The D'Karon Apprentice (42 page)

“
Close your mouth!
” fumed the
guard.

A worrying rumble punctuated his demand,
causing walls to crackle and release cascades of broken powder.

“What is that!?” spat the guard.

Deacon having completely eroded his patience
to nothing, his exclamation had an angry and accusing tone that
suggested he suspected Deacon was somehow at fault for this as
well.

“I do not know, but it had a worryingly
structural sound to it. I am not certain how much longer this
stronghold will remain standing. I would suggest you evacuate.”

“I do not take suggestions from
prisoners
,” the guard said.

He’d reached the end of his wits now and was
oscillating madly between anger and confusion. A voice echoed
through the hall and swiftly gathered his full attention.

“All soldiers to the courtyard! Kill these
things,
now!
”

It was the commander, his voice a potent mix
of agony and fury. Without a moment’s hesitation, the guard
abandoned his post and heeded the call to action. Deacon stood and
stepped to the bars, watching him go, then cast a concerned glance
at a fresh fault that had opened in the wall across from him. Even
between rumbles, powdery stone was falling in a more or less
continuous cascade. It was now safe to say that the building wasn’t
so much standing as collapsing very slowly. He shut his eyes and
reached out with his mind. It took but a moment for him to sense
the familiar warmth and clarity of Myranda’s thoughts. It was no
coincidence that she too was reaching out. When their wills
entwined, each appeared as a presence in the mind of the other,
suddenly together despite the quaking walls that separated
them.

Myranda, I believe the time has come to
abandon the stronghold, he thought.

Agreed. I don’t know what is happening, but
I’m certain that sound is a dragon’s roar, and I don’t imagine Garr
would do so lightly.

You see about whatever is happening on the
surface. I shall gather our things and ensure that no one else is
in the stronghold.

Be careful,
Myranda said.

You as well,
Deacon replied.

They broke their connection, each with a job
to do. Deacon touched the bars and flexed his mind. The lock was
simple by any standard. An industrious prisoner could likely have
picked it with a thick splinter of wood. For a wizard with even the
most cursory knowledge of gray magic, manipulating its workings to
open the door was as simple as lifting a latch. As he stepped out,
he brushed his fingers against the walls. Ribbons of blue-white
began to mingle with the crumbling masonry, shoring it up enough to
stop it from quaking, at least for a moment. Without his crystal he
didn’t have the strength of will to support more than a small
section of the place at a time, but he’d learned much from the
Earth masters of Entwell. The whole of the stronghold was either
wood or stone. He attuned his spirit to each, and in his mind’s eye
those sections of wall and ceiling most in danger of collapse lit
up clear as day. He lent what strength he could spare and quickened
his pace, dedicating the remains of his attention to finding if
anyone else needed their help.

The packs containing their equipment were
simple enough to find. A wizard’s casting gem may as well be a
beacon in the night. He could feel it like a warmth against his
skin, one floor below. As for other people who might need help, the
only living things that felt strong enough to be humans were
already outside or on the move toward the exit. They were in less
danger than he was. On the same level as their things he felt a
flicker of life, but it was insignificant, more likely a rat or a
cluster of insects than anything that might need his aid.

He reached the stairs before the next rumble
shook the facility, and the keep was striped with new faults that
needed to be strengthened. He split his mind further and quickened
his pace. The stairs down had partially collapsed, but from the
looks of it, most of the damage was from the initial disaster and
simply had not yet been cleared. He sidled past it and took the
rest of the staircase two at a time, bursting out of the stairwell
at a full run. None of the lamps on this level had been lit, but
he’d conjured so many strips and patches to hold the place
together, the ambient glow was more than enough to light his way.
Deacon held out his hand and gently called for his gem. It answered
with a brilliant glow that poured from his pack, marking the
storage cell to be at the far end of the current hall. Distant
roars preceded the roughest impact yet. A section of ceiling
shattered to his right, sending a torrent of fractured stone and
splintered wood toward him, but he raised his hand and conjured a
shimmering shield. Time was clearly running out.

