Offspring (The Sword of the Dragon) (20 page)

“He told you to ‘remember no more.’”

She sat on the floor, shaking her head. “Honestly, brother, I have no idea.”

T
he shadows deepened under the tall trees, and a gentle, warm breeze rustled the leaves. Dry leaves of red and brown crunched under the feet of a young girl as she skipped through the forest. An owl hooted in the darkness. The breeze strengthened, swirling the leaves around her legs, then weakened, allowing them to settle back on the ground.

Oganna glanced over her shoulder, watching the glowing windows of her father’s house. She was ten years old now. Old enough to let her curiosity pull her outside while causing her to dismiss her fear. No one knew she’d snuck away. Aunt Caritha had been the last one awake, cleaning the kitchen. Her father was taking a deserved nap by the fireplace, swinging in his hammock with Seivar nestled under his arm.

She looked into the darkening woods. For the past several months something had felt amiss. Even when the house should have been empty, someone else seemed to be nearby. When she shared her feelings with her Nuvitor companions, Seivar and Hasselpatch, both agreed that sometimes, when only they and Oganna remained at home, something felt downright spooky. As if an extra set of eyes gazed upon them at all hours.

This evening she had been standing by the window, watching darkness fall beneath the forest branches. A chill had coursed through her body. She hadn’t known why—until a cloaked human figure coalesced in the trees and then vanished.

Now she turned away from the house and stretched her hand toward the forest, feeling for … she knew not what. Suddenly her hand glowed, and she let out a little cry, quickly clapping her hands over her mouth and glancing back at the house. The door remained closed and the house silent.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she bit her lip and stretched out her hand again. It did not glow. Once more she felt drawn into the forest toward Mathaliah Hollow.

For years now, childish superstition had maintained that Mathaliah Hollow was haunted. The isolated narrow valley was part of Ilfedo’s generous property. Actually it bordered the old cabin site where his parents had been killed. In recent months long blue stalks had grown in Mathaliah Hollow, stalks that glowed at night. People called it Night Grass, but its appearance in the hollow only seemed to confirm the local children’s suspicions.

It took Oganna a long while to reach the hollow, but when she stood at the forest’s edge, looking down into the meadow with its patches of glowing blue grass, she saw a shadow race to the opposite side and halt. Total darkness fell. She glanced up at the clouds covering most of the stars. The moon rose as a bright glow behind the trees. The shadow, if she had really seen one, blended into the larger, darker shadows.

She hesitated. Fear should give her caution, shouldn’t it? There was no such thing as a haunted hollow, was there? Suddenly a hooded figure glowed into existence in front of her, as if waiting for her. A scythe rested in the figure’s hands. No, that could not be. The Grim Reaper was only a myth—but there he stood in glowing gray garb—unless she was experiencing a dream.

Pinching her face confirmed that she was awake. She turned, prepared to run, but struck her forehead on someone’s belly.

“Slow down, child,” a familiar voice rumbled. “There is nothing to fear.”

She craned her neck to see into the pink eyes of a man who, for the life of her, she could not name. Yet somehow, he was a friend—a long lost friend. “Sir, I … I think I should go home now.”

The man knelt in front of her and smiled gently. He looked like a ghost, too—his skin so pale and his hair so white. “Do you not remember me, my dear child?”

Her eyes felt like they were going to pop out. “Linsair!” She leaped into his arms and giggled as he laughed with her. The memory of him, which had seemed buried, came back in a blizzard of knowledge awakened. He had worked for so long for her father and then, after saving her life, he’d left. No one had been able to venture a guess where he’d gone.

She’d always felt he was the grandfather she wanted to know. The dragon father of her mother—her real grandfather—no one interacted with him, they only knew of him or had met him. Every memory involving Linsair spoke of kindness to her; sometimes a coldness toward others, an austerity, but a decided softness to her.

Linsair stood, raising her off the ground, holding her away from him. His grin encompassed every corner of his face. “How you have grown, my child! God has been good to you. Oh, and I have missed you.”

“Linsair, where have you been? Father and Aunt Caritha and Rose’el—they wanted to know why you left—”

“My task for your father was done,” he interjected. “And, child, I had other things to attend to. But,” he carried her down into the hollow and nodded at the Grim Reaper, “I always kept a watchful eye on you through my friend.”

She shook with fear, seeing the scythe blade with greater clarity. The long shiny blade seemed poised to slit someone’s throat. Thankfully the cavernous hood hid the immortal face of Death from sight. She clung to Linsair, wishing he would turn her away from the horrible scene.

Oganna, do not fear him. It is not the Reaper
.

She glanced up into Linsair’s soft face, startled. Had he spoken to her mind?

He looked at the cloaked figure and growled like a lion. “Specter, cannot you see that the child is afraid of thee?” He set her on the ground and crossed his arms, looming beside her. “Remove your hood and set aside your weapon!”

“Of course, my master. Forgive me; I had not realized.” The hood slipped off the man’s head, revealing his handsome features, albeit his sober face.

“Specter.” Oganna bit her lower lip and then took a step forward, dipping a curtsy with her nightgown. If Linsair said this was not the Reaper, then she would trust him.

The man leaned his scythe against a nearby rock face and bowed to her. “At your service, princess. I have watched you all your life, and I continue to do so. Today, I’m afraid, you discovered me against my strongest attempts to hide myself.”

“I do not think”—she cleared her throat and held her head high—“I do not think I understand.”

