The Swordmage Trilogy Bundle, Volumes 1-3 (42 page)

“Which is?” She asked, prodding the Xarundi into saying the words. She needed to hear it. More importantly, she needed to assure herself that he remembered the terms of their arrangement.

“The agreement is that upon dispatch of the vermin and return of their lands to the rightful owners, you will take possession of the Deep Oracle.”

“Very good.” The smile that crept across Nerillia's face was as cold as the Frozen Frontier.

“I still don't understand--”

“It doesn't matter what you understand,” Nerillia snapped, cutting him off. “All that matters is that you'll remember and honor the terms of our agreement when the time comes.”

“As you wish, Nerillia of the Lamiad. You will have possession of the Deep Oracle. For however long you survive after releasing it from its prison.”

Zarfensis stalked off and Nerillia watched him go. The Xarundi might not be openly hostile to the other races of the Shadow Assembly, but they certainly didn't go to great lengths to hide their general disdain for anyone not of their lineage. No matter, she thought, once the Lamiad have control of the Oracle, they'd learn their true place in the grand scheme of the Assembly.

The rock tower on which Stryne perched was the highest peak in the range of mountains that protected the human capital city from attack from those outside its borders. He had driven his claws deep into the stone like a climber's pitons. His wings were folded to his back, the muscles along his great shoulders bunched, ready to provide the first all-important down sweep of the wings. The air was thin and cold at such a height and any other creature on Solendrea would have succumbed to suffocation long ago. Only the air stored in his lungs and the diligent beating of both fore and tail hearts kept him awake, alert, and alive.

Not moss, nor lichen, nor a single intrepid blade of grass crept up the bare rock face of this lonely pinnacle of stone pointing toward the sky. During the Age of Empires it had been known as the Dragonlord's Spire. It was the symbolic seat of power for the draconic empire long before the disease of man spread across the world, consuming and laying waste to everything they touched. A disease responsible for the travesty that was laid out before him. In the distance, at the very limit of his vision, he could make out the great cavern by the sea that had once been his demesne. Even the name the humans had given the city, Dragonfell, was an affront.

As the youngest of seven nest mates by a day and an hour, Stryne had been forced to fight for everything. His sisters were larger than even his biggest brother and each of his four brothers dwarfed him in size. Therefore, it had been to the smallest dragon's advantage to rely on guile and deceit to gain what was denied to him. He became so adept at scheming that his siblings didn't realize he had been turning them against each other until it was too late. Their sire and dam had long since left the nest, leaving their offspring to fend for themselves. Eventually, between being hunted for sport by men, challenged in the air by the meddlesome winged horses, and terrible fighting amongst themselves, their numbers dwindled dramatically.

Eventually only Stryne and his eldest brother, Dominus, remained in the East. They ruled the land along the seacoast, Stryne controlling the northern half and Dominus the southern. By that time Stryne had amassed a great cavern full of treasure from selling information and his magical services to the lesser races of Solendrea. As his treasure grew, he gave in to the ingrained hoarding instinct that ruled all dragons. When Dominus discovered his brother's stronghold, it was the most basic draconic instinct for him to drive the younger dragon out and take the hoarded trinkets, gold, and baubles for himself.

The battle was long and bitter, with the sound of their fighting echoing along the valley for several days and nights. Though Stryne fought valiantly, Dominus was larger and stronger. Eventually he could stand against Dominus no longer and Stryne renounced his claim on the cavern and his hard-earned treasure. Slinking away into the night, he had vowed his revenge on his brother. The humans had stolen much from him. First in taking his right of vengeance against his brother. Second, in moving into the cavern he, himself, had built up over many years and claiming it as their own. Dominus's skull hung on the ridge above that same cavern. It was sacrilege and Stryne would see that the humans paid for their arrogance.

Wrenching his claws from the rock, Stryne threw himself backward, his wings tucked tight against his body. He fell toward the jagged rock peaks several thousand feet below the wind screaming around him. As air became thicker and warmer, scented with the touch of spring, he opened his jaws and filled his starved lungs. He felt a tingle deep in his chest, the innate power of his soul seed feeding on the sudden return of air. At the last moment, his wings snapped out and he threw himself nose over tail, checking his descent and hovering over the sharp rocks which were now only a hundred or so feet under his broad wings.

