Death's Mistress

CHAPTER 67

The sketchy maps from the Cliffwall archives gave them a starting point in their search for the legendary graveyard of dragons, and Nicci and her companions set off with confidence. With full packs and fresh traveling clothes, they moved up through isolated canyons, climbing into the desert highlands, away from the great valley.

Full of energy, Thistle took point as they headed north toward a distant line of rugged gray mountains that looked volcanic in origin. The air was clear and the terrain expansive, which made the distances uncertain.

“Those mountains are many days away,” Nathan said, “even if we keep up a good pace.”

Nicci kept moving. “Then we should not slow.”

The wizard paused to wipe his brow. He withdrew a white kerchief that Mia had shyly given him before their departure, and he looked at it with a curious smile. “Let’s see if that dear girl’s spell worked.” He wiped the cloth across his face, then brightened. “Ah yes, moist and cool and refreshing. She promised me it was a simple, innocuous spell, but I find it quite effective.”

Nicci had been there when the quiet young scholar had given Nathan the white rag. Mia promised that the spell would always keep the kerchief cool and moist to ease a traveler’s burden. “Simple and innocuous,” Nicci agreed. “But no matter how gifted the scholars may be, I am reluctant to see them dabbling with any sort of magic. They are all untrained. Think of the damage they have already done, unaware of what they were doing … the melted archive tower, the Lifedrinker, now Victoria and her mad jungle.”

“It is just a kerchief, Sorceress…” Nathan said.

“And that is how it begins.”

Embarrassed, he tucked it away in his pocket, but she did see him using it often during the heat of the afternoon, especially in steep terrain.

They walked all day, taking only brief rests for water and a quick meal. Ranging ahead, Thistle killed several plump lizards to supplement their meals, not because they needed the food, but because she enjoyed the hunt.

By the second day, they left the high desert, and the terrain grew more forested. In the rolling hills they found brooks to refill their waterskins and even a grove of wild plum trees. With the simple joy of finding plentiful fresh fruit, they ate far too many plums, particularly Bannon. That evening, they all suffered from stomach cramps and knotted intestines.

The following day Nicci sensed an animal presence watching them, and she realized that Mrra had trailed them up from the valley. She caught a flash of tawny fur gliding among the low trees in the distance, staying close. Still spell-bonded with Nicci, the big cat followed wherever her sister panther traveled, but maintained her independence.

Nicci was pleased just to know of the animal’s presence. She sensed the big cat’s need to hunt, and with a distant thrill in her veins, she felt Mrra on the chase, the pounding heart, the taste of iron-hot blood, and the squeal and twitch of fresh prey brought down.

When Nicci led them into a small meadow in late afternoon, they found a bloody deer carcass, freshly slaughtered. Its guts were torn open and the liver had been devoured, but the rest of the meat remained intact. Nathan and Bannon were immediately wary that the predator was still nearby, but Nicci dropped to her knees next to the deer. “Mrra hunted for us. She’s had her fill and left the rest for our supper.”

The wizard brightened. “Dear spirits, now that’s a different story. Let’s have a good meal.”

While Nicci prepared a fire, Thistle and Bannon worked together to carve out strips of venison to roast over the flames. The girl admitted that it tasted better than her lizards. After the feast, they bedded down on the soft meadow grass, satisfied. The next morning, they wrapped some of the steaks in fresh green leaves, and Nicci worked a simple preservative spell to keep the meat from going bad. They carried the meat in their packs.

Over the next several days they wound through trackless areas and ascended sheer gorges that rose into more rugged terrain, but the sharp, volcanic mountains remained very far away.

“I don’t recall hearing of Kuloth Vale in my histories,” Nathan mused. He enjoyed talking to Bannon as they walked, although the others listened as well. “But I did read many tales of the Midwar, records of when Emperor Kurgan conquered the south of the continent. General Utros and his invincible armies swept across the land, and city after city fell. He had wizard warriors, as well as hordes of expendable soldiers.

“When he set off to lay siege to the remarkable city of Ildakar, Utros knew he would face extraordinarily powerful magic, so he needed a special weapon.” Nathan looked down at Thistle and dropped his voice into a dramatic whisper. “They captured a dragon—a silver dragon.” The girl’s eyes widened.

“I’ve never heard of a silver dragon,” Bannon said. “Are they special?”

“All dragons are special, my boy—and they have always been rare. Angry red dragons, aloof green dragons, wise gray dragons, evil black dragons. But, General Utros wanted a silver dragon.”

“Why?” Thistle asked.

“Because silver dragons are the best fighters.” Nathan waved a persistent white butterfly away from his face, which fluttered off to seek flowers instead. “But they are not easily tamed or controlled. Utros’s warriors did manage to capture one such beast, and they kept it chained and harnessed. The army intended to turn it loose once they reached Ildakar.

“But one night the dragon snapped its bonds and broke free, devouring the harness and then the handlers. It could simply have flown away, but instead the dragon took vengeance. The silver monster ripped through the army camp and slaughtered hundreds of the Iron Fang’s soldiers. General Utros barely escaped with his life, though the side of his face was burned, scarred from dragon fire. The silver dragon flew away, leaving his army a shambles, but General Utros would never go back to Emperor Kurgan and admit failure. So he pressed on, hoping to find some other way to conquer Ildakar.”