The sword smith’s pink eyes mirrored the moonlight, sparkling. “My child, you are special to me, and so I have given you into Specter’s charge until the day that you are able to stand on your own. Until the day you surpass your aunts in mastering the power in your dragon blood and your father’s skill with a sword.”

“Does father know?” She pointed a finger at Specter.

“No. And you must not tell him.”

She frowned. Linsair would have to give an awfully good reason if he wanted her to keep this from her father.

“Listen to me, my child.” Linsair knelt in the wet grass. “The death of your mother broke your father’s heart, resulting in a fear that threatens thy future. You must be safeguarded from all that would harm thee, but not sheltered from the storms that will come against you. Specter is my loyal and trustworthy friend. He once saved your life, and he may yet do so again.”

She shook her head. “I know he trusted you, Linsair, but that is not a good reason for me to keep this secret. I have to tell him.”

Linsair growled and stood back. “You are strong like your mother, little one. I shall have to convince you in another manner.” Then his skin glowed pure white and transformed into scales. His arms and legs thickened and he grew. His head elongated, his neck lengthened, and a fin cut through the clothing on his neck while horns grew from his head. Suddenly there he stood in full majestic power, and she knew him for what and who he was.

Her father had told her the story of Albino: “A magnificent creature and the father of your mother.” Oganna clapped her hands and laughed as the creature towered above her.

“Now you know me, child. The command that I now give you I charge thee to keep: Specter is a friend to you and me. I appeared to your father and to his people in human form to prepare them for things that will come. Tell no one of Linsair’s true identity and keep thy hidden guardian a secret. Both of these things are for thy benefit and safety.”

Soberly she nodded and, just as she thought of hugging the dragon’s leg, he sprang into the air, his wings beating wind into her face. She fell against Specter, and he held her steady until Albino shot westward into the night sky.

Cold air filled the hollow, and the clouds thinned. Stars multiplied in the heavens. “Come, princess.” Specter took her hand and led her to the rock face close by. He held aside some wet vines and waved her into a dark chamber.

“I … I can’t see.” Her hands glowed momentarily, but the light lasted only an instant.

A torch blazed from the darkness, and she looked up at Specter. His face was less sober now. More relaxed.

Down into the cave he slowly led her until it opened into a chamber some thirty feet wide. He stooped where the portions of ceiling dipped and let go of her hand when they reached a dry section of stone. A heap of sand formed an upgrade in the floor.

He stood to the side and motioned her to step up. As she did, a shaft of moonlight blazed through a hole in the ceiling and spotlighted a sword leaning against the stone in front of her. She caught her breath. The blade had rusted, perhaps from sitting in the moist cave, and the leather along the handle appeared to be peeling. She reached out and touched the blade. It glowed rusty-orange for as long as her skin made connection with it.

Something else lay half-buried in the dirt next to the sword, and she dusted away the dirt with her hand, uncovering a boomerang made of some sort of crystal. The elbow had been fashioned like a handle, yet the wings had been honed to cutting edges.

“Whoa there,” Specter said, placing his hand gently on her shoulder. “Be careful now.” He sighed and his eyes filled with tears that would not spill.

“Are they yours?” She gazed into his face, wondering what brought about such sorrow in this man.

“The sword was. A very, very long time ago.” He stood and forced a smile. “But now it will belong to you.”

She jumped up and down. What a gift! But the man laid a hand on her shoulder and guided her toward the cave’s exit point. “The dragon said that one day you will have need of a sword, and when that day comes, you may return to this place and claim it.”

“I want to show it to everyone!”

“Now, now.” He raised his pointer finger. “Tonight’s events are a secret between you and me. No one, and I mean no one, must know of my presence here. Understand?”

She nodded, though it would be hard to keep such a thing from her father and aunts. It would be hard to keep this a secret, yet the dragon had said it must be kept. She would not let him down.

“Come.” Specter walked her out of the cave and retrieved his scythe. “I will escort you home. And please, Oganna, don’t try to find me again. After tonight I believe you have the ability to render me visible. I won’t pretend to know how. I only ask that you never do so again.”

She hung her head, unsure if guilt or elation was the proper emotion at the moment. “I promise,” she said.

With Specter at her side, she trod the leaf-strewn floor of the dark forest until they reached the trees bordering her father’s clearing. Then she turned away, determined to forget her adventure, and slipped unnoticed into the house.

Specter watched the dragon’s offspring close the door to Ilfedo’s house. An otherworldly cold seized his body, and he fell to his knees. A force seized his chest, constricting him until he could not breathe. He gasped, praying to God for instant help. He could not move.

Voices whispered in evil undertones from the darkened forest. Voices that sounded all too familiar. He remembered the battle in Al’un Dai and the demonic hands that had clawed at him, as if dragging him into their abode.

But why and how had those haunting spirits found him here? This place was so very far from the Eiderveis River, and no one in the Hemmed Land worshipped the evil spirits—at least not to his knowledge. So who had called them to this place?

Humanoid figures dropped from the trees and spread their feathered wings. Art’en! Eight of them! They chortled like birds and crouched, ready to spring on him.

Wisps of thick blackness rose from the grass in the clearing before him. They curved swiftly upward, and a skeletal hand coalesced, reaching toward him. The Grim Reaper congealed in all his awful potency, his deadly fingers clattering against the handle of his scythe, as if anticipating death. The serrated blade drew back and then swung toward Specter’s head.