Realms of the Dragons vol.1

PENITENTIAL RITES

6 Ches, the Year of Rogue Dragons

Candle wax dripped like blood in the crowded chapel.

Drakken Thaal scratched at his rough gray robe and gazed at the congealing liquid with barely concealed annoyance. The acrid stench of incense blanketed the air, nearly choking him, while a stinking mass of human and elven bodies pressed in on all sides. From a distant loft, deep-throated voices warbled out unappealing harmonies. A sharp shake of his wickedly horned head brought little relief from the incessant sound-though it did elicit several disapproving comments from members of the crowd nearby. Slowly, he turned to face the nattering imbeciles and let the full weight of his black-scaled visage fall upon them. He smiled at the fear in their eyes, pointedly revealing several rows of cruelly barbed teeth. It would be a simple thing to grab each of them and-

By Ilmater's Tears, Drakken cried silently, what am I doing?

He stopped his forward movement, bowed low, and softly growled an apology. Before the stunned crowd could react, he pushed past them, stopping only when he reached the relative isolation of a shadowed apse.

Something was wrong.

Looking out from the recesses of his darkened vantage, Drakken's eyes fell on the shroud-covered corpse resting upon the main altar. Arranoth Fen, Sub-Prior of the Monastery of the White Willow, and the only brother who had championed his request for sanctuary within the monastery's sacred walls, lay stiff and lifeless, wrapped in a stark, thrice-blessed cerement and surrounded by his Ilmatari brethren who stood vigil as the cleric's spirit traveled at last to rest in the crook of the Crying God's arms.

Perhaps the truest friend he had ever known lay dead-and Drakken felt nothing at all.

No, not nothing. For to say such a thing would be a great lie, and though he had been many things in his cursed life, he had never been a liar. Something stirred in the soundless depths of his heart, a familiar, slumbering beast slow to awaken, yet driven by hunger. It scented the air, waiting patiently-ever so patiently.

Drakken felt fear and disgust, and truth be told, not a little anticipation. When he'd first come to the monastery, five years and a lifetime ago, he came as a warlord. Born of a father so monstrous he was disemboweled by the claws of his own people and a mother too weak to bear him into the world and live, he grew up shunned, until he had learned the measure of his own power. It wasn't long before he had gathered an army of bitter men and monsters and used his draconic heritage to lay a path of wrack and ruin in his wake. Hatred had been his driving thirst, and though he had tried to slake it in the blood of innocents, it would always return more insistent than before.

Until the day he heard the weeping of a god and found himself kneeling before the gates of White Willow Monastery.

Since then, he had spent his time in service to Ilmater's chosen. Though at first a difficult adjustment, Drakken had found a measure of peace and stillness within the simple rhythm of monastic life and the aching purity of the brethren's worship. He often rose in the middle of the night, that silent hour when the breath of the world was stilled, to gaze upon the Icon of the Broken Deity. There he encountered, in the midst of Ilmater's wounds, a kinship with his god, a humbling sense of his own brokenness. It was in those rare moments that he felt most beloved and impossibly, most whole-as if his wounds were somehow bound up with those of the Crying God.

All of that seemed so far away.

Prayer and peace, stillness and song-it all tasted like ash in his mouth, and had since the nightmares began. Each night for the past month he'd been chased from sleep, waking with a bloodcurdling roar upon his frothing lips. The memory of past acts, or the hope of future atrocities? It was difficult to tell. All he could remember of those nocturnal visions was the metallic taste of blood. Though he'd gone to Brother Phenotar for a draught of sleeping herbs, the mixture did little to stop the nightmares and in fact, seemed to bring them into greater focus. The past night, he had dreamed in vivid detail of his clawed hands wrapped around Brother Arranoth's throat. When he awoke to begin the day's labor, word had spread of the sub-prior's death-along with the rumor that the elder brother's passing had not been a natural one.

Blessed Ilmaterwhat is happening to me?

Breathing became more difficult. Reaching out, the half-dragon pressed a scaled hand against the flowing stained glass of the apse window. Desperately, he tried to join his voice to those of the congregation, who echoed softly the prayers of the Ilmatari brethren.

No sound emerged.

He cast about for help, but everywhere he looked the penitent saw only the slow, measured spilling of wax, as candles spent their life keeping shadows at bay.

By the time the abbot's summons found him, Drak-ken was drowning in blood.

"Troubling," Brother Meremont, Abbot of White Willow, said, his long fingers steepled beneath an angular jaw.

A fire burned fitfully in the austere stone room. Drakken watched the play of light and shadow accent the abbot's well-lined face. Thin, graying hair and a tightly groomed goatee gleamed like burnished silver in the flickering illumination; eyes the color of moon-mist regarded him carefully from deep pools of darkness.

The half-dragon sat uneasily on his high-backed chair, waiting for more. Yet it was the fire's voice, hissing and crackling, that alone spoke into the silence. Drakken could hear within its susurrus the burning sound of his own condemnation.

Though gentle, the abbot had insisted that Drakken share whatever had been burdening him-for his disturbance at Arranoth's Vigil earlier had not gone unnoticed. Beneath the elder cleric's kindly gaze, the half-dragon had felt compelled to speak. The tale had come slowly at first, gallingly so. The cruel warlord who had ordered the death of thousands with a few bitter words found his tongue heavy with the weight of doubt. The abbot, however, had proven a patient listener. Stumbling phrases became halted sentences, which in turn became a torrent of language, as the struggling penitent spoke of his growing frustration and anger, his confusion, and finally, the nightmares culminating in the vision of Arranoth's murder by his own hands.

The abbot held his gaze a moment more, extending the awkward silence. Drakken gripped his armrest so tightly, the wood groaned in protest. At last, the elder cleric rose slowly from his seat and walked to a shelf of carved stone, tracing a gnarled finger absently across the faded gilt lettering of several leather-bound books.

"No doubt you heard the rumors surrounding the Sub-Prior's death." The abbot's rich baritone echoed in the room.

Drakken nodded, finally releasing his iron grip upon the chair, and said, "Of course-"

"They are true," Abbot Meremont interrupted. "Several younger brothers found Arranoth's body in the root cellar." The abbot paused, casting a glance back at the half-dragon. "His throat had been torn out."

