She stooped and plucked the wildcat’s tongue
from the ground, one of the handful of anatomical spare parts left
behind when she completed the dragoyle.
“Open, Mott,” she said.
Her familiar skittered to the ground at her
feet and gaped its mouth like a starving baby bird. She lowered the
tongue carefully down, and when it was near Mott’s throat it leaped
into place.
“There. Now once I find a nice set of green
eyes and some suitably sized wings, you’ll be complete. … Well,
yes, I
could
shift the color of a pair of these leftover
eyes, but that would be disingenuous. … Well
I
would know,
my pet. Now hush, I’ve still got the most difficult part to see
to.”
She planted the tip of her staff into the
sandy earth at her feet. The gem in its tip took on a deep glow,
and once again tendrils of black began to spiral down its length.
When they reached the ground they spiraled outward, splitting into
strands finer than threads. Each blade of grass or scrap of unused
flesh the tendrils touched blackened and shriveled. A speck of
white formed above the head of the staff, pulses of black surging
up through the tendrils and feeding the gem. The trees all the
around them twisted and darkened, their energy leeched away to feed
the growing speck.
Turiel shook with the effort of her
invocation. The countryside for a hundred paces in all directions
looked as though it had been scorched by wildfire, drained utterly
of life before the ball of white began to darken. It shifted to
red, then to deep purple before condensing into a murky violet gem
the size of a walnut. She held out a trembling hand, and the gem
dropped into her palm.
“There,” she said with a weary sigh. “Not
nearly as difficult as I’d feared. Here, open wide, my
darling.”
The would-be dragoyle opened its mouth, and
with the sickening sizzle of searing flesh, Turiel installed the
gem in the back of its throat, then stepped back once more.
“Well? I didn’t give you the miasma stone for
nothing. Let us see it put to work. There.”
The pseudo-dragoyle shifted its unnatural
head and coughed a cloud of black at the brittle remains of a bush.
The plant sizzled, its thin bark and dry branches quickly eroding
under the influence of the horrid substance.
“You see? If there is one spell I’ve learned
properly, it is the conjuring of the miasma stone. Here, Mott.
We’ll be on our way.”
The creature scurried up to its place at the
head of her staff. Her familiar was now so large that his
serpentine tail coiled all the way to the ground, and after the
energy she’d put into summoning the gem, she barely had the
strength to steady it.
“Hah… I am not as young as I once was, Mott,”
she said. “Do you suppose we might find some people along the way
who would offer their aid in correcting my unfortunate physical
state? The people of Tressor have been so obliging thus far.” She
took a few wavering steps forward, then turned to her latest
creation. “You know… I had intended to set this one off to seek its
own way in the world… but the D’Karon ride them, don’t they? We
would be remiss if we did not test this aspect as well.”
Turiel mounted the creature.
“Onward, beast. To the coast, and then to the
city. Let us once more sample the fine hospitality of this
land.”
#
Brustuum fumed as he listened to the
madwoman’s recollection, weighing her words against the facts he
already had available. His instincts were to distrust her. Surely
no one could survive in the Wastes as she claimed or sculpt
monstrosities from the flesh of dead beasts as she described. Yet
the descriptions she’d given matched the monster he and his men had
been forced to subdue, and the timing would appear to match.
Combined with the confirmation from Sallim, there was reason to
believe her story had at least the kernel of truth.
“If you can craft deadly beasts with such
ease, and if you have been within our borders for as long as you
claim, why have you not been unleashing them upon us for
decades?”
“Because until very recently I was fully
devoted to the opening of the keyhole. It was not until Teht failed
to meet me and answer my calls that I felt the need to stray from
that task. And unleashing these creatures was not my intention. I
seem to have some trouble maintaining control. It is nothing that
practice won’t solve.”
“So you would willingly and purposely
continue to manufacture these abominations if you had your
way.”
“You
have
asked for demonstrations.
And one cannot hope to improve without practice… Tell me, how
exactly do you
know
that I unleashed the creature if I did
not yet tell you that I’d done so?”
