Chapter 8 #2
“Why would I do that, my lord?” I asked, watching him try fruitlessly to smooth the ruined shoulder of his robe.
“I’m not being facetious. The Knights of Order would bleed me out like a goat if they could.
They can rot. Although,” I added, “if my lord would like me not to betray him, perhaps he could treat me a little more kindly.”
Merulo raised his end of the chain in threat, and I shut my beak.
The sparkling chain seemed to expand or contract not according to any physical rules, but stretched to cover what ground it needed, so that I was able to fly at a comfortable distance ahead of the sorcerer as we moved through the castle.
I did incorrectly guess which turns he’d take a couple of times, forcing me to backtrack.
On the third wrong turn, he shouted, “Just fly behind me!” in a surprising burst of rage.
“But, my lord,” I said, blinking. “You’re very slow.” The sorcerer moved to twist the chain; before he could complete the action, I circled back and landed beside him. “Which is why I’ll walk, of course.”
That didn’t work either, as a vulture can’t waddle at the speed of a lanky man’s strides, so I settled for occasionally surging into flight whenever I fell too far behind, a thoroughly tiring process. By the time we reached the castle gate, I wanted to go back to bed.
The equine construct waited, pitted eyes glowing green in the fog. It knelt as the sorcerer approached, allowing him to sit in a twisted but somehow elegant manner, with both legs dangling from one side. Side-saddle, like a lady. An accommodation for his robe, I supposed.
“Oh, so you do know how to bend down,” I griped to the construct, landing on its rump. I didn’t bother minding my claws.
As we left the gateway and began a bouncing trot down an escarpment pathway, I thought it safe to angle my ass over the side of the construct and let out a quick white gob that fell harmlessly into the fog.
A pained sigh came from the sorcerer. My emittance had not been as soundless as I’d hoped.
“My lord,” I explained. “Birds don’t exactly have bowel control. When you gotta go, you gotta go.”
“You didn’t have bowel control as a human either,” the sorcerer said wearily. “And anyways, be silent.”
“I will be silent, my lord, quiet as the grave, you won’t hear a word from me, except that first I have to ask . . .” My grip on the construct’s knotted back tightened as we descended at a steeper angle. How this thing could orient itself in the blinding fog was anyone’s guess.
“You have to . . . ?” the sorcerer echoed disdainfully.
“My lord, we will be encountering the Knights of Order, yes?” I stared at the back of Merulo’s oily head, wishing he’d turn so I could better gauge his expression. One of his hands gripped the bristle-twine mane of the construct, the other resting in his lap.
“Yes,” the mad sorcerer replied.
“Well, my lord, not meaning to cause trouble, but if they have arrows, I’m outta there.” I drove my talons into the construct, intending to remain perched even if a bolt of pain sprung from the needle, but my fear was misplaced. The sorcerer seemed too distracted to get properly angry.
With his free hand, Merulo reached into the depths of his robes. There came the clinking and shuffling of objects, then he withdrew a large metallic black leaf.
“Dragon scale,” he said. I stifled a gasp.
Could this be the key to his seemingly unending magic?
The body parts of dragons could be burned in place of a person’s own magical reserves, leaving the spell-caster undiminished, but they had a ludicrous price tag.
For all of post-Descent history, slaying dragons had been a significant source of revenue, but nobody had seen one alive in at least a century.
If the sorcerer had stumbled on a dragon corpse, perhaps curled and mummified in some ill-explored cave, and entombed it in that fog-choked castle . . . Again, precious intel that could not be used. It would explain a lot, though. Everything but his hatred for God.
While I sat open-beaked, bobbing with the motion of the construct, the sorcerer crumpled the scale in a careless motion and recited what sounded like a whispered prayer. Before I could react, Merulo opened his hand and, swiveling, blew the dust at me. I sneezed.
Apparently satisfied with his work, the sorcerer returned to his original position. “Any weapon capable of cutting through dragon scale can still strike you down, and the protection expires at sunset—don’t think this leaves you immune to injury.”
“Only me?” I squawked, dumbfounded. Did the sorcerer already wear dragon scale protection? And why waste an item of such unthinkable value on, let’s face it, a hated nuisance?
“You forgot the ‘my lord.’”
“My lord,” I amended. The clatter of the construct’s hooves against the stony escarpment slowed.