The half-dragon jumped to his feet, as if burned. The sudden movement upended his chair, and it tilted wildly before crashing to the stone floor.

"Then, Blessed One, I submit myself to Ilmater's justice," Drakken nearly growled. His head swam with conflicting emotion. Relief at finally being caught warred with anger and underneath it all, a disturbing sense of satisfaction. "Confine me to my cell until you have passed judgment," he continued, the words spilling out in a torrent. "Lock me away before I kill again! I am a danger-"

"Enough!" Meremont shouted.

Drakken recoiled as if hed been slapped and found himself staring numbly at the formidable cleric, as if seeing for the first time the man whom the young novices called "The Iron Abbot."

"Unless something very unusual has happened within the last few minutes," Meremont continued in a softer, but no less unyielding voice, "I am still the spiritual head of this abbey. And-" his eyes flashed a dangerous warning as Drakken opened his mouth to speak-"/will decide the guilt or innocence of those under my care. Is that clear?"

The half dragon nodded in desultory agreement- though he could feel a dangerous fire growing within his heart. He'd ripped the tongue from many a human for far less an offense against him. A low rumble began deep within his massive chest. His clawed hands twitched, as if eager to part the cleric's flesh. The half-dragon took a step toward the old man.

If the abbot felt any fear at his advance, Drakken could not see it. The cleric returned his measured gaze evenly. The half-dragon's monstrous face split into a toothy smile. It had been a very long time since he had faced an opponent worthy of his respect. He took another step forward, and stopped. The air within the abbot's chamber grew heavy with anticipation, like the moment before a raging storm.

And cleared suddenly, as the pounding of fists thudded dully on the chamber door.

"Blessed One, is everything all right?" came a muffled tenor voice from behind the dark oak wood.

"Yes, Brother Anwen," replied the abbot, once again the kindly cleric. "We are quite all right. Would you be so good as to bring in some of Brother Rafhard's root stew-and some tea, as well?"

Drakken heard a heavy sigh before footsteps faded softly in to the distance. Silence ruled the room once more. Meremont smiled, and motioned to the fallen chair. The half-dragon bent down and righted the furniture. Whatever had possessed him a moment ago had faded, like the heat from a bonfire suddenly banked. However, he felt the warmth of its embers burning fitfully somewhere deep within him.

Another knock on the door followed, as three white-robed novices appeared quietly, two with stoneware crocks in hand. The third carried a tray with steaming mugs. Each bowed carefully to the abbot and placed the food and drink upon the wooden desk before leaving.

"Something is indeed amiss with you," the abbot said, holding a mug of tea between his ancient hands, "something most unfortunate, if mysterious. But murder-no." He shook his head in emphasis. "I do not believe that you are to blame for Arranoth's death."

"But how can you be sure, Blessed One?" Drakken asked.

The half-dragon sat with arms tightly folded across the expanse of his muscular chest. It was the only way he could disguise the trembling of his hands.

"Do you remember what brought you to us, my son?" the cleric asked.

"Of course," the struggling penitent responded. Then, after seeing the abbot's expectant look, he protested. "You already know why I came to the abbey!"

Meremont set down his mug of tea and once more turned his gaze upon the half-dragon.

"The question is, do you?" he said with a hint of the old iron in his voice.

Drakken relented. Years following the bloody path of the sword had shown him how to evaluate the tides of war. It was a battle he would not win.

"My army had just overrun another village," the half-dragon spoke after only another moment's hesitation. "Which one I did not know, for they all began to bleed together in my mind. We had already killed the men and put the women to work, but it was the children…"

He stopped, unable to continue. The memory of that day lived fresh in his mind, burned there permanently. Talking about it made it more real. The scent of blood, the screams of the dying and those who prayed for death. Fire, sword, and pain-he was among them once again; their master and in truth, their slave. For five years, he had lived each day in the middle of that moment, that never-ending abyss. Peace was a forgetting of sorts, a brief respite from the dark demands of guilt and shame. Remembering it all, however, he felt the stirrings of a darker hunger.

"There was a man," Drakken continued, forcing his mind away from the swamp of his inner thoughts, "dressed in old rags. He was weeping loudly, sobbing over the broken bodies around him. It was as if I could hear in his voice the wails of every dead man, woman, and child in the village. It made me angry. I drew my sword and approached him. I could see that his body was scarred, broken as well. I angled my sword above his head, ready to drive the point into his brain-and he looked at me. Those eyes…" Drakken paused again, his own face suffused with wonder. "They were like stars burning into my heart. I knew at once who he was-and that he wasn't crying for the villagers who died."

Another pause, and Drakken leaned forward before speaking. His voice, when it finally came, rumbled with emotion.

"He was weeping for me."

"I dropped my sword and stared at the man, not caring who witnessed. I turned my head for a moment, and when I looked back, he was gone. I searched the village high and low for him, bellowing hard at my men when I could not find him. I sent out scouts into the wild woods beyond the camp, and when they eventually came back empty-handed, I wandered the hills myself. I searched for days, driven on by the wound his long gaze had made in my heart. The next thing I remember, I found myself kneeling before the door to White Willow, begging to come in."

Drakken rested his scaled head against the back of the chair, closing his eyes, and finished, "I am so sick of blood."

"There, you see," said the abbot. "You have your answer. You could no more have killed Brother Arranoth than I."

Drakken swallowed hard. The weight of Meremont's faith pressed in upon him.

"How can you be so sure, Blessed One, when I doubt myself so?"

The old cleric took a careful sip of tea from the earthenware mug, and his thin lips parted in a gentle smile.

"It is not your belief-or lack of it-that I find important," he said. "For good or ill, Ilmater chose you. You did not choose him. I trust that choice."

The half-dragon frowned, still unconvinced. Though the time he had spent at the abbey had watered the seed of his own faith, Drakken found the concept that a god would take special interest in him disturbing. Besides, he thought bitterly, no one could deny the damning evidence of his dreams. Perhaps he was beyond the reach of any god.

He shared none of his thoughts' dark turnings with the abbot.

"If I didn't kill Arranoth," he asked instead, hoping to direct the course of the conversation away from him, "then who did?"

"The truth is," the abbot replied, "we don't know. Some opposing power frustrates our attempts at divination. I have sent a letter to the temple near They-marsh, hoping that the Ilmatari clerics there can send someone with greater skills than we have here in our humble abbey."