Deacon covered the last few paces of the
hallway, manipulated the lock, and pulled at the cell door only to
find it buckling against the floor. This close to his gem, the
merest thought was all it took to call it to his hand. It touched
his flesh, and the strength and clarity of his mind compounded. He
funneled much of the added strength into reinforcing the sagging
roof, and a portion of the rest into ripping the cell door from its
hinges. Rather than attempt to haul everything he, Myranda, and Myn
had been carrying onto his back, Deacon simply willed the packs
into the air.

After two steps toward the stairs, though,
the added light of his glowing gem illuminated something that
caught his attention even amid chaos. Through a hole in the floor
he could see that one of the cells below was occupied. At first
glance his heart nearly stopped at the thought that he might have
missed such a thing. The cell, in fact, seemed to be
crowded
with people, all standing. He could see at least eight, which in a
single cell left barely room to move. Another shake and rumble
caused more of the floor to collapse, revealing a handful more in
an adjoining cell. When he’d had a moment to process what he was
seeing, he realized, though they were on their feet, they were not
humans. At least, not anymore. There was only faintest flicker of
life to them, and entirely no will. Each of them had the dark skin
of a native Tresson, some darker than others, but the color was
flushed and subdued. They were husks. Bodies drained of life but
not yet allowed to take their rest.

A thunder-crack of splitting wood signaled
the failure of one of the few remaining support columns. There was
no more time for investigation. He would simply have to hope that
when the stronghold finished collapsing, somewhere beneath the
rubble would remain some evidence of what had happened here.

#

Myranda rushed up the steps. She could feel
that Deacon’s influence was, for much of the keep, the
only
thing holding the walls together. The hallway was littered with
fallen bricks, and ahead where it turned toward the entryway stood
a press of people with their weapons drawn. They were crying out in
anger and fear. Two rows of three men hunkered down into the
hallway to protect Brustuum, who was behind them and still
attempting to climb to his feet. An earsplitting roar caused the
men to tense further, then a vicious blow to the entryway from the
outside dislodged a section of wall. A falling brick struck
Brustuum and threw his head back, thumping it into the solid stone
of the floor and threatening to bury him in the rubble.

The commander dragged himself free of the
toppling bricks, then looked up to Myranda, eyes widening in
surprise and anger.

“You! This is
your
doing! It
must
be! Men! Subdue the duchess!” he slurred, the recent
blow to the head robbing him of some clarity.

The order fell on deaf ears, the threat of a
rampaging dragon requiring the full attention of every able
soldier. Myranda stepped to Brustuum and hauled him to his feet,
throwing his arm around her shoulder.

“You unhand me! You unhand me, woman!” he
cried, head sagging and eyes unfocused.

“Commander, your men have their hands full
and your keep is crumbling. For the moment I suggest we put our
differences aside in the interest of survival.” She peered through
the entryway, just barely able to see the wild eyes of the dragon
over the heads of the defending soldiers. “What is happening?”

“Is it not obvious?” Brustuum raved, fighting
to maintain his focus. “Your influence has poisoned the mind of a
Rider and his dragon. They have turned their backs on their
kingdom, and now the dragon wishes to kill us all.”

“If he wished to kill us all, he would fill
this hallway with flame and be done with it,” Myranda said.

Garr withdrew from the doorway and took a few
paces back. The soldiers braced themselves as he heaved a shoulder
against the stone wall, shaking the building and causing the left
side of the entryway to buckle. She thrust out her hand and pulled
her mind to the task of keeping the roof from coming down on top of
them, willing blocks back into place and holding them there.

“Myn!” Myranda called.

The response was immediate, a distant
grinding slide, then a thundering gallop. The red dragon burst into
view of the doorway, wedging Garr out of the way and lowering her
head to peer inside.

“Kill it! Kill them both! Kill them all!”
Brustuum barked, his voice at the cusp of delirium.

