When Dragons Rage

20

The sharp, raw, torn sensation in the back of his throat remained with Kerrigan Reese even after the echoes of the harsh cough that awakened him had faded. Curled up as tightly as his girth would allow him, he lay naked, in complete darkness, on his left side. The cold, hard stone beneath him had leached a lot of his body heat. In his mouth was the sour taste of old vomit, and his head ached.

As he tried to straighten out, two more things added to his discomfort. The first was the aching in his back. Whatever had hit him had done so very solidly. Battered muscles protested, and the fatty flesh covering them provided a chorus accompaniment. Even his kidneys ached, and Kerrigan dreaded the damage he’d find if he cast a diagnostic spell.

He would have been tempted to do that, but had a more immediate concern: he was fettered. Stout manacles surrounded his wrists and ankles. Reaching down, he could easily grasp the heavy chains to which his bonds had been joined, though when he took up the slack, the wrist chains did not pull at his ankles. The chain did tighten, though, and one wrist did pull against the other, so he imagined some ring in the floor of his prison to which he was fastened.

The magicker lay very still and thought for a moment. That he was a prisoner was obvious. Having been taken by the Vilwanese was a possibility, and that only indicated how seriously they wanted him back. They would have had to bring in someone or something that could neutralize him. While he was certain that could happen, wouldn’t the apprehension have taken place in a more controlled area? He was on his way to the consulate where they could have taken him at their leisure.

And he doubted that, in taking him, they would have seen a benefit in his being half drowned.

The other alternative that left open was Chytrine. He wracked his brain to see if there was anything he had done to attract her attention. He had created a duplicate of one fragment of the DragonCrown and had tampered with another fragment, but he sincerely doubted she could track him through that magick. And other than that covert work, he had done nothing to make her see him as a threat. Any attack would have been better executed on Princess Alexia or Will.

It was entirely possible, of course, that the duplicate he had made would let her track the fragment. But having the means to go after the fragment made it unlikely she would have had him attacked. Once she had the fragment, he was immaterial, so the attack made no sense. More important, if she had seen him as a threat, why she would leave him alive?

But if not Vilwan or Chytrine, then who?

Aside from the sound of his own breathing and the irregular pit-pat of water dropping on stone, the chamber had remained quiet. Because of the darkness Kerrigan could see nothing and couldn’t even begin to guess how big the room was. The mageyes spell would take care of that problem, so he gathered himself to cast it.

Before he could get the spell off, however, something clicked in the darkness. It came from behind him, but tiny and distant. As sounds went, it wasn’t much. Just a simple click.

Kerrigan held his breath. He waited, straining his ears. More water dripped, sometimes one drop on top of the other, but no more clicks. Kerrigan slowly let his breath out, then drew one in through his nose, forcing himself to be quiet even though his lungs wanted cool air to quench the fire in them.

Click.

It came louder this time, and in front of him, down toward where he imagined that ring was set in the floor. Could it have been a link hitting the ring? He let the sound run through his mind again, but caught no metal in it. No, it was more like stone on stone.

Or claw on stone.

For a heartbeat, then two, the terrible image of a temeryx lurking out there, circling him, shook Kerrigan and made the links rattle. Temeryces served Chytrine the way dogs served huntsmen. The feathered beasts had narrow heads with lots of sharp teeth, huge, sickle-shaped claws on their feet, and smaller grasping clawed hands that they clutched tightly to their breasts.

He’d seen the sort of bite they could leave on a man, and had no desire to see if he could heal himself with magick faster than it could devour him.

He fought back panic for two reasons. The first was that he couldn’t cast a spell if he couldn’t think, and he had to think to get out of his current situation. And the second was that he did have the magickal armor that would reward the temeryx with a mouthful of bony plates.

His invulnerability heartened him. He calmed himself again and forced himself to breathe more regularly. He remained quiet and listened, but focused more on choosing a spell to cast. He really had two choices: either a spell that would allow him to see in the dark, or a spell that would actually illuminate the place. The light spell he had managed to employ in a similarly dark place had blinded his assailants and facilitated his escape but, chained up as he was, he wasn’t going to be running off fast. He chose to save that spell for a reserve and instead prepared to cast the night vision spell.

