The Dragon Knight's Curse (The Dragon Knight Series Book 2) (2 page)

“Incredible,” whispered Ghevont. “Nothing but ash now.”

The scholar waved his hands over the grave, casting a spell that crumbled the dirt walls until it filled the unmarked grave.

It was evening when Clarissa came out to the fort’s old courtyard to see me practicing my stances with Aranath in hand. I took the cup of water she handed me and leaned the sword by the large tree we sat against.

“Glad to see you’re mending quickly.”

“There’s a few perks to being corrupted. Speaking of volatile things, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Marcela.”

“Yes, I’ve been thinking about her, too. I know you wouldn’t allow her to travel with us.”

“You two appear to have gotten close these past few weeks, so do you think there’s a chance we can reunite her with her family?”

“I still haven’t gotten much information on them, but I doubt it. She’s too headstrong to admit she might have made a mistake leaving her family. Poor thing, she was must have been only seven or eight when she ran away. I don’t think she even remembers why she left in the first place. She keeps changing the story.”

“Then do you know of the least irksome way to be rid of her?”

“I think so, but she would have to travel with us for the first part of the journey. You see, there’s no way she’ll live in a domestic setting, but say we entice her with a more stimulating environment where she can learn to fight and still be watched by people we trust.”

“Ah, the guild house in Ecrin.”

“Yes. I’m certain Silver will get the siblings to train her and she can act a kind of apprentice to them. Besides, you can also update the old guild master with what happened here.”

I groaned. “I didn’t want to travel all that much with her, but that is a good solution. She’ll probably see training herself as the key to staying long-term with Rathmore and jump at the opportunity.”

Clarissa smiled. “Glad you liked the idea. It’s all I had.”

The lone idea was presented to Marcela the next day. She was torn by the notions of leaving Ghevont and of bettering herself through training, particularly in a city as cultured and stirring as Ecrin. Her official answer was to say she would mull it over on the way there, but her glittery eyes told me she wouldn’t pass up the prospect when it arrived, so I walked away satisfied.

As for the journey itself, I felt I would be sufficiently mended to leave Gremly after another week. It might take another month to be my full self, but since I doubted the start of the expedition would not have us fighting anyone strong enough to challenge our group, I decided it would be judicious to schedule the trip in the midst of my recuperation. There was also the likelihood that the Advent would realize Corbin and Vey had been gone far too long for something not to have happened to them, leading to an ambiguous fate for Vey’s assistant.

The possibilities were twofold. If he was seen by the Advent as a true believer of their cause, then he could be reassigned to aid another project, making him harder to find. Then again, if they concluded he was only loyal to Vey, they would kill him. I had to learn what Magnus knew before any of that happened.

Meanwhile, I was interested in knowing what Ghevont would turn up in his search for the grave map’s location. He had headed to the other hideouts to gather his father’s old research. It required a few trips for him and his helper girls to acquire all the volumes and scrolls he believed could prove useful. Once he had all he needed, he speedily began skimming over everything. His time in Gremly had him already read just about everything available, so it was a simple matter of looking for any key words that stood out and tying the threads he discovered.

Ghevont shook me awake three days after he began his printed rummaging.

As I groggily awoke from what was too short a slumber, he said, with barely suppressed excitement, “I’m starting to see it, Mercer! Listen to this.” He cleared his dry throat and unraveled some of the scroll he held. “‘And so the heavens were heavy with woe and discord-’”

“Ghevont.”

“Hmm?”

“What are you reading?”

“The opening passage of Alder Beerling’s
Summertide
.”

“The epic poem?”

“Yes… You want me to summarize my thoughts, don’t you?”

“That would be best, yes.”

“Forgive me, Marcela never stops me from elucidating to my heart’s content. Okay, let’s see… Oh, do you already know the story of
Summertide
?”

“I haven’t read anything myself, but it’s about the fall of Old Voreen, right?”

“Essentially. Making up a prevalent portion of the poem is the story of Jages Mar, who was an influential young general of that old kingdom. He was living in a time when the country was in a severe state of decline and regularly beset by barbarian hordes and swelling sands on every side. Desperate for a way to strengthen his country, the general set out to find various items of lore.”

“And the grave was one of them?”

