The D'Karon Apprentice (16 page)

When she was through they looked upon a woman
who might have been forty years old. She released their countrymen,
but the afflicted men did not collapse. They merely turned, each
with flesh seared black where her skin had met theirs. Their eyes
were milky and glazed, staring at without seeing the other members
of their tribe.

“Ah,” Turiel said, finally acknowledging the
other nomads. “I am pleased to see you are ready to be proper
hosts. Since neither of these men will need to sleep any longer, I
must assume that at least one of these huts has got a vacancy, so
I’ll be staying for the night. A good, hearty meal would be nice
too. I haven’t eaten in… well, it
must
be years by now. And
I do hope none of you were planning to travel deeper into
civilization anytime soon, because I’m afraid I’ve been asked to be
discrete in my dealings here, and I’m not certain any of you can be
trusted to remain silent on the details of my visit.”

“What have you done to our chief?” asked a
voice from the gathered crowd.

“Nothing. Well, nothing that
time
wouldn’t have done eventually. I simply pushed it along a bit and
gathered the runoff. Like crushing grapes to make wine. I’m sure if
they had been willing to be reasonable, they would have been more
than willing to offer themselves. You see, I’ve got a very
important and noble purpose. I cannot
share
it, of course,
but when I succeed you shall all reap the benefits. That is to say,
you all
may
reap the benefits. Some of you may need to make
a sacrifice similar to theirs before I move on. I have some tasks
that could prove taxing.”

The surviving nomads stood motionless,
uncertain of what to do.

“I
thought
I’d been clear. Prepare a
hut, some food, and some water.” No one moved. She turned back to
Mott, who was fumbling to align his own head with his neck. With a
dismissive gesture, she said, “Bring them to order. And you come
here.”

Her dragoyle responded to the second command,
and the withered remnants of her two victims responded to the
first, shuffling forward.

“Do as she says…” said what remained of the
chieftain. His voice had no intelligence behind it, no soul. It was
hollow, empty.

“That is not our chief,” said a voice from
the crowd. “We must kill that… thing. We must kill them
all
and…”

“Really, sir,” Turiel called without looking,
her tone that of a parent disappointed in a child who had not
learned its lesson. “You cannot kill him. He is already dead. The
blood is cold in his veins, he breathes only to speak, and he
speaks only to say what
I
tell him. The best you can do is
slice him rather pointlessly into pieces as you did my poor little
Mott.” She finished repairing the familiar and stood to address the
crowd. “But since your chief isn’t
nearly
the masterpiece
Mott is, it would be far simpler just to replace him.”

She paced fearlessly forward, and the
spokesman did the same.

“She is just one woman, and her largest
monster is weakened. She cannot defeat
all
of us…”

Turiel leaned close, squinting at the voice
of the opposition. “How delightful! You see, Mott! I
knew
it
wouldn’t take long.”

She drove her staff into the ground and
shifting vines of black split the earth at their feet, coiling up
the legs of the nomads and locking them in place. She grasped the
spokesman by the chin, released her staff, and drew her knife.
“Hold still. Your eyes are the
perfect
color…”

#

Brustuum, in spite of himself, turned aside
in disgust at the words he was hearing.

“Is something wrong?” Turiel asked
innocently.

“You… you would
kill
a man to harvest
his eyes?”

“Heavens no. He was still alive when I
removed them. And besides, he was quite rude. His body and soul
could be put to much better use elsewhere. Did you
see
how
wonderful his eyes looked in Mott’s head before you stuffed him in
that trunk? And really, keeping my darling in an equipment room
like a piece of luggage. I contend that
you
are the one who
doesn’t respect the sanctity of life.”

“You are not in a position to judge anyone,
Turiel… And how is it that you seem to know the location of what
remains
of your little pet?”

“As you’ve observed, I am something of a
collector when it comes to eyes. I hate to see them go to waste, so
I scatter them about.”

He backed to the door and rapped on it.
“Swordsman, go to the supply room and see that the monstrosity is
still safely stowed. And search the room for anything out of the
ordinary.” He returned his attention to Turiel. “Speak. Complete
your confession so that I can be done with you. Your very presence
is beginning to make my flesh crawl.”