Stryne hung there a moment, his sharp eyes searching, cataloging every crack and crevasse. Every boulder that an intruder might hide behind. Every rock fall that could hold a complement of archers. Satisfied that the Dragonlord's Spire was safe from human defilement, he turned on a wingtip and winged into the warm wind blowing from the west. The current pressed against him, but lifted his wings, which carried him along toward the cavern that he had claimed for himself in the mountains overlooking Dragonfell. It wasn't as grand as the one he had lost to the humans, but it would do until he could reclaim his home.

It took time for him to reach his destination, but as the sun was slipping beyond the horizon, he folded his wings and dove toward the entrance, black against the twilight sky. He back-winged with just the right amount of force to land on the rock lip that surrounded the cave. Powerful claws caught the ridge, checking his momentum. His violet eyes sparkled as he surveyed his refuge. Satisfied that no living creature hid in the shadows to challenge his claim, he nestled down into his wallow and curved his long neck around the small pile of treasure he had amassed in the center of chamber.

Most of it was useless. A battered shield he had taken from a solitary knight, surprised to find a dragon in his path. A broken wagon wheel. A handful of gold coins pilfered from travelers along the desert trade road far to the west. The only item of any great importance was a ruby as large as a man's fist that Stryne had kept hidden before he was driven into exile under the ice and snow. He had found it in its hiding place, a narrow cleft in the northern mountains that had been covered over by hundreds of years of ice and dirt. It had taken him the better part of a day to find it and dig it out. In the end, though, he had wrested it from its safe place and it felt good to have something that truly belonged to him once again.

The day's warmth was draining from his body and Stryne felt the suggestive siren's call of sleep spreading through his body. His eyes closed and he was just drifting off to slumber when he heard it: the sound of rocks and loose scree sliding down the side of the mountain where he kept his refuge. Convinced, in his half slumbering state, that it was Dominus returned to take his sanctuary from him once again, Stryne's eyes snapped open. They blazed in the dim light and a low rumble of warning shook the rock of the cavern and loosened a fine sifting of dust from the ceiling.

However, it wasn't Dominus, or any dragon, that appeared over the lip of the cave. It was a woman. Not a human woman, but the exotic grey skinned curves of a Lamiad. She stopped just inside the cavern and presented herself with a respectful bow. Stryne snaked his head forward, protecting the meager, almost laughable, treasure he had amassed. Still, the treasure was his, and instinct was a powerful thing.

“You may enter, Nerillia,” the dragon said, his mind touching hers.

“Thank you, My Lord.”

Nerillia responded in the same way she had been spoken to. Stryne much preferred direct mind-to-mind communication with the species who were capable of such a feat. There was much less opportunity for misunderstanding, or deception. True, a skilled telepath could still influence either their own thoughts, or the receptive thoughts of the other party, but Stryne felt that he was as skilled in that arena as any.

“What have you to report, Nerillia?”

“I was able to smuggle the High Priest into the city without incident. Likewise, the girl you recommended we recruit has been found. How did you know about her, My Lord?”

“Her essence is a blight on the Quintessential Sphere,” the dragon replied. “The forces of death, darkness, and disease are drawn to her like moths to a flame. The Ancient Dyr seeks to make her its avatar.”

Nerillia's eyes widened. He could feel her uncertainty. She wasn't sure whether or not to believe what he said about the Ancients. She was still young enough to know that there were forces in the Deep Void more powerful than any mortal could comprehend, but old enough to be skeptical when another invoked those primordial powers.

“Is it wise to meddle in the affairs of an Ancient, My Lord?”

“If we were to truly anger the Ancient Dyr, none of us would survive long enough to worry about it, Nerillia. Our task remains the same. To eradicate the human pestilence and recover what they have taken from me. In return, your soul will be made whole again.”

Stryne felt the pleasure spill out from her, a cup filled past the point of overflowing. Though he wasn't certain exactly how long the other half of her soul had been trapped in the cavern under the Xarundi's adopted home, he knew that it was long enough that the desire to be made whole would override all other concerns that might arise.