“Because my men were the ones who eventually
destroyed the beast in defense of our people. You have been told
this repeatedly.”
“Oh? My memory truly is ailing these days.
Was it at least a struggle for them? I’m curious how successful my
creation was. Did it take any of their lives? How did you
eventually vanquish it?”
“Must I continually inform you that you are
here to answer my questions and not the opposite? Now
continue.”
“Very well…”
#
Turiel’s journey had been a long one, but she
seemed untouched by the elements. Her pale white skin had ignored
days of pounding sun, and though she’d had no water she was not
parched in the least. Now she was drawing near the first town that
had piqued her interest along the way. She’d kept mostly to the
edge of the Wastes. Her mind, like her body, had felt the ravages
of the years, but she still had some of her wits about her. She
knew that as weak as she was, even with the aid of her creations
she couldn’t afford to venture into just
any
town. It would
have to be a relatively defenseless place. Someplace with a handful
of people, but lacking a proper city watch or something
similar.
It took time, but she’d finally happened upon
the perfect place. Ahead lay a small nomadic settlement. The huts,
a dozen in total, all had the simple wood and cloth construction
that betrayed their eventual fate of being packed up into the back
of a carriage when the time came to move on. Some lean jet-black
horses were tied near a small spring around which the settlement
had formed. Joining them were a half-dozen mules, two camels, and
three lanky dogs with short sandy-yellow coats and docked tails. At
the edge of the settlement a small herd of goats was gathered
within a makeshift fence.
“Ah, Mott,” Turiel said with a smile. “This
shall serve our purposes nicely.” She dismounted the dragoyle she
had fashioned and paced unsteadily toward the town.
Most of the residents had taken shelter
within their simple homes, but three stood watch, each heaped with
linen robes that hung to the ground. Deep, billowing hoods hid
their heads and cloth scarves wrapped their faces. Their gazes had
drifted toward Turiel as she’d approached, but once she was near
enough for the horrific nature of her mount to be seen, they stood
and drew their weapons. Two carried stout, cleaver-like swords. The
third swung a sling.
“Hold! Hold there!” warned the first man.
Though his build and face were entirely hidden beneath his robes,
his voice was that of an older man.
“I have come too far to stand at the edge of
so inviting a settlement, good nomad. I am just a simple woman
seeking food and shelter.”
“It is not you, old woman, but the beasts
that accompany you,” he said. “Come no closer.”
Turiel turned to Mott, still situated atop
her staff.
“Oh, but Mott here is a darling, good nomad.
As harmless as a lamb. And my steed is a humble beast, a mere echo
of the thing that should truly frighten you.”
“What you have is frightening enough. Either
tie them far from here or keep moving.”
“You would sentence a poor old woman and her
simple pets to the ravages of the wilderness?”
“We do not know you, we do not know your
beasts, and we will not risk our safety for someone such as
you.”
“
Well
, and to think I’d believed the
tales of unparalleled kindness from the people of Tressor. You
injure me. Now I feel quite justified in doing the same in return.
Mott, disarm them. Of their weapons at least, but also their arms
if you feel the inclination.”
In a flash of fur and scales, her familiar
dove from her staff and cut across the ground in a sweeping,
serpentine path. The sling-wielder let a stone fly and struck Mott
square on the jaw. It popped aside, then hung loose. Mott did not
lose a single step, his legs skittering and scrambling across the
dusty ground with an insane frenzy of motion.
Finally Mott was upon them. He attempted to
bite the sling-wielder, hacking down with his upper jaw and seeming
to notice for the first time that his lower jaw was not where it
ought to be. He paused to click his errant mandible into place, but
the delay was more than enough to allow both swordsmen to put their
weapons to work. One blow cost Mott a leg, the other bit into his
tail, but neither seemed to bother the beast in the slightest. He
whipped his tail aside, disarming one attacker, then snapped the
sling in his teeth and tore it away. The final lookout to retain
his weapon chopped again, this time cleanly separating Mott’s head
from his body. Hideously, the attack still did no good. Both body
and head continued to move, the former lashing its tail at the
swordsman to tear his weapon away. The disembodied head snapped and
gnashed its teeth, but didn’t seem to have the necessary
coordination to make itself a threat.