Meremont paused, setting down his mug before continuing in an even voice, "Which is why, ultimately, I wished to speak with you."

Drakken stared at the old cleric, trying not to feel like a rabbit caught in a carefully prepared snare-and failing.

"Until we have received help from Theymarsh," the abbot said, "I want you to investigate the murder of Brother Arranoth."

"Me?" the half-dragon nearly shouted. "Why-?"

"Simply because," Meremont interjected, "I ask it."

Drakken caught the dangerous flash of fire in the stern abbot's eyes and stifled his protest.

"Besides," the cleric reasoned, "you have been servant to the brethren for many years. Your coming and going will remain unnoticed by any of the brothers. You are uniquely suited for this investigation"

"And," Drakken said at last, not quite keeping the bitterness from his voice, "if the murderer does dwell among us, I am quite capable of 'dealing' with him."

"Perhaps," the abbot offered with a slight frown. "But there is something else, as well. Rangers from the Winterwood have reported a large band of humanoids-ores-heading out of the forest toward the surrounding hills."

"What do they seek? Are they a warband? What are their numbers?" Drakken asked.

Despite his time as a servant to the Servants of Ilmater, martial instincts long buried flared to life. He found himself calculating the best means of defending the abbey walls from orcs.

"From what the rangers have reported, they are fleeing the depredations of the green dragon known as Foilsunder. A few tendays ago, the beast began rampaging through the Winterwood, apparently destroying everything in its path. The rangers have not been able to come up with a final tally, but they suspect the band of orcs measures over a hundred, with several shamans in tow."

"Then we should seal the abbey gates and post scouts in the hills." Drakken stood and began pacing back and forth. "There is much to do."

"Yes," agreed the abbot, "and I have already done it. Messengers are even now making their way to the nearby villages and offering sanctuary at the abbey. Every brother is preparing for the influx of refugees. That is why I need you to focus on finding Arranoth's killer. I can spare no one else."

"But I wouldn't even know where to begin," Drakken protested weakly.

He was born for war, not slinking around in the darkness. Somehow, he would make the abbot see the mistake he was making. But Meremont held up his hand in a gesture that forestalled any further deliberation.

"Begin by looking in Brother Arranoth's cell," the abbot ordered. "Perhaps you will find something useful there."

A knock on the door interrupted the cleric.

"That will be Brother Prior," Meremont said. "We have much work to do. Now go, and report back to me anything that you find."

Drakken nodded numbly, unable to fathom exactly how he had been drafted to that duty when danger threatened the abbey from without. The abbot called out Ilmater's blessing on the half-dragon as he turned to walk out of the abbot's room.

Night covered the abbey like a shroud, cloaking the chill stone halls of the chapter house in inky darkness. Drakken held a battered lantern in one hand, its feeble illumination casting a gray pall before him. Thick shadows danced madly at the edge of the meager lamplight. For the third time in as many minutes the half-dragon found himself cursing the strange fate that brought him to wander the halls of the brothers' residence like an ancient wraith.

Twice that day he had attempted to see Brother Abbot, hoping to convince the abbey's leader that he would be of greater use to White Willow coordinating its defense, if indeed the fleeing orcs made their way to the monastery's borders. Both times Meremont had been locked away with his advisors. Drakken had eventually resigned himself to carrying out the abbot's orders until such time as he could plead his case once more with the cleric. So, the half-dragon had gone about his regular duties-cleaning, cooking, and otherwise serving the needs of the abbey's inhabitants-all the while keeping a careful ear out for any hint of gossip or whisper of truth that might have a bearing on Brother Arranoth's murder.

One thing was certain, Abbot Meremont's belief that Drakken would remain largely unnoticed as the Ilmatari spoke freely among themselves proved quite true. Though at first treated with a fair degree of suspicion, anger, and-among some brothers-downright hatred, the half-dragon's attempts at humble service and penance, while not completely successful, especially in the early months, had eventually softened the community of clerics. Quite simply, the gray-robed half-dragon realized that he had, over the intervening years, become a quiet fixture in the monastery, as much a part of the daily rhythms of contemplative life as was the bowl-shaped bell that called the brothers to prayer. It was amazing that Drakken had never realized it before.

Once he had noticed, however, he had felt a rising surge of anger at the casual dismissal he witnessed in the eyes of the Ilmatari. All day this anger had ebbed and flowed like the raging tide of a tumultuous sea. More than once he had stopped himself from challenging an unsuspecting brother, forcing the man's attention by an act of violence. He had fought this growing anger, all day as he went about his duties, focusing ultimately on the task at hand-bringing Brother Arranoth's killer to justice.

It would have been a great deal easier, however, if the signs didn't point to him.

Despite his privileged position as a nearly invisible eavesdropper, Drakken had heard nothing of real substance. To be sure, Arranoth's murder had been on everyone's mind. In fact, it was the most popular topic of whispered conversations in the whole abbey. No one, however, had made mention of anything useful. The most interesting thing that he had heard involved three ancient abbey servants and their belief that Arranoth was murdered by the angry ghost of a novice who had drowned near the abbey a decade past.

And so he found himself skulking through the sleeping expanse of the chapter house.

Drakken stopped his reverie as he came to a closed wooden door. Pushing it open, he entered the brother's vaulted dining hall. He had to move carefully through the large room, avoiding long wooden benches and thick oak tables. Not for the first time, the half-dragon cursed his adopted habit of carrying a light source-even though his draconic vision would more than suffice for piercing the veil of darkness around him. He'd given some of the abbey's older inhabitants quite a fright the first few times he'd surprised them wandering through the pitch black halls in the dark. Since then, he always made sure to carry a lamp or candle with him to warn others of his presence.

Beyond the dining hall, Drakken found himself in a curving stone passage. Three more turns brought him to the simple staircase leading to the second floor of the chapter house. A few more twists and the half-dragon stood before the stone door to Brother Arranoth's cell.

He hesitated for a moment, listening to the soft murmurs of whispered prayers and the creaking of settling stone and timber. All around him in the darkness, the holy house hummed. Drakken took a deep breath, and opened the door, blowing out the wildly flickering lamp as he did so.