“You honor me with your assistance, My Lord.”

The dragon snorted, blowing Nerillia's hair out behind her like a bridal train.

“I assist you because it benefits me to do so. Remember that, tiny creature.”

“As you say, My Lord.”

“Have you obtained the Chalice of Souls?”

“Of course, My Lord. The information you provided was invaluable. All proceeds according to your plan.”

“Very well. Then leave me and continue to carry out my instructions. I will summon you as necessary.”

“As you wish, My Lord.”

The Lamiad bowed deeply and backed out of the cavern. Stryne listened to her descent down the mountain, following the sound of her feet on the loose earth until it was outside his senses. Then he turned his eyes toward the Quintessential Sphere, stalking her until she reached the foot of the mountain and turned back toward the city. Satisfied that she was well away from the cave, he closed his eyes and slept.

#

“Where in the nine hells have you been?” Faxon demanded as Tionne entered the common room of the Dirty Magpie Inn.

The raw fury in his face gave her a moment of panic, her heart racing like a startled rabbit. Though she was mostly devoid of normal feelings for a girl her age, the dread that settled into the pit of her stomach was visceral. She wanted to run. To turn and run from the inn and not have to explain anything. Even in her panicked state, she knew that if she ran, he would follow and where would she go? Back to the safe house? That'd be even more dangerous than Faxon at his worst.

“Out,” she replied, with far more confidence than she felt, and tried to brush past him toward the stairs.

As she passed him, his hand flashed out and he grabbed her arm, hard. His fingers dug into her flesh and tears of pain sprang to her eyes. He spun her to face him, his fingers dug into the muscle and her arm started to go numb.

“You're hurting me,” she managed to gasp. The confidence was gone and now she was just a terrified girl in pain.

“You think this hurts?” Faxon backed her up against the wall near the staircase.

He was apparently unconcerned by the stares of the few patrons who were in the common room. It was still early in the afternoon and the common room wouldn't get busy until later. Tionne wondered why none of them would come to her rescue.
No one ever has before,
she thought bitterly.
Why should they start now?
Another squeeze of her arm snapped her out of any conscious thought.

“This doesn't hurt,” Faxon snarled, giving her a little shake. “Can you imagine what it would be like to be cut off from the Quintessential Sphere? You know that is what's waiting for you if you abandon your training, don't you? An inquisitor will come for you. They will hunt you down, find you, and tear out the part of your soul that makes you special. Is that what you want?”

The rage that welled up within her was sudden and engulfing. It coursed through her, replacing the pain with the fire of her own indignant fury. She wrenched her arm from his grasp, ignoring the flare of pain.

“What difference would it make?” she screamed at him. “My soul is mostly empty anyway! So what if an inquisitor takes the rest of it?”

Faxon spoke quickly. So quickly that Tionne almost had trouble making out the words. She was aided by the fact that his invocation was impeccable for the speed at which he was speaking. Too late, Tionne realized what he meant to do. She couldn't defend herself against what was coming. She'd heard the call to power for the censure ritual before, in the School of Academics. There they were taught the theory behind the complicated and ancient words. That was the spell Faxon was casting on her.

Something snapped deep within her and there was an emptiness unlike anything she had ever felt. Tionne had thought that she was as empty as she could be. She'd been wrong. Horribly wrong. The feeling in the back of her mind, the feeling that told her that she was a part of all things and the energy of the Quintessential Sphere flowed through her, was gone. Now she knew, with the clarity of experience, why most censured mages went mad or killed themselves. No one could exist this way and remain sane. Her knees went weak and she slid down the wall until she was slouched on the floor.

Tionne was vaguely aware of Faxon crouching down beside her. She heard a few words, then screamed. The pain that coursed through her was unimaginable. Her blood was fire in her veins. Then as quickly as it began, it was gone. In its wake was the subtle, subliminal hum that reminded her of her connection to the Quintessential Sphere. Faxon had severed the connection and held the ends of the cut thread that linked her to her power. Then, somehow, he'd made it whole. Focus was difficult, but she saw one of the men in the common room get to his feet and start toward them.
Now he finds a conscience, for all the good it does me.