Kerrigan set himself and limbered his fingers. He pulled his awareness away from the world for a moment, forgetting how cold he felt. Into the realm of magic he plunged, weaving together the various elements that would fashion him an ethereal veil that would enhance his vision. The spell-casting progressed quickly and easily; though he had not used the spell that much, he had always liked it and found it simple to work.

Thwock!

Something hit him and hit him hard, on the right shoulder, and bounced off to clatter in the darkness. That sound definitely was stone on stone; I was hit by a rock. The bony plate that had risen to protect him sank away again, taking with it all but the faintest hint of pain from the impact.

Kerrigan groaned. The invocation of the protective spell also shredded the weaving of the night vision spell. The armor took precedence and was cast subconsciously. Its urgency demanded all of his abilities, so the delicate spell he’d been working on evaporated.

He began to cast it again, but before he could complete the working another stone clipped him.

“Hey!”

The sound that replied almost convinced him that there was a temeryx present. It started as a hiss, then descended into a mad little laugh. It alternated between serpentine sibilance and a giggle. Kerrigan found nothing benign about it. A shiver slithered up his spine, then he levered himself up on his left elbow and twisted around to sit facing the location of the sound.

The chain on his feet stopped him short of his goal.

The undulating sound stopped for a moment, then another rock smacked Kerrigan square in the chest. It rebounded to his lap. After a moment’s bob-bling, the magicker grabbed it, then raised his right hand back to throw it.

The chain rattled, but before he could start to throw, the chain was yanked hard.

The stone flew off into the darkness as Kerrigan spun around to the right. Another yank on the foot chain continued to spin him on his bare rump across the floor, and no bony plates appeared to save him the chafing abrasions. Tipping off-balance, he rolled, tangling his legs in the chain, and finding himself suddenly half-buried nose first in a bed of dry straw.

He pulled his head up, then sneezed violently, smacking his forehead into the ground. The straw did cushion the blow, but the magick didn’t stop him from hurting himself. “Ow!” He rolled onto his back and brought his hands up to his forehead, whacking his jaw with the left manacle in the process.

He felt the lump growing on his forehead and the tightness of the chains on his legs. The hissed giggling continued, at a higher pitch now, and another rock clicked off his thigh. Instinctively he turned to the right to protect himself, but another rock hit his stomach hard. He twisted away from that line of attack, got hit again, then rolled away and landed on a rock that jabbed him good and solidly in the back.

“OW!” He arched his back and dug away at the stone. Grasping it in both hands, he pushed himself up onto his right hip and went to raise his hands to throw it, but with his legs bound he flopped over awkwardly. To make matters worse yet another stone skipped off his head, sending a hideously sharp sound through his skull.

He ducked his head and pulled his legs up. He had to get free, but the only way he could do that would be by using a spell. The rocks kept invoking the armor, which destroyed any spells he was trying to cast. I’ll have to cast the spell very fast. He frowned. Faster than I’ve ever cast a spell before.

He went through a catalogue of spells he could use to get the shackles off. Most involved heating the metal until it melted, which would have melted his hands off as well. He knew there were some basic lock-picking spells, but he’d never been taught them. This had not prevented him from fashioning some of his own, based on healing spells. A diagnostic spell would show him how the lock had been constructed, then a modified levitation spell would let him manipulate the pieces of the lock to open it.

These shackles cant be that different in construction than a door lock.

He gathered himself to cast the diagnostic spell quickly, but the rocks kept coming in a steady stream. He tried to ignore them, but it didn’t matter. The I magick meant to save his life was preventing him from escaping. There is nothing I can do!

Howling with frustration, he raised the rock in his right hand and smashed it down on the manacle on his left wrist. It rang loudly and produced a quick spark that died on the prison’s damp stone floor. The light hadn’t been much, revealing only grey stone and blond straw chaff, but he had seen it.

The rocks stopped flying.

It took Kerrigan a moment or two to accept that this was truly the case. Once he did, he smiled and started to cast the diagnostic spell.

Thwock!

“Stop it!”

“Soppit, soppit, soppit…” The sibilant voice repeated the mocking word in a pitiful tone. The origin point for the voice shifted around and around, with little clicks occasionally accompanying it, as his tormentor circled him. “Soppit, soppit, soppit.”

Kerrigan again tried to cast a spell, but a rock stopped him. He tried again and again, hoping that one rock might miss him and he might get his spell to work, but at that range his assailant never missed. In fact, from the high angle of some of the attacks, Kerrigan knew the invisible creature had raced in and hurled the stone down at him.