The lookouts called for help, and people
flooded from the huts. Few were armed, but once they had determined
what was happening and organized themselves accordingly, Mott, the
dragoyle, and Turiel were outnumbered seven to one. The patchwork
familiar, his displaced head seeing the rush of reinforcements,
decided discretion was the better part of valor. He snatched his
head up in his tail, then grabbed his missing leg in his mouth and
dashed away.
“Now, Mott, really. Do you call that
devotion? I’m very disappointed,” Turiel said, placing one hand on
her hip.
The lookouts rearmed themselves, and several
of the other nomads found weapons as well, but none were willing to
approach Turiel and her as yet motionless dragoyle.
“Leave this place, woman,” warned the elder
lookout. Based upon the authority with which he spoke and the fact
he was the only one yet to speak beyond the general call for aid,
he was almost certainly the chieftain.
“Goodness, no. I’ve not yet eaten. I did not
come all this way to leave hungry.”
“I care not if you starve. You will take your
abominations and leave this place, or my slinger will bury a lump
of lead in your skull.”
“Well that is simply unacceptable,” she
said.
The chieftain turned to the rearmed slinger,
who was already swinging her weapon up to speed. “Do it.”
Before the words were said, the lead
sling-bullet was on its way to its target. In the blink of an eye
the sorceress’s staff blackened and a web of tendrils darted from
it, ensnaring the heavy projectile and swinging it aside of
Turiel’s unflinching face. It continued its swing and returned from
whence it came, though lacking the same power and accuracy. The
slinger
just
managed to dodge the counterattack, and the
swordsmen charged.
Turiel turned casually to her dragoyle. “Try
to keep them reasonably intact. I’ll fetch Mott.”
She paced toward her familiar, who was
stumbling along in a manner only a beast holding its own head can
manage. Behind her, the nomads and her creation clashed. The beast
heaved them about, lashing its tail and swiping its claws. It
seemed more dedicated to the task of breaking them than killing
them, but any motion toward Turiel was met with its full wrath.
Twenty nomads were more than a match for the beast, and before long
it took all the beast’s efforts and attentions to keep them from
its creator.
Slicing swords came within inches of reaching
Turiel, but she paid them no mind. It did not appear to be
something so virtuous as courage, or as confident as trust in her
creation’s ability to protect her. She simply did not seem to be
aware that the commotion was something that should concern her. She
moved with slow ease, kneeling to see to the skittish Mott.
“Let me see that,” she said, taking the leg.
“Now hold still.”
She drove the end of her staff into the
ground and ran her fingers across it, summoning more of the black
threads. Like a tailor repairing a simple garment, she aligned the
leg and coaxed away tendrils to coil and apply to the cut until it
eased away, a thin black vein the only evidence that it had ever
been removed. Once the leg was restored, she conjured more threads
but frowned as the last of them took more effort than she was
willing to spare.
With a light sigh she stood and turned. The
chieftain himself had gotten past the dragoyle. His robes were
stained and sizzling with the fetid black miasma, and his eyes were
filled with righteous rage. Turiel raised her withered hand and
grasped his wrist. Instantly he dropped to his knees, eyes now wide
with fear and his hidden mouth wheezing with a stifled cry of pain.
A midnight-blue ripple of power fluttered against his skin as she
gripped him. The two visibly seemed to trade years. What youth he
had left was flowing into her. His skin became papery and drawn,
its color draining. Her own skin smoothed, her bony fingers
plumping up and gaining a youthful, delicate luster.
Desperate to save his leader, a younger
swordsman thundered forward, but his throat found its way into her
grasp before his sword could taste flesh. The sight of two of their
own being drained of life while their foe seemed to sweep backward
from her sixties was enough to convince the remaining nomads that
there was no more to be gained from attacking this woman or her
monsters. They pulled back, weapons held defensively.