Spellwright (36 page)

The golem laughed again. “The keloid on your neck is a by-product of the stone. It is not truly part of you. It grows out of proportion of your body. It is disobedient like a canker curse, and like a canker it can forge magical language. When I touched you, the scar sensed that my living body now holds the gem. And so the keloid began to forge Language Prime spells. It broadcasts them to reveal your location to the emerald.”

Through the haze of his terror, Nicodemus remembered how the keloid had become unbearably hot.

“I had hoped to follow the keloid’s signals to you,” Fellwroth added. “But this strange spell that is hiding you from my eye is also diffusing the signal.”

A few of the night terrors covering Nicodemus shifted uneasily.

“But I can sense your general proximity. I know you’re close enough to hear me. And I might find you yet.”

Gravelly footsteps sounded again. “But if I don’t catch you with this golem, I will with another. No matter where you run, the emerald will find you. It is part of you.”

Again came the eerie, echoing laugh. “Fitting that you will always find yourself.”

The footsteps were growing louder. “So there is no use running, whelp. You are one of us. Your mother too was a demon-worshiper. Typhon created you by bringing them together. Your family is vital to the Disjunction.”

The monster sniffed as if annoyed. “Ah, yes, you must understand about your family. No doubt you know an Imperial clan ruled the ancient continent. No doubt you know you are an Imperial, one who possesses royal characteristics. But you cannot know that the Imperial family mastered Language Prime. Only those of full Imperial blood could comprehend and compose primal texts. So the Imperials bred themselves carefully to keep the talent. When humanity fled across the ocean, your family was scattered. The blood ran thin and the talent was lost.”

Fellwroth’s boots came back into Nicodemus’s view as the golem hobbled back toward his horse. “Since then, there have been a few others like you, gifted in Language Prime. Typhon has been breeding Imperials since he and I crossed the ocean two hundred years ago. You are one of the products of this breeding.”

Fellwroth’s legs wobbled, causing the nearby horse to shift its feet. “Why are the demons breeding Language Prime spellwrights? Because Typhon discovered how to use Language Prime to compose a dragon. No doubt you’ve heard what the first dragon has done to Trillinon. Typhon and I wrotethat wyrm using your Language Prime fluency via the emerald. It took ten long years.”

Fellwroth’s feet shuffled as if the golem was having trouble staying balanced. “But that dragon, being my first attempt, was flawed. So I set it loose on Trillinon to weaken humanity. Now I must replenish the emerald so I can compose another dragon to be stronger and more intelligent. When I have a wyrm powerful enough, I will fly across the ocean to the ancient continent. There I will revive Los and help him to initiate the War of Disjunction.”

Somewhere an owl hooted.

“When the demons enslave humanity, they will want captains among the men. If you serve me, Nicodemus, they will give back the missing part of your mind. You will be complete. You will know power, wealth, happiness beyond your ability to imagine.”

When Fellwroth spoke again, the words came out clipped, as if the creature were in pain. “So you see your choices. You can serve me and know vast reward, or you can run. I won’t kill you when I catch you. I’ve never wanted you dead. If you perish, I cannot replenish the emerald.”

The owl hooted again.

“I will distort your mind, make you more disabled than Typhon made that giant oaf. You will be a slobbering fool. The emerald will replenish itself more slowly, but I will not have to worry about your slipping from my grasp. That has been my goal all along—to find you and further cripple your mind. But now that you are free in the world, I am willing to bargain. Your resourcefulness has impressed me. Join me.”

Fellwroth drew another long, whistling breath and waited as if for Nicodemus to call out an acceptance.

“No response? Perhaps thoughts of prophecy cloud your thinking. Perhaps you think fate will save you. I must tell you then that the human prophecies are nonsense. After the Exodus, humanity longed for the return of a full-blooded Imperial so profoundly they fabricated these prophecies. They mixed facts about your family with legend and myth.”

Fellwroth began to cough—it sounded like someone striking a pot with a metal spoon. When the racket finally ended, the creature spoke again.