It took a moment for the half-dragon's eyes to compensate for the darkness. Drakken experienced a passing disorientation, and the contours of the room resolved in ever crisper detail. A simple straw mat lay neatly against the far wall, coarse wool bedding folded neatly at one end. Beneath a closed and shuttered window, Drakken could see a solidly made oak desk and a simple, straight-backed chair. A somewhat drab armoire stood in the far corner. The half-dragon found the starkness of the dead cleric's quarters heightened by the black and white lens of his darkvision.

Everything in the austere cell, from the placement of the simple furniture to the orderly arrangement of quill, paper, and ink upon the desk, spoke of the man that Drakken knew. For Arranoth was an ascetic, even by the rigorous standards of the Ilmatari. Contemplative and serious, the cleric's wisdom was known throughout the community, and yet he had carried himself with an air of true humility. The sub-prior's only concession to his exalted place within the abbey's leadership was an old, dented coal pot stored beneath the writing desk. For some reason, the presence of the decrepit metal pot brought a smile to Drakken's face. He thought of the bright light that shone behind the sub-prior's eyes whenever he was asked a question that required thought, a light that death's domain had dimmed. The smile faded.

Remembering why he had come, the half-dragon gave the room a perfunctory search, uncomfortable with the thought that the ghost of Arranoth might even then be looking at his killer as he ransacked the man's humble sanctum. He rooted through the cleric's frayed robes hanging in the armoire, looked around the mattress and bedding, and scanned the surface of the desk. Besides several prayer beads and a small silver symbol of Ilmater, the half-dragon found nothing that might point to the man's killer.

Frustrated, he sat down on the chair and gave the desk one final look. Beneath a neatly arranged pile of paper, he found a thin book, covered in calfskin-something he had almost missed in his first hurried examination. He opened the book, instantly recognizing the crisp, flowing script that was so characteristic of Arranoth's hand. Drakken traced his finger along the uneven cut of the page's edge, marveling at the simple beauty of the cleric's work. The lines of script eventually resolved themselves into words, and soon the half-dragon found himself engrossed in the inner thoughts of the dead cleric. Wry observations about abbey life were interspersed with prayers to Ilmater and to Drakken's great surprise, insights about the nature of the spiritual life that touched him so deeply he would have shed tears if he were able.

Without warning, the journal came to an end mid-sentence. The effect jarred Drakken out of his reflective mood. He would have slammed the book closed, but saw, at the last second, a jagged strip of paper along its spine. Looking closer, the half-dragon could see that the last few pages of the journal had been torn out.

But why would Arranoth tear out just those pages when he showed no sign of editing the rest of his journal? Drakken's mind raced with possibilities. Perhaps someone else tore those pages out. The question of why, however, still remained.

He flipped through the rest of the book, quickly examining the empty pages. As he neared the end, a small swatch of dyed wool fell into his lap. He picked it up between clawed fingers. His darkvision couldn't reveal much else, but the acrid stench of the dye still hung about the wool. Drakken started to stand up and reach for the unlit lantern he'd placed on the floor- and he froze.

At the edge of his hearing, barely perceptible in the night, something scuffed against the stone floor. The half-dragon cocked his head, listening more intently. There it was again, but closer.

Someone was just outside the door!

Drakken crept toward the opening, careful to keep out of anyone's line of sight should they be peering into the cell from the hallway. Though he didn't want to frighten a sleepy cleric on his way to the garderobe, the half-dragon was not about to allow anyone to offer him a knife to the back. Years of peaceful service did little to erase the warrior's habits. A moment more of waiting…

And he pounced-only to grab empty air.

The hallway stood empty. Only the muted rumble of distant snores registered to his sensitive ears. He was alone.

As the half-dragon turned back to the empty cell, something caught his eye. A small piece of paper lay crumpled on the ground. Drakken swept the paper up and quickly unfolded it.

What he saw forced him to catch his breath. There, written on paper clearly torn from Arranoth's journal were the words:

Meet me two nights hence in the Upper Cellar

— A Friend

The half-dragon's heart raced. There, perhaps, was some proof that he was not personally responsible for the noble cleric's death! But if so, he thought soon after, then darker wheels were turning within the abbey's slumbering walls.

Drakken hurried out of the room, barely shutting the door, and sped off into the darkness. He was halfway to his own cell when he realized" that he had forgotten his lantern.

Mid-morning sun bathed the courtyard in rosy radiance.

Drakken inhaled the early spring air, tinged with the aroma of flowering buds and the sharp spice of frost. Around him, gray-robed clerics and abbey servants went about their business in dignified chaos. Livestock and wagons laden with nuts, grain, and barley crossed paths with burly men, sweat dripping from thick beards as they labored beneath earthen jugs of water and wine. Off in the distance, a cock crowed, undaunted by its lateness in announcing the sun's presence.

Drakken, however, paid none of it any heed. Despite a morning spent in fruitless search for anything or anyone connected to the swath of dyed wool he'd discovered in Arranoth's room, the half-dragon felt little frustration. He'd slept undisturbed the previous night-the first time in tendays-after returning to his cell. Perhaps, he thought as he continued on his way, he was finally free of the anger that had plagued him for so long. At that moment, a thick gray cloud passed overhead, hiding the sun. Despite himself, the half-dragon shivered.

Moving away from the main courtyard that functioned as the heart of White Willow Abbey, Drakken followed the small alleyways between several stone and wood buildings. After morning prayer, he'd walked quietly among the Ilmatari, inquiring about the possible origins of the dyed wool. Since no one could provide him with anything other than generalities about the quality of the dye and the craft-worthiness of the wool's spin, he'd decided to visit Brother Phenotar in the healer's workshop to see if the man had any more information on Arranoth's death.

Well known for his noxious potions and noisome unguents, the young brother set up his workshop against the south wall of the abbey, farthest away from the chapter house-to the approval of all the brothers. It took Drakken a few more minutes to arrive at the small wooden building that housed the abbey's resident herbalist. He knocked once and entered.

It took the half-dragon a moment to adjust to the riot of sights and smells that greeted him. Clumps of dried and drying herbs hung from every rafter, while a number of small, soot-blackened pots bubbled and boiled in the corner. The tables-old battered trestles burned and scarred with the remains of the herbalist's experiments-looked ready to buckle beneath the weight of countless thick librams, weathered alembics, and the detritus of tools for which Drakken had no name. A cloud of conflicting smells made war in the low-roofed structure, nearly choking the half-dragon.

