Quest Of The Dragon Tamer (Book 1) (30 page)

When they walked out of the house a large black horse grazed near Mortar, not an ounce of color donning his sleek coat: the Black Knight’s horse. He was loose, not bound by chain or rope. Ramie would have thought the horse would be wild by now, for it had been years since the Black Knight’s last ride, but Nigel had always had a way with animals.

Ramie untied Mortar and they walked in silence, each just content the other was there. They had been close growing up, even though they were as different as two brothers could be. But they learned from each other, and in an odd way each found strength in the other’s differences. Ramie let his anger drain until only a rueful peace remained. Nigel was his brother. And Nigel was alive. Nothing else mattered.

Nigel led him around the rock face. A few clouds had rolled in, allowing scant light to filter through, making the path dangerous to unfamiliar eyes. Nigel pointed out dips, rocks and sharp turns until they came to the second trail leading to the boulder.

Although the path was easy, they slowed even more, each not wanting to say goodbye.

“Will you help him?” Ramie finally asked.

“I’ll think on it.”

Ramie nodded, content with the answer. “That’s all I ask.”

When they reached the boulder Nigel turned, concern in his eyes. “Continue south, away from the city. There’s a tributary that runs into the Divi. A ship leaves tomorrow at dawn. This time of year the river is swift and will reach Port Bynni by midday.”

Ramie nodded, not willing to trust his voice.

Nigel leaned forward and embraced him. “Take care, little brother.”

“Come home, Nigel. I’ll find a way to hide your identity.”

Nigel laughed. “That’s Rye, always thinking large.”

Nigel gave a little bow before he turned and ran into the night, thin cloak billowing behind him. Ramie shivered in the cold, wondering how his brother didn’t go mad in the isolation.

Ramie waited until Nigel had disappeared from sight before he looked up at the moons and calculated the time. He had to hurry. If he didn’t make the ship, he would never make the city at high sun. He led Mortar to the main path, mounted, and whispered a sharp command.

Mortar jumped into motion. Ramie held on, trusting Mortar’s instincts to guide him safely down the mountain. But on this ride his mind was far from clear. He thought of the Druids claiming Ren and killing Nigel. He vowed that if they did so he would personally annihilate the entire Druid race.

- - -

Nigel didn’t hurry back. Instead he sought strength in the mountain and allowed the chill air to sort his thoughts. There were so many emotions stirring inside him it was impossible to place them all. When Ramie had first appeared he had been so overjoyed he had lost all sense of who he had become. Ramie brought memories of love and laughter, of childish pranks and dreams, of things he had left long ago. The Druids had destroyed everything he had and everything he was. He hadn’t told Ramie the entire story. He hadn’t told Ramie how Meg had suffered.

Meg had been beautiful, with silk-fine brown hair, eyes as black as pearls and a heart like none other. All Meg had to do was look at you and you couldn’t resist her request. But she had been as beautiful on the inside as the outside. She never demanded anything, was full of laughter and love. No, he didn’t want Rye to know how she had cried for him to run away and hide. He didn’t want Rye to know when Meg’s eyes found her belly, where her guts were spilling, she had tried to put them back, murmuring she would be all right, that he should leave her and run so the Druids could never harm him. He didn’t want Rye to know how Meg had died in his arms, so slowly.

Meg, the girl who had the whole family attend the burial of a cricket she had accidentally killed when she was five; the girl who never forgot to give her brothers a kiss before she went to bed; the girl who would sit for a degree of the sun just to watch a flower open; the girl who deserved every happiness, had died in terror and anguish, worrying about him.

And Sherri, she had become Megglan’s best friend that summer. Sherri’s father held one of the lesser holdings in Yor, but had managed to save enough to pay the price for her to train in all manners of court. Nigel had quickly fallen in love with her, and she him.

Sherri was pure as Meg, and although not as strikingly beautiful, Sherri possessed the one trait Nigel always found attractive in women – determination. Sherri would bite her lip in concentration when she studied. If she didn’t master something one day she would stay up all night and have it mastered the next. Even his father was impressed with her, and little impressed their father. Jarek Augustus could do anything.