“No, the poem never explicitly states that he sought the fallen god’s grave, but my father’s notes in this section suggests a kind of breakthrough on that front. If only I had known what he was looking for earlier! It would have been easier for me to research his research. In any event, I remembered another volume my father had with him. I was confused when I first read its contents years ago, but now I know how it’s related.”

“What volume?”

The scholar dashed out of the chair and grabbed a thick tome off a nearby table. He laid the hardcover beside me and opened it. “It’s a comprehensive collection of numerous literature titles and their probable authors and known editions. I discovered my father had made notes in the section regarding the genesis of
Summertide
.” A pale, thin finger pointed at the piece of the page he spoke of. “Notice anything?”

“It says there are three known versions of this poem.”

“Right, and I can only find two in the hideouts. The newest version contained too many changes for my father’s liking, and Beerling’s, while presumably translated from the original work, also contains too many contemporary allusions to make it useful.”

“Then you think your father was searching for the original.”

“I think that’s what lured him out of Gremly. My sister said Corbin betrayed father, right? Corbin must have lured him with the idea that he found the original work. Or perhaps they really found the item, and thinking he no longer needed him, helped snare him on behalf of the Advent.”

“Possibly, but why do you think this poem interested Riskel so much in the first place?”

“Look at this…” He flipped the book over, showing me a faded crest of a giant sea serpent wrapped around a ship. “The insignia of modern Voreen. My father took this with him when he left the country, meaning he was on this scent years before coming here. Something or someone in Voreen peeked his interest, I’m sure. Whatever that was, we need to find the original
Summertide
story to progress any further.”

“If any are left. I imagine the Advent go out of their way to find every copy they can to destroy them…”

I didn’t realize how long I was quiet until Ghevont said, “Uh, are you okay, Mercer?”

“Aye. I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“I was wondering whether I should try and use an Alslana connection to find the original work, but that could end up being too risky. The attack in Qutrios suggests somebody with authority is aiding the Advent from within the kingdom. If this theory is correct, then the Advent could hear someone is on to them and panic.”

“Isn’t panic in your enemy a good thing?”

“When the blade is already up against their throat, but if they see it being unsheathed from a hundred feet away, then they have time to counter it, perhaps devastatingly so. No, we’ll keep this between ourselves until I ponder some things over. Did your father keep anything on the Advent?”

“Very little. What I did find only explains why he had so few records on them. They are an old cult, first appearing nineteen hundred years ago in the continent of Efios. I don’t know their history, but I imagine a cult wouldn’t have a wide reach beyond their home territory, making accounts of them in Iazali or Niatrios scarce.”

“Their reach appears to have grown, then. Anything about this god of theirs?”

“I’m afraid not. Many cultures sometimes speak of a lost god. Depending on the account, this god could have been the fifth god of strife or a benign seventh god of balance. It’s most often the former. For instance, one of the many theories explaining Degosal’s destruction states that a failed attempt to summon a deity caused the empire’s downfall. Whether this god is related to the Advent’s version or any other in Orda, well, there’s simply not enough information to say one way or the other.”

“I suspect we won’t know for certain unless this god is raised, and I have a feeling that would be a very bad thing. Keep looking for anything else of note.” He stood up and began to leave. A fizzing sensation in my stomach made me realize this would be a good time to be more affable. I opened my mouth the minimum amount it required words to exit and said, “Oh, and Ghevont. Good work.”

The scholar’s own lack of social graces had him hesitate on saying the natural response to that statement. He did eventually turn all the way to face me and replied, “That is, yes, I mean, thank you.”

Ghevont informed me of a handful of other noteworthy details over the next few days, such as that the original
Summertide
would be written in the language of Old Voreen. Thanks to various scrolls and his educated father, the scholar said he had a basic understanding of several languages, including the one used in the original poem, but he would go ahead and sharpen his knowledge of it. It was just as well, since Aranath informed me that while he might roughly understand the spoken language, there was little chance he could read it. In fact, the dragon wouldn’t be useful reading any language other than his own.

I took it upon myself to read the epic poem. According to the tale Jages Mar searched the world’s ruins and wastelands for two decades in search of an item or spell that could restore his country. He found a few mythical objects, love, lovers, children, betrayal, and experienced the death of many of his friends, but he inevitably came home empty-handed. The end of Niatrios’ first empire happened shortly after he died.