He waited a few moments until it was clear that neither the cleric, studiously observing something in a small dish with a hand magnifying glass, nor his bustling novice herbalists had noticed his arrival.

"Brother Phenotar," he said somewhat softly, not used to his normally eye-catching appearance going unnoticed. "Brother," he said again, more forcefully.

White Willow's Brother Herbalist looked up in obvious surprise at his visitor, still holding the magnifying lens up to one eye. He gazed imperiously at the half-dragon, though the effect was somewhat mitigated by the cleric's abnormally enlarged eye peering from behind the glass.

"Hmmm… hmmm…" came the herbalist's response.

The alchemist snapped his fingers. At once, the young novices scurried out of the room, not making a single sound.

"You have them well trained," Drakken said as the last white-robed boy left the workshop, closing the small door behind him.

"Rascals all of them," Phenotar sniffed. "And not one of them with the brains necessary to tell the difference between purging buckthorn and celery, if you must know.

"Still," he added with a crooked smile, "I've grown quite fond of them. But don't you be telling them that I said so! They'll be impossible to deal with."

He turned back to the small dish in an obvious huff.

"Brother Phenotar," Drakken said again, caught between amusement and a growing sense of frustration, "I've come to see if you can tell me anything more about Brother Arranoth's…" he stumbled over the word,"… murder."

"Hmmm… hmmm…" the herbalist replied, and broke off from whatever it was that had caught his attention. "Murder… oh yes, Arranoth. Terrible thing that was," Phenotar put down the magnifying lens. "Brother Abbot asked me to examine the body."

"Yes, I know," the half-dragon replied, the frustration finally creeping in to his voice. "That's why I've come. The abbot asked me to investigate the events surrounding the sub-prior's death."

"Well, why didn't you say so in the first place?" the herbalist asked.

Drakken stifled a thick-chested growl. The morning's newfound equilibrium vanished in a flash of anger.

"What have you found?" was all the half-dragon managed between clenched teeth.

"Something, to be sure," Phenotar replied, oblivious to Drakken's mounting rage, "but it's too soon to draw any conclusions. I need to verify a few things."

"When will you have something definite?" Drakken asked.

"Later this evening, perhaps…" the herbalist paused. "Tomorrow morning to be sure."

The half-dragon turned to go, a curse on absent-minded clerics already coming to his lips. When the herbalist asked him if he had uncovered anything in his own investigations, Drakken nearly didn't stop. Something in the cleric's voice, however, held him there.

Taking a deep breath, Drakken faced the inquisitive herbalist and relayed what he had discovered in Arranoth's room. He surprised himself, however, when he did not mention the mysterious note.

The half-dragon's surprise deepened when Phenotar asked to see the wool swatch. The herbalist studied it for a moment and grabbed the magnifying lens. With the fingers of one hand he spread out the wool fibers and peered intently at them through the instrument.

Drakken held his breath, for a moment all anger forgotten.

"Hmmm … hmmm…" said the herbalist after a moment. "A very fine dye, but not local. It is difficult to get this depth of saturation and this color with the indigenous plants we have here. I seem to remember…" The cleric paused, drumming long, stained fingers against the table in obvious thought. "Yes," he said after another moment. "There was a merchant- Valerix I think his name was. He came to the abbey several months ago seeking an ongoing agreement to supply us throughout the year. He had several bolts of wool exactly this color."

Drakken sighed, cursing his luck. Whoever it was probably traded throughout the region. He'd never find him.

"Worst case of winter fever I'd ever seen," continued Phenotar.

"What?" Drakken nearly shouted. "You mean-"

"Yes," the herbalist said with a smile. "He's still here. Recuperating in the guest house until his caravan comes through here again."

Drakken offered his thanks to the cleric, any earlier anger forgotten in his desire to follow up on his next lead. The half-dragon took his leave and went in search of the recuperating merchant.

It didn't take him long. Smaller than the chapter house, the abbey guest house stood to the west of the Ilmatari chapel that served as the spiritual heart of the monastery. Its two-story stone frame offered shelter to weary travelers, sick villagers, and any who called upon the brothers for aid. A quick word to the guest master and Drakken discovered that Valerix took his morning repast each day in one of the house's sitting rooms. The young cleric in charge of abbey hospitality led him through several short corridors, eventually stopping before an entryway covered by a thick blue curtain. Calling out a greeting, the guest master ushered Drakken through the curtain into an open, sunlit room before taking his leave.

There, among a stack of dishes heaped with quail and plover eggs, thick bread, cold chicken, and crocks of various jellies, sat the most corpulent human he had ever seen. Bloated, splotchy flesh sagged around a nearly hairless head, running down the sides of the merchant's face to end in thick jowls. Scrag-gly, graying hair-glistening with grease from the morning's meal-erupted in a riot around thin lips. Bright red silks, so at odds with the muted colors worn by most of the abbey, bulged and flowed with the great mass of flesh that shifted as the merchant stood in greeting.

Drakken caught the man's look of surprise, which was just as quickly replaced by a cold, calculating gaze. The half-dragon felt as if he were being appraised for sale, and the feeling did little to improve a mood that seemed consistently sour.

"Valerix the merchant?" Drakken asked simply when the man had finally caught his breath from the exertion of standing.

The fat man lifted a bloated hand in response.

"At your service," he replied with an uncomfortable bow.

Sunlight reflected off a thick band of gold wedged tightly around one of the merchant's pudgy fingers. The ring glittered with nearly incandescent flame.

"It is a fine work of art, is it not?" Valerix asked, noticing the half-dragon's interest. "You have seen it before?"

He held it up. Two lines of gold, beaten and fashioned into the likeness of serpentine tails twined around each other to form the ring's shape. Drakken shook his head.

"No?" came the merchant's haughty reply. "Ah well, we are a large trading house. All of my associates wear such trinkets."

… and you are obviously of no consequence.