Nathan continued his story as they moved through the forest until they reached the crest of a hill, where they could see the towering black mountains rising closer at last. “But when his armies arrived at Ildakar, Utros found that the entire city had vanished! One of the greatest cities in the Old World, entirely gone.”

“How? Where did it go?” Thistle asked.

The wizard shrugged. “No one knows. The legend is fifteen centuries old, so it could just be a story.”

“Let’s hope that Kuloth Vale is more than just a story,” Nicci said.

* * *

That night they slept next to a roaring campfire as the winds picked up through the thin trees. Nathan agreed to stand first watch while the rest of them bedded down. Thistle curled up in her blanket, as comfortable on the hard forest floor as she had been in the stone chamber at Cliffwall, although she missed her soft sheepskin.

Nicci lay near the girl. Listening to the crackle of the fire with her eyes closed, she extended her senses, but picked up no immediate danger in the nearby forests. Her mind touched the sand panther, however, and from a distance, Mrra felt the bond as well. The big cat affirmed that they were safe from any threats, so Nicci let herself fall into a deep sleep.…

While her body rested, her dreams ranged far, once again inside the mind of her sister panther. Mrra was more content in this sort of terrain than in either the desolate Scar or the unsettling primeval jungle. Here, the hills felt normal, and she experienced true freedom.

As the cat loped along in the night, Mrra’s mind was attuned to the world, while also in touch with pristine memories, which Nicci experienced. Mrra remembered her spell-bonded troka mates, who would romp together, biting, clawing, pretending to hurt but causing no real damage.

The handlers soon forced stricter, deadlier training upon them. At first, the wild sand panthers resisted, but then they learned to enjoy the fight, the kill. In her dream state, Nicci also experienced the remembered pleasure of clawing her victims, from terrified humans who offered little fight, to horrific monsters created by the fleshmancers for the combat arena.

With singing adrenaline, Mrra remembered a particular beast she and her sister panthers had fought in the gladiator arena before shouting crowds, spectators who demanded blood, demanded death—though Mrra did not understand whose blood they wanted. Under the guidance of the wizard commander, the fleshmancers had altered, manipulated, and twisted a powerful bull into a fighting beast with a rack of four sharp, curved horns, a flat armored head, and steel-hard bony hooves that struck sparks from the arena gravel. The monster bull was far more massive than the three cats combined, but the troka had to fight it. Mrra and her sister panthers understood that.

As the demon bull charged forward with an ear-shattering bellow that overwhelmed the giddy roar of the crowd, the sand panthers had split apart, each knowing what her sisters were doing. Coordinating their attack, the troka circled the giant snorting beast.

The bull lumbered forward, picking up momentum, and Mrra sprang to one side while her sister panthers circled and struck from behind. One raked the beast’s left haunch, leaving parallel bloody gouges down its hide. The other cat sprang for the demon bull’s throat, but the creature’s muscles were like corded steel, and her curved fangs could make only shallow bites.

Mrra stood her ground as the monster thundered forward, too heavy and too swift to stop. She leaped for its head, clawed at its eyes, but the bull knocked her to the ground, nearly crushing her. She felt her ribs crack. Blood burst inside of her. Pain exploded in her mind at the same time that the bull’s hot blood poured down upon her from the deep wounds.

Through the spell bond, she experienced her two sister panthers leaping onto the bull’s back, using claws and saber teeth to tear deep wounds. With a great bellow, the beast threw them off, striking more sparks with its enhanced hooves as it lashed out in search of a target.

Mrra rolled in the dusty sand, listened to the roaring cheers, ignoring the pain of her broken ribs. This was what the handlers wanted her to do. This was why she and the entire troka existed. Moving as one being, the three panthers attacked again. Even though the bull charged, even though the panthers were already injured, eventually they wore the monster down.

The fleshmancers watched from the stands, scowling with displeasure to see that the specialized combat monster they had created could be defeated by three panthers.

Mrra and her sisters tore the twisted bull into tatters of gore. Its entrails dangled from its stomach, but like a great senseless machine, it still lumbered and charged until it collapsed with a grunt and a spray of dark blood. Its thick pink tongue gasped out of its mouth, and the beast died with a rattling exhale.

Mrra and her sisters stood together, bloody and in pain, their tails thrashing. They looked up, waiting for the handlers to come and retrieve them. Even with the deep-seated agony from her broken bones and gashed hide, Mrra had felt content. The sound that bubbled from her chest was more a purr than a growl, because she had done what the handlers had trained her to do.

She had killed. She had defeated the enemy.

* * *

During the late part of the night, while Nathan curled up near the fire and went to sleep, Bannon took second watch. He sat on a fallen log, his sword ready, looking out for his friends and listening for any threats out in the forest.

Nicci slept soundly, lost in dreams. She twitched, and a low sound came from her throat, something like a feline growl. The sorceress was so deep in the dream, she was vulnerable. Nicci had warned them about this, and Bannon did not intend to let her down.

He sat alert, guarding her until Nicci finally awoke at dawn.