Whether this man existed, conjured from an imagination, or a composite of both real and fake people was a puzzle left to historians who cared about particulars. My only concern was wondering how the parent Rathmore viewed this saga. I hoped meeting with Gwen would clear this and other matters up.

It wasn’t long before I urged everyone to get ready to move out. The last place Ghevont knew her to be was a town hugging the border of southeastern Gremly called Omauwend. It was to be a journey of five hundred miles, or about two weeks away with a steady walking pace. To drastically cut the chance of being slowed by other people’s problems, I planned to travel most of the way within Gremly itself. This would also cut the chance of finding food to eat. The forest didn’t seem to have animals any heavier than a squirrel and the most nutritious vegetation came from tree roots. To discourage starvation, Clarissa agreed to carry most of our food in a knapsack to help keep the rest of us burdened with other items.

Ghevont, for instance, brought a satchel chock-full of scrolls and books, which still wasn’t all he wanted to bring, so he had Marcela carry bindings of her own in her little satchel. I had to remind him that continual traveling would tire the pre-woman and it was best to lessen her load. Ghevont spent a few hours reevaluating which books to leave behind. He wanted me to lug around another bag full of literature, but the best I did was put two small scrolls in my inner cloak pocket. Even in my less than ideal state, I expected to throw myself into any fight that befell us, so I didn’t want to be laden by tens of thousands of words.

Before we left, Ghevont etched several runes in and around the fort. I assumed they were defenses or warning systems, but I didn’t ask any clarifying questions. Marcela had the expected mixture of excitement and trepidation at leaving Gremly and its people-repelling power for a good long while. In the time Clarissa and the adolescent were in town, the vampire had bought better fitting clothing for Marcela to wear. While the child gladly sported the cleaner attire, she refused to put on any kind of footwear.

Clarissa’s preparation involved draining the blood of rodents in vials so she had emergency blood to drink. She could go four or five days without ingesting the vital liquid, but doing so would weaken her far too much to move during the day.

With everyone being as ready as they could be, we set off.

With Aranath adjusting my prana accordingly, and Ghevont’s spell doing the same for him and the girls, the peculiar hex over the forest lost its mind bending influence. With little in the way of predators, human dwellers, and bad weather, our southward excursion went at a quick pace. I expected the encumbered Ghevont to slow us down at times, but he was fitter than his scrawny frame suggested. Marcela had all the energy youth offered and often had to be reined in by Clarissa or risk getting lost the old-fashioned way. The only reason I cared if she went missing was knowing the others would waste time looking for her.

At any rate, walking through the misty, gloom-filled forest had me feeling as though we were the only people left alive in the entire world.

Fighting against the silent void imbued in Gremly were the ongoing conversations between the girls and the scholar. All Clarissa had to do was ask Ghevont a simple question and the scholar would rant on for an hour or two in his reply, which often jumped from subject to subject and which would sometimes not answer the primary question. As long as they didn’t try involving me, I too enjoyed hearing an impassioned, if erratic, Ghevont tell his theories on why some people had no talent for spell casting, or ramble on about how maddening it was that ancient humans did not write down more of their exploits.

A week into our journey, as everyone strolled a few yards behind me, Ghevont was explaining to Clarissa ways to improve her water spell.

“Oh, that’s a good idea,” said Clarissa. “Trying to put out Mercer’s fire spell will definitely help strengthen my own. Have you seen it in action? It’s hot enough to melt the stones after just a few seconds.”

“That’s to be expected from dragon fire. Legends say-”

“Wait, what did you say?”

“Oh dear. No, what I meant to say-”

“Mercer!”

I stopped walking and hung my head before turning to face the scholar. He removed his satchel and handed it to Marcela, telling her, “Look after these for me, will you? I would like my body to be donated to an academic institution.”

“Huh? What’s going on?” asked Marcela, who could not hold on to the heavy sack of books and dropped it. “I want to hear about dragons.”

“That’s up to Mercer now.”

I rolled my eyes. “Shut up, Ghevont.”

“But I need to, well, okay.”

Clarissa, with arms crossed, glared at me a moment. I kept my staunch eyes on hers, letting us speak without having to use words.

When she decided to converse vocally, she said, “This does explain a few things. So it’s true, then?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“If it ever became important, I would have.”

“I think your definition of ‘important’ is different than mine.”

“I’m a long way from controlling his flame much less summoning Aranath himself, so I didn’t want to put any grandiose ideas about me in your head.”

