Daughter of Dragons

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Malcolm came to Compara clad in tatters and grime—a beggar’s guise to which his deformities lent easy credence. The sentries at the gate did not ask him what business he had in the city; indeed, one of them cast him a coin of miniscule worth as he hobbled by. He flashed the imbecile a smile full of blackened teeth, then continued on his way at a cripple’s guilt-inspiring pace.

At first glance, the white-walled city seemed an elegant place. Two – and three-story white-brick buildings with clear glass windows and ornate facades lined the main thoroughfare; and the people who shopped here were handsomely dressed. But beneath its hoity-toity petticoat, Compara was as rank as any dockside w***e. Open sewers hemmed the back streets; garbage heaps and vermin multiplied in the alleyways. The houses and shops in this part of town were insulated from the squalor by walls of white-washed brick. As Malcolm made his way through this feculent maze, he looked for cutthroats and worse out of the corner of his eye. But no blackguard bothered him today, perhaps because he seemed so destitute.

He meandered in and out of the worst parts of Compara, then came to an abrupt stop as the city garrison spanned into view. It was a daunting structure, with high stone walls and manned battlements. Even the bruise-coloured shadows which it cast were imposing. He scowled, ever-jealous of the strong, hale-limbed soldiers who stood watch at its iron gates, then moved on to the sprawling outdoor bazaar which lay beyond the stronghold’s shade. Although the day was rapidly coming to a close, the market was still jammed with last-minute shoppers. These were mostly common-born folk: plainly dressed women and domestic servants; children, soldiers, and the usual array of beggars and thieves. He mingled with this motley crowd for a while, then stole a hunk of bread from a weary vendor’s stall and ducked into an alleyway to wait for nightfall.

G

The cemetery smelled of freshly turned earth and rotting flesh, but Malcolm did not care. He had come in search of a servant, not a flowery atmosphere.

As he prowled from grave to grave, just biding his time, a patch of absolute blackness began to flicker in and out of the peripheries of his vision. He grinned then, for this was a non-born, the very thing that he’d been hoping to find. It and its kin were mere graveyard haunts now, vultures that fed on the power of decay, but back in the age before the world’s first dawn, they had been The Dark One’s minions.

And soon, at least one of them would be so again.

G

He sat down with his back against a tombstone, then cast a morsel of pure power into the night. Like a shadowy tiger, the nonborn came slinking toward the bait—a shy, suspicious stalk which abruptly ended in a pounce. An instant after it consumed the lure, Malcolm began to reel it in with his Will. It shifted from one nightmarish shape to another in a frantic attempt to escape, but it could not overcome Malcolm’s magic.

“Be at ease, nonborn,” he told it, after he had bound it to his service with a spell. “I wish you no harm.”

“Then release me,” it replied in a hollow monotone. Its mouth was naught but a shadowy hole. “If you try to keep me as a slave, I will perish.”

“Nonsense. You will thrive in my service.” With the insouciance of a man feeding his favourite dog, he tossed it another morsel of power. It snarled, resenting his attitude, but could not stop itself from gobbling up the tidbit. “See? I can be a generous master. If you please me, you shall feed as you have not fed in centuries.”

“What do you want of me, mortal?”

“For starters, you may show me to the catacombs.”

“Why? There is no power among those long-dead bones.”

“Ask me no questions, darkling,” came his warning, both sharp and sweet, “for I can be mean as well as generous; and you will not like the taste of my displeasure.”

Irritation distorted its featureless form. An instant later, it sullenly motioned for him to follow.

It led him out of the cemetery, down a lengthy series of deserted streets and into a section of the city which he had not explored. The buildings here were squat and rickety; the paving stones beneath his feet were cracked and broken. Even in the dark, he could tell that this was an old neighbourhood, long abandoned by its original inhabitants and now settled by immigrant squatters. The air reeked of rancid grease, exotic spices and refuse. Somewhere in the gloomy distance, a woman was ranting in a foreign tongue. But just as he was about to rebuke the nonborn for playing games with him, it glided to a stop in front of an ancient, rust-encrusted gate which barred the alleyway between two dilapidated shops.

“This will take you to the catacombs,” it informed him.