He had watched Sherri for weeks without speaking to her. He hadn’t known how to approach her. All the men at the castle spoke of her fiery will and her eyes, her green eyes. They were as bright as the morning’s grass. When she looked at him he always seemed to lose his voice. Then it happened. One day he was jogging to a nearby stream, hurrying to take a dip before the weekly dance. She was running from the water, in a hurry to dry her hair before she prepared for the night’s festivities. They had collided. He had innocently reached out to catch her, but as soon as they touched time seemed to stop. He could still see her, wet blonde hair clinging to her skin, eyelashes damp from her swim, lips parting when she recognized the man holding her.

They hadn’t attended the dance that night.

Nigel toyed with the ring he wore on his little finger. He had given it to her the morning before the Druids came, vowing to love her always. Then her life was taken from him. He hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye. The Druids had her blood on their hands. The age-old hatred whirled inside him like a gale, desperate for release.

His emotions always spun out of control when he thought of the Druids. What gave them the right to say who could have special abilities and who couldn’t? What gave them the right to act like gods and rid the world of what they found unworthy? His hate for them ran as deep as the ocean and as high as the mountains. He would shed no tear if the Maker annihilated every single one of them.

Nigel forced his mind to clear. He hadn’t wanted to become what he had become, but the Druids had left him no choice. Without the Black Knight the Druids would have taken over the Lands, closing out what they would when they wanted, demanding people bow to them as the supreme race. They would have brought the Dark Ages again. Magic didn’t need to be present to have tyranny, only greed.

He felt no regret for his actions, but he did feel sorrow. He had killed many Druids, but none of their deaths would bring back Sherri or Meg.

Over the years he had dreamed of returning to Yor, but he knew his return would bring destruction on his brother and the kingdom. Eventually someone would see the brand and recognize his face. Then he would be taken to the Druids, dead or alive, for the reward.

He whistled as he walked into the clearing where his house was nestled. When he heard Rage whinny a greeting, he turned to find the black stallion cantering through the crescent curve of trees. Rage stopped before him and pawed the grass, kicking up clods of soil. Nigel leaned his head against Rage’s nose and breathed in the familiar scent of dirt and sweat. Memories of riding wild and free, destroying every Druid who remained on the mainland, surfaced within him: the blood, the screams, and the terror. He had been mad with revenge. At times he thought he’d gone insane, but other times, when he rode through the streets and the people applauded his efforts, he knew he wasn’t insane. He was justice, pure and simple.

When the colossal price had been placed on his head he had come to the Jaguars, knowing he could never leave. Over the years he had tried to will himself peace and just remember the happiness he had once known. That was when he started carving. At times, when he brought to life those he loved, he wept. At other times he felt great joy at seeing loving faces. And so he went on, focusing on the land, survival, and strength. In the Jaguars the summer was preparation for the rest of the year, and the rest of the year was a fight to stay alive. In the winter he fought creatures desperate for food, traveled in the snow-covered peaks to find nourishment and battled each day for the right to live. Thoughts of home and happiness were something he put at the back of his mind.

Ramie had stirred them up again, and along with those feelings came painful memories, and hate.

The Druid threat may be back.

Nigel thought of the man Ramie had mentioned. Ren reminded Nigel of himself. Ren and he were very similar creatures. Nigel found that to be a small comfort. Ramie still loved him, no matter the pain both of them had lived. And Ramie was right. The Druids would come for Ren. How could he allow that? The man had lost his home, his world, and the Druids would destroy him for it.

Nigel stroked Rage’s shimmering black neck. “How would you like to ride again, Rage?”