“There’s precious little that remains to be
told.”

#

Several days had passed and Turiel stood at
the edge of the nomad camp gazing downward and beaming with pride.
Anyone who had seen the woeful creature who had awakened in a cave
to the south just weeks before would scarcely have believed that
she was the same creature, let alone the same woman. Her clothes
were now fresh and clean, ragged skins abandoned in favor of black
robes found among the things of her hosts. More impressively, she
now looked
almost
to be in the full flower of youth again,
though here and there she seemed to have picked and chosen elements
of maturity to retain. A single shock of gray hair remained,
threaded through the rest like a vein of silver in a block of
obsidian. The corners of her eyes and mouth retained some fine
lines, almost artful in the way they made her look more
distinguished. Her cheeks, rather than showing plump, childish
roundness, remained somewhat drawn, allowing her face an angularity
that bordered on sculptural. She was a woman who had recognized and
embraced some of the gifts of age, and had reinvented herself as a
figure with all of the assets of youth yet all of the badges of
wisdom.

At her feet lay a work of grim brilliance. To
all outward observations, it was a simple leather cloak. Save for
the fact it was freshly tanned and a bit thicker than a normal
garment, one might never have suspected anything sinister of
it.

“There.
Much
better. I must say it was
quite a fortunate happenstance to have stumbled upon this lovely
settlement, eh, Mott?” Turiel said, wiping her hands on a few
discarded shreds of linen. “So many fine materials to work with,
and so many helpful people to assist and nourish us along the way.
Arise, my cloak.”

A ripple fluttered across the form. It
shuddered and rose, odd angular folds appearing and disappearing as
it shifted and twisted. A few moments of writhing and squirming
allowed it to rise to its scalloped edge and stand erect, empty yet
with its form bulging as though occupied. A sharp eye might notice
that its motions came with the twitch of muscle and the rigidity of
bone layered beneath its surface, but as it stood, rolling itself
in imitation of a breezy flutter, it almost seemed lighter than
air. The creation was some horrid combination of dark magic and
sleight of hand.

“Entirely unlike their enchantment, yet with
a virtually identical result. The lack of flight is a limitation, I
grant you, but the efficiency is
far
greater. It takes
little effort at all to craft one of these, and one needs only the
flesh of two goats. I would dearly love to see it put to use in
battle, but the only possible targets are my courteous hosts, and I
would hate to appear ungrateful for their kindness. Come, my cloak.
Let the others see how brilliantly you’ve come along.”

She turned on her heel and paced toward the
camp. The nomads who called it home seemed to be standing at
attention outside their tents, waiting for her. As she drew near,
the colorless flesh and milky-white eyes of each made it clear that
they were no more than shells of what they had been, drained of
their life and will. Each husk stood limply upright, looking as
though held aloft by unseen strings and ready to collapse at any
moment.

“There, you see, Marraam? I told you I would
do it,” she said happily, addressing what had formerly been the
matriarch of the tribe.

The figure who once had been called Marraam
stood, unseeing, unhearing, and unheeding. Nonetheless, Turiel
spoke to her as though she were pleasantly interested in what the
sorceress had to say.

“You have my endless gratitude for keeping as
many goats in your herd as you did. It took every last one of them
to perfect my design! … Well, yes, I realize it isn’t
perfect
. Theirs can fly and mine can’t, but I’m not
convinced flight is
necessary
.”

She turned suddenly to what had been a young
man. His eyes were hidden behind a tied rag. Or, more accurately,
the place where his eyes had
been
was so hidden.

“Now that is uncalled for, Poormaa. This is
not self-indulgent tinkering! I
must
illustrate my worth to
the D’Karon. They only share their most potent secrets with those
they deem worthy, and I must know those secrets.”

Her head whipped around, and she jabbed a
finger at the husk of Marraam’s husband.

“I
heard
that! I am
not
power
hungry. My motivation couldn’t be nobler. This is a matter of
vengeance. It is my duty! A noble soul deserves to have her
stirring put to rest, and I cannot do that until I am strong enough
to finish her task.”

She turned back to Marraam and placed a hand
on her shoulder.