Not being stupid, Kerrigan realized that he wasn’t going to cast a spell unless he had respite from the stones. The only time he stopped was… Quickly the magicker hammered a manacle with a stone. It rang loudly, but the stones still came. Kerrigan hit it again, glancing it, and striking a spark.

The rocks stopped and silence again reigned.

Kerrigan hit the manacle again and another spark ignited. No stone flew. The youth allowed himself a smile that broadened quickly. With his left hand he swept straw dust into a little pile and struck a spark into it.

The spark survived just long enough for a small thread of smoke to drift up.

Again and again Kerrigan pounded the manacle with the rock. It didn’t matter to him that the glancing blows tore at his skin. His wrist was soon slick with blood, but still he struck, flicking spark after spark into his pile of tinder. He blew gently on it, getting sparks to glow brightly before they died. He learned now to avoid scattering the tinder, and between sparks he grabbed straw and crumbled it into more dust.

The hail of stones had stopped, but Kerrigan didn’t give a thought to casting a spell. Somehow the creature knew when he was invoking magick. How, he didn’t care. He just wanted the torment to stop, and it had. He didn’t know if the creature was afraid of fire, or fascinated by it; but if producing it would keep the thing occupied, he was determined to do it.

As he worked he thought back to the Okrannel campaign and the trip south from Fortress Draconis. Though Kerrigan knew very well the spell that would kindle fire, he’d not been allowed to do it on the trip. Orla had not wanted him to become some hedge-wizard in the eyes of the soldiers. On the retreat from Fortress Draconis the princess had noted that he had more important things to be doing than worrying about making fires since others could do that.

Others could. He’d even watched children kindle fires. Yet here I am, and I can’t do that. He wished he’d watched more closely, for it would have made the whole task easier. Still, as smart as he was, he slowly reconstructed the procedure.

Finally, a spark caught. He blew gently on it and got embers. Another breath and a little flame popped into life. Kerrigan fed a small piece of straw into it, then another. Carefully, gently he fed it, letting it grow. The fire ate the straw quickly, so he twisted stalks and knotted them to make them burn more slowly.

He smiled when he felt heat. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to remind him how cold he was. Still, it was heat, and there was light, some real light. Staring across the fire limited his vision, but he caught faint hints of the walls and clearly saw the iron ring into which his chains had been slipped.

Kerrigan sat up, his smile very broad as his little fire guttered merrily.

A wave of magick swept into the room. Kerrigan felt it and tried to study the spell, but its complexity defied casual observation. The spell sank into the chains that held him and locked their links. The chains tightened on his legs and held his arms to his thighs.

A very cool and low voice spoke from above and behind him. “Very good, Adept Reese, you have learned your first lesson. Magick is not life.”

“Who are you? Where am I? What do you want with me?”

“Three very good questions.” The voice remained even and calm. “You will have the opportunity to earn the answers to them.”

“Answer one now. I made a fire. That’s what you wanted me to do, wasn’t it?”

“No.” Another spell sped through the room and Kerrigan recognized it instantly. It was the first spell taught to every apprentice. It was the spell they learned before they learned how to make fire.

His fire went out.

“No, no! Not fair. I did what you wanted.”

“Listen, Kerrigan Reese. Very little in life is fair. You were born with vast potential for working magick. The world needs you, but you have been held apart from it. And because of your distance, you could easily do more damage than help. This must be determined.”

Something hit Kerrigan in the back. It was soft and slid down against his buttocks. He couldn’t see it, but it felt like a blanket.

“You now have some idea how desperate a man can be to create a fire when he is cold. Imagine those were not stones, but were raindrops or snowflakes. Imagine that the cold in your limbs made your hands numb. Imagine that huddled in the darkness was your family. Your wife, hungry and cold, your children terrified. The baby probably already dead. When you saw that spark, hope would soar. When it died, hope would die, and you would know your family was going to die along with it,

“You, Kerrigan Reese, might be that spark. If you don’t understand how important you are, you will be far too dangerous to be allowed to live.” The voice did not rise on that point, making it less a threat than a simple fact. “Think on what I have said. Cast no magick or you will be punished.”

“But I’m bleeding.”

“And how would one who has no magick deal with that, Adept?” The voice grew distant. “Remember first you are a man and then, perhaps, you will be able to save mankind.”