creations, artful expression had been
sprinkled into every detail. The walls were white clay with green
leaves and vines painted around doors and windows. The doors
themselves, though sturdy and wooden, were carved with scenes
depicting great battles and honored warriors. The man himself was
no different. His chin bore a beard nature had striped with gray.
He’d trimmed it with care and sculpted it into subtle flares to
each side. To cope with the often intense heat and beating sun of
his homeland, his robe and trousers were light and billowy, made
from a thin tan cloth and tied about the waist by a red sash. The
edges of the robe were embroidered with patches and emblems
labeling him a commander of some reputation in the Tresson
army.