Offspring (The Sword of the Dragon) (40 page)

His finger traced the northern boundary until it rested on their current location, and he sighed. “Cursed creatures. What could they possibly want here? They belong”—he jabbed his index finger into the map—“in the desert.”

He sat down and looked out the window. Thunderheads rolled from the eastern sky, and a stiff wind bent the treetops. Rain was sure to follow. He watched Yimshi’s yellow disc fight with the clouds until it gave up and cast brilliant rays between the billows hiding it. He remembered how the white dragon shot away into the sky.

His hand touched the pommel of his sword. He ran his fingers over it, feeling the superior craftsmanship. He thought back to the day that Albino had given him the sword. What a dark day that had been for him.

Why, of all people, had the dragon given the weapon to him? Of course, he knew the answer—because of Oganna. The Warrioresses had told him that the dragon created Dantress. If that was true, then that would make his daughter the dragon’s granddaughter.
My daughter, the descendant of a dragon
. Sometimes he worried about that. If she was not fully human, then there was an element to her being that surpassed his comprehension. She possessed abilities that could not be explained, such as the time that she had shot an arrow without a bow, and when she had eased his sorrow almost at the expense of her life.

“Deep in thought?” Ombre stepped through the door and sat in one of the guest chairs across from him, stretching his arms behind his head as he leaned back.

“You might say that.”

“When in doubt ask a friend.” Ombre nodded to the map on the wall. “It’s been almost a week since we took that viper as prisoner, and I still don’t see what good it did.”

Ilfedo gave him a wry look. “I already apologized for my behavior. Can you please let the issue go?”

“Well, seeing as I
am
a soft-hearted individual.” Ombre chuckled. “All right, I forgive you.”

Ilfedo glanced out of the window. In the distance a bolt of lighting zipped to the ground, and shortly afterward a clap of thunder followed. He turned from the window and leaned against his desk.

“Ombre, that night when we captured the viper, did you see anything odd?”

His friend leaned forward. “No. Why? Did you?”

At that moment, Honer came in, and Ganning limped after him.

“The wind is kicking hard out there.” Ganning crossed the room, dropped his sheathed sword onto the couch, and sat down. “Do you think we should call off our night patrol? The vipers have not been seen since you scorched them that last time, and it doesn’t seem likely they will come in this weather.”

Ilfedo drew his sword and let it clothe him in the armor of living fire. “If you were the enemy, Ombre, when would
you
make your next attack?”

“On a stormy night.”

“Exactly.” Ilfedo sheathed his sword, and his attire returned to normal. Then he directed his friends’ attention to the map. “That same night we took a viper prisoner, I saw a man retreat from the forest and escape into the desert. I did not get a very good look at him, but he carried a staff with a sort of ball on top. I suspect he is somehow connected with the vipers.” He paced back and forth across the floor as he spoke, his sheath clinking against his leg.

Ombre stood and scratched his chin. “And you think this man may return tonight?”

“It seems to be a fair assumption, because he was hiding, and what better time for him to return than in the midst of a lightning storm?” He paused for effect. “Tonight, I suspect, the vipers will attack, and I am hoping the mystery man will be there as well. You, my friends, are my best chance of catching him. I do not care if he is dead or alive, though it might be useful to take him prisoner.”

Honer looked confused. “Why do you need us? You have a good many of the Elite Thousand—”

“Yes, their service will be invaluable, but I will need men who are able to hunt as well as I can, and men that I can trust to work rogue. If you all help me, I am sure we can bag our prey.”

The final flash of lightning disappeared in a distant rumble. Ilfedo, Ombre, Honer, and Ganning stood in the shelter of darkness, awaiting the vipers’ attack. It came soon enough. Wave after wave of the slithering vermin glided through the trees. The glowing swordsmen attacked with vehemence. Warriors with the swords of light swarmed through the trees. Keeping the serpents in front of them, they formed an impenetrable line and marched forward, driving them into the desert.

Sheathing his sword, Ilfedo snuck toward the forest boundary in search of the strange dark-featured man he felt certain waited for the vipers somewhere nearby. He kept as quiet as possible and left his sword sheathed so that the living fire would not betray his location.

At last, having explored the ground, he peered into the trees. To his horror he recognized an Art’en perched high in the branches. Ilfedo approached through the darkness until he stood by the base of the tree. “Ho, there!” He drew his sword. “Come down peacefully, and I will let you live.”

The wild-haired man lighted down gracefully—too gracefully, even for an Art’en. He had a grayish face chiseled as if from stone. Ilfedo tensed as the figure crept toward him. The wild-haired man bowed and a feeling of utter darkness bore down on Ilfedo. He dropped his sword, then picked it up again. He had to rid himself of the evil oppression. His head felt like it would collapse under the pressure, and he felt his mind leaving this world and sailing to the next, as if he was dying.

Through delirium he saw dark, feathered wings spread from his opponent’s back. Just as he’d seen in the vision—Dantress had tried to warn him. The wings snapped against his face, and he fell to the ground. Nausea overcame him as the winged creature stood over him. “The vipers will soon return,” it hissed. “Maybe I should let
them
finish you. Ah, but no. This will be very pleasurable to do myself, and Razes will be most pleased.”