Some combination of anger and pain had
stripped away any semblance of logic and reason from the commander,
reducing him to little more than a ranting lunatic. Soon even the
words were lost in a sea of loudly muttered drivel, as though he
lacked the energy and patience to form words any longer. Myranda
raised her voice, speaking with calmness and clarity. In the midst
of madness, a voice of reason was a difficult thing to ignore. The
Tresson soldiers forgot for a moment that Myranda should have been
considered as great a threat as the dragons and simply let her
speak.

“Myn, the keep is on the verge of collapse.
We have to come out. I don’t know what’s happened to Garr and
Grustim, but I don’t think anyone wants to see any more blood
spilled today,” she said.

“You’ll have no argument from me, though you
may have difficulty keeping the commander safe from Garr,” called
Grustim, unseen beyond the doorway.

“I’ll see to him,” Myranda said. She
addressed the Tresson soldiers between her and the outside, who
were still stretched tight as bowstrings. “Either move forward or
move aside, please.”

Rather than risk being the first to venture
out to a courtyard currently home to two dragons, both of whom had
been out of control until recently, the men flattened themselves to
the walls and allowed Myranda to pass. She stepped into the baking
hot sun of the courtyard but found herself instantly in the shade
as Myn stood over her and practically trembled with joy at seeing
her again. The dragon reached her head down, eager for a scratch,
but Myranda gently pushed her back.

“In a moment, Myn,” she said, taking a few
steps more, the injured commander by her side.

To her left, between Myranda and the tent
that served as the ailing keep’s temporary infirmary, stood Garr.
He had his feet set wide, his claws dug deep, and his eyes fixed
with burning intensity on the commander. Farther away, near the
flaming remnants of the stable, stood Grustim, arms crossed and
face serious.

“What exactly happened? What is wrong with
Garr?” she called to him.

“The commander began making unreasonable and
unwise demands of me. Opposing him would mean abandoning my
loyalties to my kingdom; following his orders would mean abandoning
the mission assigned to me. Rather than bring shame upon myself and
my mount, I saw fit to relieve Garr of his duty. He is no longer my
mount, no more mine to control than Myn or any other wild dragon.
It would appear he was as displeased with the commander as I, and
without the concern of breaking oaths, he was and is free to act on
it.”

The green dragon lowered his head, his snout
drawing near enough to the commander to brush his injured arm. The
commander looked defiantly back, painfully clawing at his side with
his bad arm, searching for a sword that wasn’t there. Broiling
breath, heated by barely contained flame, spilled around Myranda
and Brustuum.

“Garr, the commander is keeping things from
us,” Myranda said. “We need to know them. That alone is reason
enough to keep him alive.”

He seemed unmoved by the appeal to reason,
his grating growl thumping in Myranda’s chest as he peeled back his
lips. Finally Myn had enough. She shuffled aside and gave Garr a
firm butt to the side of his head, forcing his head up and away. He
snapped toward her and rumbled something, curling his tail and
fluttering his wings. Myn huffed something in return and looked him
hard in the eye. The pair stared at each other for what seemed like
a minute, then Garr shut his eyes and lowered his chin in a slow
nod. The dragons parted, clearing the way to the infirmary. Myranda
led the commander toward it. His raving was quieter still, barely a
murmur, his mind a broken wheel spinning loosely on its axle. He
merely shuffled, leaning heavily upon Myranda.

The dozen or so soldiers who had been trying
and failing to control the dragons cautiously emerged from the
scattered hiding places they’d taken refuge in before the sudden
influx of sanity brought by Myranda’s arrival. Some attempted to
raise their weapons, but seeming to sense the motion rather than
see it, Myn’s eyes flitted in their direction and the soldiers
quickly thought better of it.

“Myranda?” called Deacon as he stumbled out
the door, his mind firmly turned to the task of keeping the
stronghold standing.

“I’m here, Deacon,” she replied.

“Is everything safe?” he asked.

“Safe as it is likely to be until we can sort
this situation out,” Myranda said.