“It is kind of you to say, but what you’ve
seen here is only a fraction of the wonders she could do. She chose
a different path than I, so it is hardly a comparison of like for
like, but I know my strength and I know hers. I still feel the
chill of her shadow. Until I step into the light and grow beyond
her strength, then I cannot hope to avenge her. And I know that I
cannot reach those heights without the aid of the D’Karon.”

Her head turned to Poormaa again.

“
Your
deaths… What do you mean, who
will avenge
your
deaths? You did not
die
. You gave of
yourself freely. You helped me to grow and to hone my skills. That
is no cause for vengeance.” She paused for a moment, then charged
up to him, bringing her face within inches of his. “I am
not
a monster! You take that back! I am doing what I
need
to do.
You would do the same if you could! … Be silent!
Be silent damn
you! Be silent or I will silence you!
That’s enough. Cloak, you
have your target.
”

The leathery concoction coiled and sprang
forward. In its leap it unfurled itself, catching the breeze and
gliding toward the standing remains of Poormaa. Bony claws emerged
from the seams closest to where the arms of a wearer might have
been, and more slipped from the scalloped edge. It wrapped about
the unresisting form of Poormaa and put the claws to work.

With grim efficiency the animated remains of
the nomad were reduced to shreds. It was not as gruesome as it
might have been. Slices and gashes in the lifeless flesh did not
bleed, and there were no screams of pain, but the sight and sound
of the attack should have been more than enough to turn even the
steadiest stomach. Yet Turiel simply watched, a look of vindication
on her face.

“There! You see? Every bit as effective as
the cloaks conjured by the D’Karon. And though they can’t properly
fly, they aren’t nearly as vulnerable to flame as the D’Karon
version. If ever they allow me to meet face to face with Demont
again, I feel quite certain he will find my innovations valuable.
Isn’t that right, Mott?” She turned and looked at her staff. It was
vacant. “Mott? Blast it, where did that rascal get off to? And come
to think of it, where has the dragoyle gotten off to?”

She took the staff in her hand, raised it up,
and thrust it down. “To me, my creations!”

In reply, a strangled cry of a stricken bird
echoed across the fields. She squinted through the shifting haze of
heat and spotted the misshapen form of her familiar skitter out
from behind some prickly shrubs. It was dragging something limply
along, but it wasn’t until it was nearly upon her that Turiel was
able recognize the form of a sizable buzzard that Mott had pulled
from the air.

“Well what have you got there?” she
asked.

Mott flopped its prey down and chittered,
prancing about.

Turiel smiled and shook her head, cooing as
though she’d just seen a puppy overturn its water dish. “Oh, you
naughty little beast. I have
told
you, these birds haven’t
got the wings to keep you aloft, and I haven’t got the power to
spare to make up for the shortcomings. We’ll get you some fine
wings soon enough.”

Her creature whined pathetically.

“Oh very well, we shall give it a try if you
must
see for yourself how poorly suited they are, but after
this we must be on our way.” She pulled out her knife and began to
carefully remove the relevant parts of the buzzard. “If their loose
tongues are any indication, my welcome with these nomads has
largely worn out. Fortunately they have served their purpose. I
feel quite healthy once more, and I’m satisfied that I’ve made
adequate progress to make proper use of the resources a larger city
can provide. Once my dragoyle returns, we will find our way to
those dragon breeders on the west coast. Where
has
that
beast gotten off to?”

Mott chittered, then yelped as she sliced
away the skeletal wings on his back in preparation for the fresh
ones.

“Wandered
off
? Again? That’s what
happened to each of the prior cloaks as well! Blast it all. Why do
they keep doing that?” She mused to herself as she aligned the
first wing and began to stitch it in place with arcane threads
drawn from her staff. The horrific act of flesh-crafting seemed as
mundane as darning a sock to her. “I never would have imagined that
the most difficult part of manufacturing the cursed things would be
maintaining control of them. That’s a secret I would
dearly
love for Demont to share with me. I know there’s a trick to it.
There must be. Based on what Teht said, he was able to control
armies
if he so chose. Bah. When we find Teht, we will
request an audience with Demont. If only they’d seen fit to make
him
the trainer instead. He and I have so much more in
common…” She wiped her hands and stood. “There. You have your
wings. Go ahead and try them.”