Drakken heard the unspoken message clearly. He felt the familiar anger coil tightly within him. Something about that fat human cried out for a bloody throttling. The half-dragon fought the impulse down. He felt as if he walked precariously on a tightrope-one false move would send him tumbling into a sea of blood. He must be careful. If he had indeed killed Brother Arranoth, he wanted to make sure that no one else fell victim to his irredeemable evil. The merchant, however distasteful, may hold the secret to finding out exactly what happened. He was of no use to Drakken dead.

"I apologize for disrupting your meal," the half-dragon said at last in a tone that bespoke of anything but apology. "I need to ask you a question about Brother Arranoth."

Valerix raised his eyebrows at the mention of the murdered sub-prior.

"The brother recently killed?" he said, covering his mouth with fat, sausagelike fingers. "Whatever for?"

Drakken thought for a moment before answering, "We are gathering the sub-prior's belongings in order to sell them for those in need, and we had a question about a few of the articles we found."

The half-dragon gazed intently at the merchant, sure that the man had seen through that thin web of half-truth. If he had, however, the canny merchant gave no indication.

"I see," Valerix said, stroking his beard with indolent grace. "How can I help?"

Drakken ignored the man's tone, which clearly indicated that it would be a waste of time. He reached into his robe and pulled out the purple wool swatch.

"Have you seen this before?" the half-dragon asked.

Valerix furrowed his brow, causing deep folds in the skin, as he examined the wool.

"Why, yes," he replied after a moment. "This is part of a sample of product that I give out to prove the quality of my wares. The swatch belongs to me."

"I see," Drakken replied. "Then can you tell me how it came to be in Brother Arranoth's room?"

The half-dragon couldn't quite keep the accusation out of his voice.

"That's easy," came the reply, no less pointed. "My negotiations with Brother Brontheld, the Cellarer, were… let's just say that they were bearing little fruit. So I appealed to Brother Arranoth and offered him samples of my wares. It's that simple," the fat merchant nearly purred.

"Then you won't mind if I verify that with the Brother Cellarer himself?" Drakken asked.

"Of course not," Valerix waved at the half-dragon dismissively as he returned to his meal. "Now, if you don't mind…."

Drakken nearly took a step forward and grabbed the merchant by the collar so angry was he at being dismissed, but a disturbance in the courtyard distracted him. Even inside the guest house he could hear the buzz of many voices.

"Excuse me," he said abruptly, and left the merchant without another word.

The courtyard was a riot of activity. Brothers and servants stood in huddled clumps, chattering excitedly, or else they were running from wall to wall carrying baskets full of supplies.

"What's happening?" he yelled to a passing servant.

The woman stopped and turned to the half-dragon, terror written clearly on her face.

"Have you not heard? They've sighted orcs, they have. In the hills not a day's ride from the abbey."

The news sent Drakken's heart pumping. Perhaps there was still something he could do.

Clearly, it was time to speak with the abbot.

A knock at the door pulled Drakken from his nightmares. He groaned and tried to roll over, to ignore the pounding on the door. Despite his best efforts, it continued-each blow resounding in the room like the hammer that would, finally, bind him in chains for the rest of his life. There was no escaping it. He had killed Brother Arranoth.

The pounding continued.

Drakken groaned and stumbled to his feet. His small cell lay in ruins. Deep claw marks scarred the length of the stone wall, while a tangle of splintered furniture and torn clothing littered the floor.

Memory rushed in on him like a tidal wave. Despite three attempts to see the abbot, he had been unable to speak with Meremont. Each rebuffed attempt stoked the embers of his anger. Frustrated by his inability to participate in the abbey's defense, he had retired to his cell, falling at last into a fitful slumber from which he could not seem to wake.

Images plagued his every moment. The visions were immediate and terrible in their detail. It was as if Drakken wasn't merely reliving the horrifying event, but rather found himself trapped within the moment, tearing out the sub-prior's throat again and again.

Sometime near dawn, he had struggled free of his nightmarish prison, overcome with guilt arid anger.

Rage over his obvious complicity in Arranoth's murder met with a deeper, burning hatred fueled in his heart. The beast within had slipped its bonds and he had lashed out at anything near him, until exhaustion drew him once more into sleep.

The knocking grew more insistent, penetrating the undertow of guilt brought by the evening's nightmares.

"What?" the half-dragon yelled as he pulled open the door, expecting the abbot and a host of his accusers.

Instead, he found a young novice in a simple white robe. The boy took a step back, eyes widening at Drakken's wild appearance.

"Brother Phenotar wants … he wants to see you urgently," the novice's voice quavered.

When he arrived at the herbalist's workshop, Drakken followed the novice to a back room. The half-dragon was sure that everyone in the abbey knew of his guilt. He had felt their eyes upon him as they walked across the abbey close. Steeling himself, he entered the room, prepared for the worst.

Brother Phenotar barely acknowledged his entrance. The herbalist leaned intently over a figure lying on a broad table, running his fingers over something that looked suspiciously like a human arm. Drakken was about to shout his confession to the studious cleric when he realized that the arm belonged to Brother Arranoth.

The half-dragon began to shake, and was surprised when a voice somewhere within him began to curse him for his cowardice.

The herbalist, apparently, took no notice of his condition, but rather continued his examination.

"Take a look at this," Brother Phenotar said without preamble, indicating the sallow track of skin upon the corpse's arm. "Interesting, is it not?"

Drakken drew closer carefully, sure in his heart that the corpse would leap up and point damningly at its murderer.

"I don't… I don't see anything," he replied.

"Hmmm…" came the reply. "Yesterday I mentioned that I needed to study something further. The wounds to our departed brother's throat have bothered me from the beginning."

"Why?" Drakken asked, bending closer to the corpse despite himself.

"There did not seem to be enough bleeding for the severity of the wound." The herbalist tilted back the corpse's head, exposing the ruined wreck of its throat. "So, I did some further examination and I found this."

He indicated a small wound on the inside of the corpse's arm.

"What is it?" Drakken inquired.

"At first," Phenotar replied, "I thought it was a simple insect bite. But I ran some more tests. That's when I discovered that someone had poisoned Brother Arranoth.

"Adder's root," the herbalist added. "Very deadly."

"Then Arranoth was-" Drakken began.

"He was already dead when the wounds to the throat were made," Brother Phenotar finished. "I examined the throat wounds further and I discovered tiny slivers of metal. Whatever made the wounds wasn't natural."