“Some prophecies predict only one full-blooded Imperial will arise to become a savior. The druidic nonsense about the Peregrine is an example. In the same way, the highsmiths prophesied the coming of the Oriflamme, the hierophants the coming of the Cynosure. But other magical societies imagine two Imperials will arise, one a savior, one a destroyer. Wizards are this way with their rot about the Halcyon versus the Storm Petrel. But it’s all drivel. All prophecies are equally false.”

Again Fellwroth made the clanging cough.

“The truth is that full-blood Imperials like you are only tools. Tools that might be used to impede or empower the Disjunction. And you, Nicodemus, are a tool made by demons for the Disjunction.”

Nicodemus screwed his eyes shut. He still felt dazed and numb. He could understand everything the monster was saying, but none of it seemed real.

Fellwroth was making a low, echoing growl. “If you run from me, you will face dangers about which you know nothing.”

The monster paused as if considering something. “Only a few human deities were aware of Typhon’s presence. The great gods and goddesses are too busy governing their kingdoms to notice. But a handful of lesser deities have discovered Typhon’s presence and formed an alliance to oppose him. They call themselves the Alliance of Divine Heretics, and they too have been trying to breed a Language Prime spellwright. But none of your relatives have lived past infancy.”

Fellwroth laughed once. “The ongoing war between the Disjunction and the Alliance of Heretics is a pathetic one. We slaughter all Imperials born to the Alliance, and they kill every one born to the Disjunction…everyone but you, that is. And I must give Typhon his due; it was brilliant to steal your talent rather than raise you to use it for us. And then he disguised you as a cacographer. Not in a thousand years would the Alliance suspect a retarded boy of being our Imperial.”

Fellwroth’s legs began to quake. “I’m telling you this because the instant the Alliance learns of your existence, they will assassinate you. Think on it: by killing you they would deprive the emerald of its power and hence deprive us of our Language Prime and so our ability to compose a second dragon.”

The monster’s legs now shook enough to make him stagger. “You are in more danger than you realize. No doubt the Alliance of Heretics is already aware of you. Who do you think sent Deirdre, that would-be-druid of a girl? She will kill you the instant she has the opportunity to do so without ruining the druids’ standing at the convocation. Surely you must understand now, whelp. I am your only chance at survival. You must join me.”

Suddenly Nicodemus’s keloid started to burn.

The golem’s legs quit their tremor. “I think…” the monster wheezed as he started to limp toward Nicodemus. “I think I feel your presence.”

But walking proved too difficult for Fellwroth; a white hand sank to steady the creature against the ground.

“If I could only see you,” Fellwroth grunted. “What is this mysterious language that conceals you?”

Slowly Fellwroth managed to stand. The monster’s breathing was more labored now. “Perhaps you hate the Disjunction so much, hate those who created you so much, that you would consider suicide to deprive us of the emerald. It won’t make a difference. I have already set the wheels in motion to give you a cousin. In time I will breed another Imperial. Do not sacrifice yourself for nothing.”

The monster shuffled closer; his boots were now a foot away. One of the nightblue terrors covering Nicodemus whimpered.

“Nicodemus,” Fellwroth wheezed, “bind yourself to our cause and you shall be rewarded beyond your imagination. All you need do is return to Starhaven. I will collect you there.”

The monster took another faltering half-step. His toe landed an inch from Nicodemus’s face. Two night terrors cringed.

Fellwroth started to take another step, but a night terror threw out a tentacle to strike the golem’s shin. The murderer faltered, stumbled backward and then fell to his knees.

A hood covered the monster’s face, but his scarred left hand came up to press against a maggot-white throat.

“This golem fails,” he hissed. “I leave you, Nicodemus, with a choice. Surrender to me in Starhaven and know godlike power, or resist and die.”

A violent cough wracked the monster’s chest and threw his head back. His hood slid off to reveal a long mane of pallid hair. Where there should have been smooth forehead shone a bar of flowing Numinous text. His skin was as white as paper. The features of his handsome face were delicate—thin lips, a snub nose, wide eyes.

Another violent cough wracked the creature and he fell forward, his chin striking gravel not four inches from Nicodemus’s nose.

Patches of the golem’s skin began darkening into gray iron. The thing stared straight at Nicodemus with eyes that had neither white sclera nor dark pupil. They were everywhere blood-red flecked with black.