“You will not slay him.” A dark-featured man stood next to the Art’en, and the creature bowed away, spitting on the ground. The man stepped closer to Ilfedo and lowered the glowing black head of his staff. “I will finish the spell and all will be well with you. Do not fight—hear the spirits that you have denied. They are calling to you.”

Whispers filled the air, and a plume of smoke fell through the trees. The Grim Reaper rose from the smoke and pulled back its serrated scythe, though it had only one arm with which to wield the weapon.

“No!” The dark-haired man with the staff jabbed his finger at the Reaper, though it trembled. “He must live in order for the full plan to succeed.”

The Reaper’s hood turned into smoke, and it flew around Ilfedo and the man. Its skull emerged from the smoke, and its empty eye sockets stared at the man.

“Oh, you know I fear you,” the man said as his body quivered. “But there is one I fear more, and there is nothing you can do because of that.”

Spinning in a tornado of smoke, Death vanished. But the voices ceaselessly, though unintelligibly, hissed and whispered in Ilfedo’s ears.

The oppression filled his being, latched onto his heart, and ripped it apart. His mind flashed back to the day his wife died, and the bitterness of defeat clung to him. He felt separated from himself and unable to connect to his actions. The darkness of this creature’s soul spread over him, and he felt powerless to stop it.

In another moment he lost all sense of where—or
when
—he was, and he found himself in the same field that he had seen in his vision. Once again, Dantress reached out, this time to comfort him. “Stay with me, my love,” she said as he knelt and wept against her body. “Do not let the evil control you. Fight it, stay with me. Do not let him control you!”

He heeded her words, though anxiety clouded his mind. Looking into her face gave him the strength he needed to hold onto his sanity, to hold onto life. In her eyes he saw peace; in her eyes he saw hope. And that hope carried him as his mind screamed that he had stepped into a nightmare.

Ombre stood back-to-back with Honer as a dozen bold vipers attacked them from the ground and the trees. His skill with a sword had developed over the last years. He moved his blade with speed and precision, cutting the creatures to shreds in moments, and then looked around. “Honer, have you seen Ilfedo?”

Lopping off another viper’s head, Honer turned to him with a look of consternation on his face. “He’s gone off alone?”

They called Ganning over, and he pointed to the desert. “I think he went that way.”

Ombre wiped the multi-colored stains off his blade and beckoned for them to follow as he set off in pursuit of his missing comrade. He looked through the trees ahead, stopped dead in his tracks, and shushed his companions.

Ilfedo stood next to a large tree at the forest’s perimeter and his sword was not drawn. Suddenly a man dropped from one of the trees, approached Ilfedo, and spread dark, feathered wings from his back. The wings snapped forward, throwing Ilfedo to the ground. The man folded his wings back and stood over their Lord Warrior. His hands were moving in circular patterns, and he muttered something unintelligible.

“Now!” Ombre rushed toward the creature with sword raised. But his head slammed into an invisible barrier, and he fell back. Honer and Ganning fell beside him. Shaking his head, he rose but could no longer see his fallen friend. Smoke filled the space between them.

“Something very strange is going on. Honer, Ganning! Come on get up. Ilfedo’s in serious trouble.” He pulled both men to their feet and stabbed his sword forward. It hesitated at the barrier then pierced it. He grunted and slashed at it. Feeling for an opening, he slipped through and ran toward the smoke.

When he reached the spot, the smoke vanished. The Art’en spun on him, but he twisted around as the winged man moved and slashed his blade along its back. Deep red blood drained from the wound. With a screech that sounded more like a bird than an injured human, the creature dashed into the desert and flapped its wings until it achieved a low altitude. Gaining speed, it receded from view.

Honer and Ganning grasped Ilfedo’s shoulders and helped him to his feet. “Whoa, there. Take it easy,” Ombre told him.

Ilfedo shook himself. “You see. The Art’en returned.”

“Yes, but only one of them. Thank the Creator for that.” Against the backdrop of stars over the sand Ombre’s eyes detected the dark marauder’s winged form. “I hope it doesn’t bring back its relatives.”

“It is only a single creature,” Ilfedo said. “Surely nothing we need to burden our minds with at this time.”

Ombre turned and looked into Ilfedo’s eyes. They did not return his gaze. “Are you all right, Ilfedo? Your eyes look glassy.”

“Yeah, Ombre’s right. Your eyes are kind of glassy.” Honer and Ganning held on to their friend’s shoulders and steadied him as he teetered.

Ilfedo hung his head and shoved them aside. He walked off without another word.

Matching his friend’s pace, Ombre followed. “Ilfedo, where are you going?”

“Since
when
do I have to answer to you, warrior?”

“Answer
to me?
What are you talking about?”

“Never mind, warrior. Goodnight.”

Speechless, Ombre shrugged at Honer and Ganning. They seemed not to notice. They stared wide-mouthed into the distance. He followed their gazes to the forest’s edge.

The warriors that bore swords of light chased the remaining vipers back to the desert. Their glowing ranks formed a line of light that was a perfect backdrop against which he discerned another Art’en flexing its wings. He blinked his eyes and watched the creature follow its accomplice into the desert. More than one Art’en had come back to the Hemmed Land. And where two survived there could be many more.