His perceptions shifted then; and that which he had mistaken for a private alley became a separate, sheltered passageway. His budding scowl took a sudden, speculative slant.

“Good,” he murmured to himself. “Very good.”

“I have done your bidding,” the nonborn said then. “Now release me.”

“You may go for now,” he replied, with a negligent wave of his hand, “but I have not released you. When I call, you must come.”

It snarled at him, then melted back into the night.

Malcolm didn’t hear that terrible sound. He was already on the other side of the still-locked gate, and racing toward the entrance to the catacombs. There, he wrested a resinated rag torch from its dusty, cobwebbed slot and continued on his way by its smoky orange light. As the passageway sloped into the earth’s bowels, he wondered why no one used the catacombs anymore—they seemed as good a way as any to dispose of the dead. Then again, s**t was buried. So were entrails. Maybe it was fitting that people preferred to be buried, too.

The passageway jagged into a staircase then. Its steps had been carved out of rock and river-clay—a slick, uneven descent that was a cripple’s nightmare. He pressed his back against the rough-hewn wall, then began to creep his way down the decline. Each step felt like a tightrope; and each edge, a cliff. Sweat beaded on his split upper lip, the muscles in his bad leg threatened to cramp. When he finally reached the bottom stair, his relief flared bright as a bonfire.

His would-be domain was a narrow cavern whose walls were riddled with shallow enclaves. Its length was indeterminable by the scant light of his torch; ten feet looked the same as a mile. He ventured onward, probing ahead with senses keener than his eyes. As he proceeded, a variety of homeless bones grabbed at his ankles and feet. Perhaps this was why people had opted for coffins and solitary graves, he thought: worms did not toss bones around like rats and fortune-hunters did. He snorted his contempt. As if it mattered if a body rotted in one piece.

The catacombs diverged at irregular intervals, but he did not bother to explore the offshoots; with one sorcerous glance, he knew that they would not serve his purposes. He was searching for solid rock, for stone immured magic better than any other material. If he could not find so fortuitous a vein, he would have to build his stronghold elsewhere; and that would take time and power that he did not want to spare. So he continued down the main passageway. The air grew dry. The floor became less smooth. Then he came to a branch that the diggers had abandoned quite early. It was more of a node than a chamber, he thought, as he went prowling into it. But it was carved out of beautiful, insurmountable river-granite; and that’s what really mattered. With a little work and some serious sorcery, he could turn this place into an underground fortress.

He rubbed his hands together, meaning to get started on his ambitions, only to be distracted by a massive yawn. How long had it been since he had slept—one day? Two? All of a sudden, it seemed like forever. He extinguished his torch, then crawled into the nearest enclave. It was empty, but he would not have cared if it had been otherwise. As soon as he laid down, he was asleep.

G

The Dark One’s gyre whirled before him. Her laval eyes surveyed his newly warded domain.

“I approve,” She said, all but overwhelming him with Her charnel breath. “Not even the feckless Queen of Dreams will be able to hear us now.”

He bowed, trying to hide the smile that Her rare praise had fostered. “My only aim is to serve You, Great One.”

She mocked him with a humourless laugh. “Your only aim, Blackheart? I think not. But never mind; I have no strength to waste on idle banter. Let us begin the Summoning.”

“What must I do?” he asked.

“When I open the Door to the nether-region in which your so-called demons dwell, you must reach out with your Will and draw them into your world. Do not attempt to snare more than one at a time—you do not possess enough strength for such a feat. Work quickly, for I will not be able to hold the Door open for long.

“Are you ready?”

He took a deep, centering breath, then nodded. The eyes in the center of the gyre flashed, then abruptly folded shut. Minutes or hours later, the maw spat a single word.

“Begin.”

He lashed out with his Will. It went streaking into the void between time and space, and rammed into a faceless mass. The collision drove psychic shockwaves into his brain, but he withstood the pain without flinching and began to retract his Will. A heartbeat later, his first conscript appeared with a deceptively mild pop. He casted for another and then another like a greedy fisherman’s boy. Each time he made contact, he lost a measure of his strength, but he resolved to keep going until he was utterly spent.

As it happened, though, The Dark One’s strength expired first.