With a violent shudder, the golem pulled his hand up as if to strike out with a spell.

But a night terror leaped off Nicodemus and onto Fellwroth’s arm. It was the three-horned troll. The squat creature pinned the golem’s arm to the dirt road.

Suddenly Nicodemus realized that he had seen the troll before. Many times before.

Something was wrong. Horribly wrong.

Nicodemus’s heart beat frantically. He struggled to escape the pile of night terrors, but now bright orange flecks flew across his vision. The ground seemed to spin. He was going to faint.

All around him, the night terrors began whispering, urging him to stay still so they could keep him hidden. Before him appeared the small, eyeless dragon with tentacles growing from its chin. He recognized this night terror too; it was called Tamelkan. He had given it that name when he was fourteen years old.

Since arriving at Starhaven, Nicodemus had been imagining monsters to infest the nearby forests. Inspired by countless books of knightly romance, he had dreamed of venturing from the academy to confront his invented foes.

Now, as impossible as it seemed, his dreams had become real. The night terrors that had hidden him from Fellwroth, the creatures that now held him down, were the same monsters he had imagined as a boy.

In a confused panic, Nicodemus thrashed harder and threw off two of the blue monsters. He staggered onto his knees, but Tamelkan lunged at him. The dragon’s tentacles wound around his head.

Overcome by his own dark fantasy, Nicodemus fell backward into unconsciousness.

CHAPTER
Thirty-two

When Nicodemus awoke, he was floating through the night-shaded forest.

High above, a breeze whispered through the leafy canopy and set the black boughs swaying. A dappled wash of moonlight ebbed and flowed across the forest floor.

Remembering his near capture by Fellwroth, Nicodemus sat up with a cry. He must have fainted after the golem had expired.

His panicked voice seemed to shatter into a hundred pieces. He fell to the ground, his bottom painfully flattening a snowberry bush.

All around him ran the night terrors that had hidden him from Fellwroth. As he remembered, the creatures were the same monsters he had imagined for his boyhood adventure fantasies. Here was Fael, the lycanthropic neo-demon; Tamelkan, the eyeless dragon with a tentacled chin; insect-like Uro with a human face and hooked hands; Garkex, the horned firetroll.

In his dreams, the monsters had been massive creatures. But these blueskinned renditions were miniature; even the mighty Tamelkan was no larger than a deer.

Nicodemus remembered that the imaginary beasts had pinned him down on the road. In fact just before he had fainted, Tamelkan had wrapped its tentacles around his head. But the night terrors did not seem hostile now. In fact, when he woke, they had been gently carrying him through the forest.

Garkex—a stone-skinned, three-horned firetroll with serrated tusks—scolded the other monsters in an unintelligible, squeaky voice. The troll was holding the Index above his head.

The sight made Nicodemus wonder if he had gone mad. What he remembered seemed like a hallucination or a nightmare. Had he truly met Fellwroth and learned that his parents were demon-worshipers?

As he considered this question, Garkex’s cries seemed to calm the other monsters. They stopped their flight to peer back at Nicodemus.

Garkex continued his unintelligible harangue. Slowly, like frightened dogs, the monsters returned. Some were bowing, some lowering their muzzles or eye-stalks.

The firetroll planted himself directly before Nicodemus and presented the Index.

Nicodemus shook himself. No, he wasn’t crazy; he truly had encountered Fellwroth, and he truly was staring at Garkex—his fictional childhood nemesis.

He took the Index from the diminutive troll and hugged it to his chest. Garkex began to lecture him—his horns spitting minute orange flames when he squeaked out more vehement syllables.

Nicodemus stared blankly at the monsters as they lifted him up and recommenced their journey through the forest. He wondered if he should try to flee.

But if the night terrors had wanted him dead, they could have torn him to pieces when he fainted. Or they might simply have let Fellwroth find him.

He decided to let the monsters carry him.

As they went among the widely spaced trees, speckled moonlight passed over them. Their course brought the party to a mountainside creek, which the monsters crossed with impressive speed. Then Nicodemus found himself being carried through a wilderness of sword ferns that tickled his legs. Garkex chastised the vegetation for getting in their way.