Drakken felt his knees begin to buckle as relief flooded through him. He wasn't the one who'd killed the sub-prior! All of the hours of self-recrimination and hatred seemed like a dream. The Brother Herbalist's discoveries put a part of his mind at rest, while another part began to whirl with dark possibilities.

He stammered his thanks to Brother Phenotar and took his leave. If he hadn't killed the sub-prior, then

Brother Arranoth's murderer was still at large-and had gone to quite some length to incriminate him. Looking at the darkening spring sky, Drakken headed back to his cell. He had only a few hours to prepare for his meeting with whoever left that note.

Drakken stood quietly in the Upper Cellar, one hand resting lightly on a stack of wooden crates, the other fingering a small set of prayer beads hanging from a belt loop sewn into his simple robe. Despite a bitter chill permeating the dank cellar, the half dragon's spirits were higher than they had been in months. Brother Phenotar's discovery had lifted a dark weight hanging upon his shoulders ever since he'd known of the sub-prior's death. Sure of his own innocence, Drakken could barely contain his relief. He only hoped that whoever had dropped him the mysterious note could shed some more light on Brother Arranoth's murder.

The half dragon was so wrapped up in speculation that he only had a moment's warning before the attack. His keen sense of smell caught a faint musky scent an instant before two figures shimmered into existence before him. Sharpened steel arced toward him in the darkness, but the half-dragon had already begun to move, ducking beneath the whistling edge of one blade. As he turned, a second blade caught in the folds of his robe, slowing him down. He lashed out with a heavily muscled foot, catching one of his attackers in the gut. The assailant let out an explosive grunt and doubled over. Without hesitation, Drakken dived past the assassin and rolled to his feet.

Even in the tomblike darkness of the cellar, his dragon's vision caught sight of his attackers. Both were human. One, a beefy warrior who, by the look of him had once been an extraordinarily muscled man since gone to fat, wielded a wicked looking curved axe. His companion, a whipcord slim human with a well-groomed goatee, twirled a simple short sword in one hand and a hooked dagger in the other.

Despite the half-dragon's disadvantage, Drakken found his blood beginning to warm at the nearness of death. The beast slumbering deep within him began to awaken, and this time, he didn't fight it. In an instant, he knew what he would have to do. A low grumble escaped his lips as he launched himself at the smaller of the two assassins.

The man struck quick, a viperlike attack with the point of his short blade. Drakken didn't attempt to dodge, but almost seemed to leap onto the weapon. As the sword met thick scales, it bent slightly and slid to the side. Still moving forward, the half-dragon stepped slightly to the left of his assailant, grabbed the assassin's neck with a single clawed hand, and pulled the man to him as if in an embrace. In desperation, the screaming attacker sliced wildly with his dagger. Drakken let out a bellow of pain and rage as the blade cut through hardened scales as if they were silk.

Before he could finish his maneuver, however, the half-dragon sensed the second assassin moving in for a solid strike. He spun, holding his captive before him like a shield. As the man's axe fell, it bit deep into the chest of the first assassin, shattering the hapless man's ribs as it ended its fateful arc.

The fat warrior took a step back, releasing the axe as his eyes widened in obvious horror. At that moment, Drakken pounced. Dropping the gurgling remains of his captive, he leaped forward. Batting away his opponent's feeble attempts at stopping him, the half-dragon wrapped two clawed hands around the man's neck and squeezed with frightful force. The assassin's eyes bulged wildly moments before his windpipe collapsed between Drakken's scaled hands. Blood erupted from the warrior's mouth as he fell to the floor.

The half-dragon raised gore-encrusted hands before him and nearly roared with delight. The beast, he knew, was nearly free. He could feel it straining and pounding against the doors of its captivity. Drakken cast one last contemptuous look at the piles of meat before him-and froze as he caught sight of a familiar shape around the finger of the sword-wielding assassin.

He knew at once who was behind the murder of Brother Arranoth, and the knowledge quelled the wild anger within him. Not caring if anyone stumbled upon the two corpses, Drakken bounded up the stairs in search of the murderer.

Somewhere deep within him, the beast raged!

He emerged into chaos.

Despite the late hour, gray-cowled brothers scuttled to and fro, muttering prayers to Illmater as they carried buckets of water, heavy bags filled with grain and flour, and sundry other items. Drakken even caught the glint of steel, illuminated by the soft moonlight, among several of the abbey servants.

"Scouts spotted the humanoid horde outside the abbey gates," he heard some of the brethren say to one another. Still others said, "The orcs were already in the abbey cellars."

The half-dragon ignored it all, intent on his quarry. In the near pandemonium, he found it easy to slip by bands of abbey residents excitedly pursuing their specific tasks. No one accosted Drakken as he made his way to the guest house. A brief search of the guest master's logbook revealed the information he needed. Within moments he stood before a simple wooden door. Briefly, he thought about knocking, but a memory of Brother Arranoth's face, locked in the rigor of death, flashed in his mind. The door cracked and shattered beneath his blows.

He entered the room like a whirlwind, tossing silk blankets, richly woven clothing, and stacks of ledgers in his search. He knew what he sought would have to be there somewhere. Not caring about the noise he made, Drakken began rifling through cedar chests, dumping the contents on the floor. The half-dragon's frustration mounted as the moments went by without any discovery. A cold seed of doubt began to sprout within his mind. What if he was mistaken?

And yet he kept on searching, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. Finally, he reached the simple straw bed in the corner of the room. Angrily, he tore off the bedding, sending old straw reeds spilling to the floor. He was about to crack the whole bed frame when he caught sight of a small slip of paper among the reeds. He nearly shouted with triumph as he looked at the familiar neat lines of Brother Arranoth's handwriting.

It is clear to me now that Valerix has some deeper purpose for staying at the abbey than mere commerce. I have suspected for some time that he may be a dragon cultist, but today I discovered proof. I must tell Brother Abbot immediately upon his return from the village. I only hope I am in time.

Drakken's hands nearly shook as he read the missing journal entry. Valerix … a cultist! It began to make some sense. He would return to the abbot and-

The sound of hands slowly clapping behind him froze the half-dragon in place.

"Well done my scaled friend," the merchant's familiar voice seemed to echo in the room. "Well done, indeed."