“The Door is closed,” She announced. Then, as Her eyes snapped open again, the six demons that Malcolm had Summoned dropped to their knees and began to wail. They were hideous things, both slimy and hirsute; with low, sloping foreheads and flat, piranha-like faces fringed with razor-sharp teeth. Stubby leather wings protruded from their shoulder blades, a double row of bony spurs guarded the length of their spines. Both their hands and their feet were tipped with evil-looking claws. She stared at them for a long moment, then broke into a murderous grin.

“Your memory pleases me,” She said. “When I am restored to glory, you and yours will be well rewarded.”

“How may we serve you, Galza—” one of the six began.

“Fool!” She hissed, flaying the offender with a whip of elemental might. “Never speak My name while you are on this world. The Dreamer must not be roused.”

“I will not err again,” the tormented demon croaked.

“See that you do not.” She let it suffer for a moment longer, then abruptly recalled Her scourge. “The rest of you would be wise to learn from its mistake.”

“I will keep a stern watch over them for You, Mistress,” another of the demons said.

Her gaze strayed toward the speaker. It was a hand or so smaller than the other five, but its red, cat-like eyes possessed an intelligence which made it seem much larger.

“And who might you be?” She asked, a strong undertow of amusement in Her tone.

“I am Xallax’naj’kurjymym,” it proudly announced.

“A naj?” Her gaze swerved back to Malcolm. The humour in Her tone had now infected Her eyes as well. “How bold of you, Blackheart. You have Summoned one of the ruling class into your service.”

“His service?” The naj’s snout crinkled, exposing a set of jagged teeth. It could have been an expression of dismay or disdain.

“Indeed,” She replied. “Malcolm Blackheart is my chief servant on this plane. You will obey him as you would Me.”

Its sudden disgruntlement was all but palpable in the chamber, but neither it nor any of the other demons dared to contest that mandate.

Satisfied and still slyly amused, the Dark One spared Malcolm one last glance. “I will give you one last bit of information before I go, Blackheart. Use it only as a last resort. And do not summon Me again until you have found the talisman.”

“I will not fail you, Great One,” he vowed.

The words were wasted breath, for the gyre was already starting to collapse on itself. He stood his ground until the last speck of charcoal dust spiralled to a stop and then started toward the diagram. As he did so, the naj raced past him.

“I will tend to the talismans,” it told him.

“Stop right there, Xallax’naj’kurjymym,” he commanded. He had not worked so hard and so long only to be usurped by an ambitious demon. It froze, then half-turned to glare at him. Its expression was a mixture of curiosity and disdain. “You will not touch the talismans now or at any other time,” he said, “unless I give you permission to do so.”

“The Dark One said I was to serve you, Blackheart,” it dared to remind him. “Allow me to do Her bidding.”

“Henceforth, you will address me as Master,” he told it then, deliberately submerging his annoyance. “And since you are so keen to be of service, you may fetch a bucket of water and scrub the diagram from the floor.”

“I am naj, not a drudge like those others,” it asserted haughtily. “It would be more fitting for me to safeguard the Dark One’s relics.”

“Naj or no naj, you will not touch the talismans. If you do, I will use the Spell of Unmaking on you. Or, if you prefer, I will Summon the Dark One and have you explain your effrontery to Her.”

Although the naj did not quite believe that this twisted little man-thing had the strength to act on either threat, it retreated nonetheless. A great opportunity was in the making here; and it did not intend to let it slip from its grasp.

“You need not worry about me,” it lied. “Only say what needs to be done and I will see to it.”

“I much prefer this new attitude of yours,” he said, although he knew better than to trust such a sudden change. “And right now, the floor needs to be scrubbed. See to it.” He turned his back on the naj then, and began to retrieve the talismans. The demon bared its teeth, then went to fetch some water.

G

When the talismans were back in safekeeping, Malcolm tapped the last reserves of his strength and then commanded the demons to attend him.

“Four people of power live somewhere within this city,” he said. “I want you to locate them for me.”

“Are we permitted to ask why you are interested in these people?” the naj asked.

“I have reason to believe that one of them possesses the last talisman,” he replied, feeding it that bite of pertinent information simply to see how it would react.

“Ah.” Its slotted nostrils flared then, but there was no telling what that meant. “And what do you wish us to do once we have found these people?”