“Who’s Aranath?” asked Marcela.

“Aranath?” said Ghevont. “As in Aranath the Sky Lord? One of Kyloth’s foremost-”

A glance from me stopped him in his uttered tracks.

Marcela stamped her foot. “What’s going on?! Why won’t you let him talk? All he said was that your fire was like a drag- Ooooh! I get it! But then that means… Oh… But that’s not possible, right? Ghevont?” He shrugged. She cocked her head and stared at me. “Nah, I don’t believe it.”

“Good,” I said, turning back around. “Let’s keep moving.”

“Wait! Are you being serious or not?! C-Clarissa, he isn’t serious, right?”

“Well,” began Clarissa, “ask yourself this, when have you known Mercer to joke around?”

Since I didn’t hear our youngest member say anything, I assumed her to be in contemplative silence. I had to make sure later that Marcela would keep her knowledge of my power a secret before we reached Ecrin. A few minutes after we resumed our stroll, the youth began asking Ghevont questions about dragons. Knowing I had a direct link to such answers, I paid little attention to the scholar’s accounts. Of course, that didn’t mean a lack of curiosity.

The next time I found myself watching over three sleeping travelers, I strode just out of earshot and sat against a tree.

“Who’s Kyloth?”

“You would know if you ever read more about the War of Dragon Fire,” replied my sword.

“I guess I was afraid you might see me as presumptuous if I looked into your past.”

“You think me delicate, boy? That old war does not define me. Kyloth was the elder dragon I served.”

“The one who began the war?”

“I would not say he ‘began’ it, but he did lead it.”

“And what’s with ‘Aranath the Sky Lord’ thing?”

“A human habit,” he grumbled. “Though I confess it was something of an honor to be designated as such, as only the most fearsome dragons were given titles.”

“Yeah, but why ‘Sky Lord’?”

“You’ll see for yourself if you ever summon me.”

“Which human gave you the title?”

“The last Veknu Milaris I partnered with.”

I paused my questioning when I realized Aranath had likely been comparing me to his previous partners during our time together. I didn’t only have the experience of a dragon on my side, but that of several ancient warriors. “What was he like?”

“
She
was a brutal warrior. Her prana was as fierce as your released corruption, but with far greater control. Her name was Irene Renauld.”

“A Renauld? Then she was related to Morris Renauld?”

“Now Morris I would say really instigated the war. She was his youngest grandchild.”

“Was she also the one to seal you?”

“She had already passed by that time. Kyloth sealed me away, which he did shortly before the battle that buried Nimbria.”

“I see. So what’s it like in your realm? What did you do for five hundred years?”

“I still reside in my home realm, a land that cycles between fire and water. Most dragons sleep through the times of volcanic fire and scarcity. We awaken when the seas swell with rainwater again. As I am being punished for war crimes, the elders have not attempted to remove the barrier separating me from the rest of my kin. With little other choice, I’ve passed most of the time by hibernating for long stretches.”

“The history book I read said that all rebel dragons were hunted down and killed. If the elder dragons know about you, then why haven’t they attempted to carry out that sentence?”

“I believe your tome stated that all dragons in
Orda
. I am not in Orda.”

“But still.”

A wordless minute passed, though I could still pick up a low rumble that came from deep within his throat. The best I could equate the noise to was a cat’s purr, but it certainly didn’t come from satisfaction.

When he spoke again, he said, “Sometimes I wonder if the elders will someday break down the barrier and carry out their justice. It is a formidable barrier, but without Kyloth to reinforce it, it will fall with focused effort. The war occurred at a time when I would be considered young and at my most aggressive. Perhaps the elders have given me that justification. The main reason the elders even allowed some of my kind to be bound by a summoning spell was that sharing power with a human helps mitigate a young dragon’s brashness.”

“So because you were young you were spared?”

“Or perhaps they simply do not wish to kill any dragons they do not have to. I’m certain our numbers have not yet completely recuperated even after five hundred years. As the barrier prevents any contact with my kind, I can only speculate on their reasons for leaving me alive and alone.”

“It must be a difficult life.”

“Indeed.”

“What was even the point of sealing you?”