“Silence now,” said the sorcerer. “We’ve arrived.”
In the fog around us, glowing pinpricks of light materialized.
The bobbing eyes of constructs, their bodies still shrouded in mist, gave the impression of a firefly swarm.
This sight grew more disquieting as they closed in and their wooden features came into focus: false birds, great horrible cat-things, branching trunks that lumbered on reptilian legs—but the constructs that resembled men twisted my gizzard the most.
I fought the urge to flee, spurred by memories of past skirmishes, but no sooner had the constructs reached us they fanned out behind the riding sorcerer, slipping into formation.
Their many footfalls, timed as one, made for a rhythmic thudding.
It disturbed me greatly to see their poor simulation of life, but with any luck, they’d have the same effect on the knights we were to meet.
The thinning fog told me we’d reached the borderlands. Ahead of us, the silhouettes of men appeared. These resolved into an escort of knights, fog lapping around their ankles, clad in the white cloth and balance scale insignia of Order.
At their head, a richly dressed figure loitered indolently. The equine construct halted, and they faced off: Merulo and his constructs against the wealthy man and his knights.
The sorcerer slipped to the ground, landing with surprising finesse for a man of his muscle tone.
The equine construct, having fulfilled its purpose, turned and trotted back the way we’d come, carrying me with it.
A little too late, I realized some action on my part was required and took off into the air.
As I circled down for a landing, the sorcerer’s stone eye flashed faster and faster, flicking from view to view to view.
The wealthy man stood with a self-assurance that did not fit his current circumstance.
Perhaps he’d attained tranquility with age; his white cloud of hair glowed against the dark brown of his skin.
Lavish fabric framed him expertly, his embroidered red cape hanging over, unbelievably, a violet shirt, making even his paunch look deliberate and masculine.
Time had treated him kindly, carving few wrinkles but for those that bordered his eyes and mouth, giving him a look of permanent amusement.
In accordance with the Church of Order, all the bordering kingdoms had combined resources in their war against the sorcerer. Was I looking at the king of one such region?
A stack of strange books lay at the maybe-king’s feet.
In what anemic light the fog allowed, the covers shone glassily, a peeling film overlaying what appeared to be exquisite paintings.
Staring at the tomes, stacked directly onto soil and grass, the sorcerer’s face scrunched with pain.
It almost brought a chuckle to my beak; he treated his own books as delicately as newborns.
“As you can see,” said the maybe-king, “the materials you requested.”
“Seven books,” the sorcerer snapped. I made a note to advise him later that it was best to conceal emotion at times like this. “I requested seven. If you are capable of basic addition, then please, tell me how many there are. Go on—or should I count for you?”
“We couldn’t find the final volume,” he said, without a hint of strain. The man must have practice dealing with Merulo’s temper.
“Let me remind you,” said the sorcerer, “what the terms of this exchange were.” He stalked forward, black cloak flowing like a spill of ink, until exceedingly little space separated him from the shorter man.
Knights clanked into motion behind, but the maybe-king raised a regal hand to halt them. Gold rings shone on his fingers. His sleeve fell open slightly, and I spotted a timepiece clasped about his wrist. This man must be royalty, to adorn himself so casually with a relic!
“Within these texts is ancient wisdom. I could occupy myself with the translation and analysis for months, if not years. They are my stepping stones. Without them, I have no means to progress. Meaning . . .” The sorcerer leaned right into the man’s noble face.
To his credit, he did not so much as flinch.
“Without further knowledge to consume, I am left to act. And my actions, ignorant as they are at this stage, will be raw and untempered. I will crack this world open, Felix, and pry your God out like a snail.” The sorcerer was spitting in rage. “Escargot, Felix. Do you understand?”
God bless the memorization they’d put us through as pages. This must be Chancellor Felix Noor, advisor to the King of New Albion. In my opinion—completely uncoloured by where I happened to have been born—this was one of the foremost kingdoms of Larnia.
“We will find your seventh text,” said the chancellor. “But such a task will take time, and resources.”
The sorcerer’s bony form bent comically in menace over the healthier-looking man. “Resources,” the sorcerer repeated, incredulous. “More payment?”
“They are forbidden relics, full of heresy. Near priceless, and dangerous to ask after. It’s a wonder we even found six.”