Drakken turned to face the voice. Valerix the merchant stood in the entryway to the room, his corpulent face covered in a sheen of greasy sweat. The man's lips were pursed in a half pout.

"I see that you managed to survive the meeting with my associates," Valerix said. "A shame really, but I suppose it was to be expected."

The half-dragon took a step forward, the question already forming on his lips: "Why did you-?"

"Oh, come now," the merchant interrupted, his voice wheezing. "Surely you're not that stupid, are you? You've read Arranoth's journal. He's right. I was sent here by the Cult of the Dragon to see how things were progressing with Foilsunder-and I discovered you.

"Arranoth," he continued, waving pudgy fingers in the air, "simply got in my way."

Drakken took-another step forward, baring his teeth.

"I will kill you myself," the half-dragon nearly roared-the beast was lashing out at its cage once again.

"Ah, I might watch my temper, if I were you," Valerix lectured, a sneer evident upon his sagging face.

"What do you know of it," the half-dragon growled. His fingers twitched with the urge to tear apart the smug man's body. Drakken felt his hold upon himself weakening, and he knew with a terrible certainty that if he gave in to the rage rising within him, he would lose himself completely.

"More than you could ever imagine," the cultist replied. "The men I hired were supposed to dump another body in the cellar, murdered like Arranoth. I thought that might be enough to break you, to push you over the edge. But when you paid me a surprise visit the other day, I knew you were getting too close."

"So you sent them to kill me," Drakken stated.

Valerix shrugged, the motion sending ripples of bloated flesh bobbing beneath his silk robe.

"It seemed like the thing to do at the time."

"And now?" the half-dragon asked.

"If you kill me, we'll still win," Valerix replied, sweat dripping down from the wide expanse of his forehead.

"How?" Drakken nearly shouted the question.

"You feel it within you, don't you?" replied the merchant. "That sweet, delicious madness. Like a fever in the blood. It goads you, doesn't it?"

Drakken took a step back, horrified by the truth in the cultist's words. The maris eyes shone with a feverish light.

"Why do you let these damned clerics treat you like a servant?" Valerix continued. "They have tried to make you what you are not. Kill them. They deserve to die. Unleash your anger. Let it go. You've kept it within you for too long."

Drakken shook his head in denial, but in his heart he knew that Valerix was right. For just a moment, he saw the broken bodies of the Ilmatari, dead at his hand. He felt no remorse or guilt, but rather a deep sense of satisfaction. Then he remembered who it was who had taken him in when he was lost and alone. He remembered, too, the fact that the man before him had poisoned the only friend he really had in the world.

The vision ended.

With a growl, he took a step toward the sweating cultist. When the man squealed like a pig being butchered, Drakken found himself smiling.

At that moment, the monastery bells began to ring.

"Ahh," the cultist blubbered, "it appears… it appears that the orcs have breached the abbey gates. You'll have to make a choice now. Take your revenge and kill me j …or… or save your brothers from certain death." 1

The bells rang with renewed urgency, and even from | the guest house Drakken could hear the screams. He 1 hesitated for a moment, then with a roar that shook ‹ the room, he pushed the cultist out of the way and ran toward the abbey gates.

"Farewell, my friend," Valerix called after him in a sneering voice. "I doubt we shall meet again."

The half-dragon ignored him.

When he arrived at the gates, he found the courtyard strewn with the bodies of orcs, goblins, and humans alike. A group of Ilmatari were backed against a wall as a band of orcs pressed in. Drakken grabbed a pitted sword from a corpse and charged forward, yelling his defiance.

The beast was fully awake inside him, all but out of its cage. Three bounding steps brought him in the midst of the orcs. He swung the ancient sword with all the force of his anger. Two other blades cracked beneath the blow as the orcs erected a hasty defense. With another swing, he gutted an axe-wielding orc and ducked beneath the wild swing of another opponent.

He would have cleaved the heads of two other orcs except that a goblin darted forward and threw a weighted net, tangling Drakken's legs. The half-dragon stumbled slightly, giving the other orcs an opening. Three glowing spears pierced his chest with enough force to knock him back a few steps.

Red rage crested through him like a vast wave, carrying his pain, anger, and madness. He let out a roar and it changed, deepened, as the Rage spilled out of him in a single acidic blast. He watched in delicious satisfaction as the band of orcs before him fell back before the acid, skin sloughing off bone like melting ice. With a strangled groan, the remaining orcs fled, leaving sizzling flesh behind.

With a triumphant roar, he snapped the wooden hilts of the spears imbedded in his chest and turned to survey the foolish humans cowering before him. He was free at last! Free of their damned meddling, their concern, and most of all, their damnable prayers. He took a step toward them, ignoring the blood streaming from his wounds. With a single, painful motion he tore off the gray cloak, delighting in the feel of chill wind on hardened scale.

Another step brought him face to face with the cleric standing irt the front of the others. He wasn't cowering. The man stood before Drakken with his head held high, one arm held back as if protecting the others. Anger coursed through the half-dragon's veins.

This one, he thought, will pay for his insolence.

A single swipe of his clawed hand raked the offending cleric's face, sending him to his knees. Drakken stepped forward, intent on snapping the maris neck, but when the cleric looked up, the half-dragon saw the eyes of another old man, someone who, even in the midst of his madness, he remembered.

Time froze with that memory. He stood there with his hands poised to strike, gazing into eyes that were not simply eyes, but mirrors, reflecting his own soul.

This is not me/a voice from somewhere deep within the madness screamed.

This is you, the eyes seemed to say. And it is this that I love.

Drakken would have fled before the reality of that love, but his feet were rooted to the ground. Beneath the weight of that unyielding gaze he realized that for the past five years he had been running from himself, trying to be something that he wasn't. He looked upon the beast in all of its power, and he knew that he would never truly be free of it if he kept trying to lock it away. He and the beast were one. In the end, all he could do was let it go.

At once, the pain of his wounds became too great to stand. The half-dragon fell to his knees before the wounded form of Abbot Meremont.

"Forgive me," he whispered as a bubble of blood appeared on his lips.

"You are forgiven, my son," the abbot said, laying a bloodied hand upon Drakken's face.

And so, on a chill spring night, with three spears piercing his heart, Drakken Thaal yielded to love and gave himself up to a mystery older even than the gods. He toppled to the ground.

Finally at peace.