“I was not the only one to be sealed away. The plan was for Kyloth and the rest of my winged comrades to join me. The war was going against us, so we were going to retreat and recoup our strength, but the other elders must have discovered our intent. I do not know what happened after the battle of Nimbria. The enchantment on the sword was supposed to be a way for us to remain in contact with this realm, but if no one is alive to take advantage of the capacity, then the incantation is moot. It was only when you read that history tome did I learn that the war came to an end with Kyloth’s death a few months later.”

“You don’t think the dragon elders will stop me from becoming Veknu Milaris, do you?”

“They might if they discover us before the connection is forged, but that is unlikely with our realms still severed. As I’m certain my presence is being watched, however, then a summoning will alert them of our link. I can already hear their stipulations if we reach such a height, though I sense you’re getting ahead of yourself.”

“How far am I from summoning you?”

“You are progressing, but it will require another year of dedicated training to have the prana necessary for the act. Even then you will not be able to summon me for long. Most humans at your stage will need another decade to summon a dragon for more than a few moments. A decade more to become true masters. Still, if you gain some measure of control over your corruption, then perhaps the time required will be less. We shall see.”

The rest of our trip within Gremly went by smoothly enough. I felt my left side regain its strength to the point I could practice two-handed sword stances without a sting gushing outward with every sharp motion. My overall health steadily returned as well. It used to be that I would tire before even Marcela felt like stopping, but my hard-earned endurance soon displayed itself in our shorter rest periods.

Wanting to make sure our visit with Gwen stayed as brief as possible, I told Ghevont to not tell his former guardian about the death of his sister. Ghevont agreed, likely because he wouldn’t want to be in the position of consoling anyone. Perhaps he was also afraid that seeing someone grieving for Vey’s death might make her passing more of a reality, though I doubt anyone outside his unsocialized mind would know if he was ever in mourning.

In the same vein, I told Marcela to begin referring to Ghevont by his first name instead of his last. When she asked why, I let her know that if anyone learned he was Rathmore’s son, it would trigger an inquisition on her friend. She assented, but she needed some time to self-adjust.

There came a point when it was necessary to exit the forest and find a road that led to Omauwend. It was a little surreal when I stepped out of Gremly’s dreary domain for the first time in weeks. The fresher air, brighter sunlight, and resonances of nature made it seem as though I were no longer exceptional, but merely another living being among a trillion others. The first town we encountered informed us we were still a full day’s journey from our destination. With everyone well rested enough, I pushed us to make the trip in half that time.

We approached Omauwend in the late afternoon. Ghevont noted how the town was noticeably larger than when he last left it. Some of Gremly had been cut down to make room for it, though tendrils of its mist still creeped out. With a light rain falling, we traversed the peripheries of the town and looked for the scholar’s former home. When we wandered into the western outskirts of town, Ghevont pointed at a rundown house. It looked like a straw hut, but it turned out to be mostly made of frayed wood.

On reaching the derelict shelter, Ghevont said, “I’m positive this is it.”

“And I’m positive she doesn’t live here anymore,” said Marcela.

I told Clarissa to go inquire with the nearest neighbors while the rest of us examined the home more closely. Looking through a glassless window showed the inside to be bare except for a degraded straw bed and curtains of spider webs dangling from the cracked ceiling.

Clarissa came back and said, “Gwen still lives in town, just on the east side of it. She’s apparently married to a blacksmith and has two kids.”

“Interesting,” said Ghevont. “I was not expecting her to recover from my father’s death. She was quite devastated when she heard the news.”

“It’s hard, but people can move on from tragedy,” said Clarissa, looking at me as she did so. “Especially if they find someone else to help them through it.”

“Yes, my studies, combined with my personal experiences, appear to reliably imply that sentient beings, while initially rendered incapacitated by a loved one’s passing, do gradually recover their emotional stability over time. I wonder if time alone can heal these jarring impacts to the soul? They are both in the realms of the immaterial. In all probability-”

“Ghevont,” I said. “Keep it in your head when we’re in public.”

“Right, of course. Sometimes it’s difficult to separate my mind’s thoughts from my speech.”

The short trip to the opposite side of town ended when we recognized the cadenced clanging of hammer on metal on anvil. The origin of the clatter came from a smithy, whose door was open to allow the heat of the forge to pour out onto the little grassy hill the property was perched on. I assumed the home nearest it, a wide one-story brick home sitting twenty-five yards away, belonged to Gwen and her husband. A sign at the bottom of the slope read ‘No job requests at this time.’