“For now, you are to do nothing but observe them.”

“Even if we find the one with the talisman?”

“Especially if you find that one,” he stressed. “I must know my adversary’s strengths and weaknesses before I attack. And remember this while you are roaming the city streets: no one must know or even suspect that there are demons about in the world again. Secrecy is vital to the Dark One’s plans.”

“Fear not,” the naj said. “We can all walk the shadows without being seen. As naj, I can also change my shape.”

“Good,” Malcolm said. But what he was thinking was: how convenient. This naj might be a useful tool after all. “Now go. Report back to me two days from now.”

The naj departed without a backward glance. The others followed on its heels. In their absence, he breathed a sigh of relief, then flopped into his enclave and slept just like one of the dead.

G

The demons returned at the appointed time. He approved their punctuality with a curt nod, then immediately began his inquisition.

“What have you learned?”

“We have found the people for whom you are looking,” the naj reported. “Of the four, only one has a stronghold equal to yours.”

“Oh?” he asked, immediately interested. “Tell me more of this one.”

It grimaced as if offended by the request. “All we know so far is that she is a sorceress of considerable power. The matter of her s*x is hearsay, gossip which I overheard from a neighbour. The matter of her powers is a fact which I deduced from the excellence of her wards.”

“I need to know more than that,” he growled. “Haven’t you been following her?”

“It is impossible to follow a person who does not leave her stronghold,” it stated.

Malcolm ground his teeth against an urge to shout. This was that damned warlock’s doing, he just knew it. May he rot forever on the Plains of Pain for that meddling death spell!

“What about the others?” he asked then, bracing himself for more bad news.

“They are two males and a female,” the naj informed him. “All have been seen and studied. The female is addicted to a substance called curra which distorts her talents as well as her senses. Her dwelling is warded, but not unbreachable.

“Of the two males, only one seems formidable. He sells his magic to all comers. He is skilled, but also careless. I have detected tiny flaws in his defences.”

“And what of the other?”

“He is an old man, grey-bearded and feeble. His wards are as decrepit as he is.”

“Good,” Malcolm said, more to himself than to his minions. Fortune had favoured him once more. Four vigilant adversaries would have been a true trial; one was merely an annoyance. And annoyance or not, this reclusive sorceress interested him. If she was anywhere near as powerful as the naj claimed she was, then she might serve his purposes even if she did not possess the talisman. After all, the Dark One was not likely to want an addict’s poisoned body, or one that was degenerate with age.

As for the other sorcerer: who knew? The talismans were attracted to power, not caution. And since he was the easier of the two likeliest candidates, Malcolm decided to deal with him first.

“Naj,” he said then, “I want you to concentrate on the magician. Find out where he goes, and when he’s home alone. If possible, search his house for the talisman.

“The rest of you are to maintain a constant watch on the other sorcerers. Make careful note of their habits. In the recluse’s case, report anything out of the ordinary directly to me.”

“Allow them to report to me instead,” the naj suggested. “That way, you need not be bothered with every insignificant detail that crops up.”

“In the right hands, even the most insignificant detail can become a useful weapon,” he replied, deftly turning aside this latest grab for power. “So I will hear every report for myself.” Then, because he knew that the demon lordling would do so anyway, he added, “But you may see to any other details pertaining to the watch.”

The naj accepted that meatless bone without a word, but inwardly it was seething. How could the Dark One have chosen such an insolent fool to be Her highest servant? If it had its way, it would tear that misbegotten lump of humanity limb from twisted limb—slowly, with as much pain as possible.

“Is there something else that you want to tell me?” the cripple asked then, disrupting its b****y fantasy. “If not, then you had best be on your way.”

“There is something else,” it replied, and then suffered a fresh pang of humiliation as Malcolm responded with a look of mock-attentiveness. “We are hungry. Will you allow us to hunt?”

He narrowed his eyes as if inwardly debating the matter, then replied, “Permission granted. But be discreet.”

“We will rouse no suspicions,” it assured him.

“Then be off already! I have better things to do with my time than sit here and look at you.”

With a surly lick of its chops, the naj departed. It would not forget this or any other insult that the cripple cared to tender. For although it did not know how or when as of yet, it meant to repay him for them all.