Rage nickered as if to say he would do whatever Nigel decided. Nigel sighed and walked inside the house. He went directly to the chair he had crafted years ago, slid it over, lifted a loose board, and reached inside the hollow. His hand caught hold of familiar leather. Nigel gritted his teeth and drew out the large, black bundle. He pulled each piece apart and inspected them individually. The pants were rugged and worn but whole. The tunic was fashioned from fine black silk and tied at the shoulder and waist. He had purchased it only days before retreating to the Jaguars, his old tunic tossed when the seams had torn too much to mend. His cape came to the floor and encircled his body with ease. He had cured it until it was so loose it glided around him like a second skin, covering his form until he struck. The gloves were still as they had been, one whole, the other falling apart from the branding iron he had pushed away. If he rode again he would need new gloves. Those he would need for the rest of his life.

No padding remained on his black deerskin boots. He would have to fashion soles if he left. Although winter was two seasons away, it was coming, and the boots were in no condition to travel in ice or snow. Nigel placed the boots aside and reached back inside the hollow. This time he brought out a large burlap bag. After a few heartbeats he dumped its contents. Multiple tufts of black hair spilled over his lap: the hair of each Druid he had killed. Nigel gazed down at them with no joy or sorrow, no remorse or satisfaction. He felt nothing, absolutely nothing.

He looked at the clothes strung over the floor. The Black Knight. Nigel sat back on the hearth, letting the fire warm his sudden chill. The stew bubbled and spices filled the room, but Nigel had no appetite. Now he was worried about Ren, and Ramie. Nigel could always see right through Ramie’s lies. Although Ramie said he didn’t have the power, Nigel knew better, and he knew the Druids would hunt all those in high positions with the Quy. This time it would be a battle between wizard and Druid supremacy.

Ramie would be among the Druids’ first targets.

Nigel knew his brother was smart enough to hide the ability, but Nigel also knew how much effort it took to block away something that was inherently part of you. It was only a matter of time before Ramie was discovered.

It had taken him a year to learn how to shove the calling power away: a year of running, and a year of prayer, but he had succeeded. Ramie wouldn’t run, couldn’t run, for Ramie was the king of Yor. Ramie was also stubborn, and would never allow the Black Knight to be his protector unless Ren was safe.

“Stubborn mule.” Nigel’s hand brushed something. He looked down to see two small burlap bags propped against the hearth. Picking one up, he peered inside. Just as he thought, the bag of bullion would feed the entire Lands for a week. Nigel sighed. He was tired of thinking about it.

“All right, little brother. You win.”

Chapter 16

Ren sat by the fire as the twin moons rose higher, staring at the prophecy book. He opened it every moons’ click, reading the prophecy time and again. The men were preparing dinner and talking in hushed whispers as if the very forest had ears.

Ren leaned back into his gear, instinctively petting the kota that had curled up beside him. Despite her small size she had kept the hurried pace of their horses. Since it looked like she had joined their group, Ren had decided to call her Keena. It meant “most beautiful” in the ancient tongue.

When he shifted, Keena placed her head on his knee and closed her lazy eyes, purring in contentment. He smiled and rubbed the tender area where her horn protruded. Her purr deepened into a thunderous legato.

Neki twisted around from the fire to see what had caused the disturbance. “If only I could make women purr like that.”

Ren shrugged. Markum smiled and went back to the fire.

Quinton didn’t pay any attention to the banter. He sat deeply involved with diagramming the area in the dirt, pondering which direction they should take in the morning. Ren was glad Quinton was with him. The last thing he wanted to do was worry about distance and direction.

The Alcazar had never been explored. It was a burnt ruin, collapsing inward, leaving a dangerous structure rumored to take any life that ventured inside. One month ago he would have laughed if someone had told him he would be intent on exploring the ruin, but now the Alcazar was his only link to the One.

Markum had described the man in his dreams with vivid detail: the widow’s peak, the long hair, and the dark, midnight eyes. Ren could almost see the wizard’s ageless eyes, frozen in the grips of time, searching for him through the ages. Ren didn’t like the thought. Had he been born because of the prophecy, or had the prophecy been born because of him?

A distant rumbling broke Ren out of his thoughts. The kota’s ears perked up. Markum and Neki sensed the change and ceased their chatter. Ren placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, eyes darting to the surrounding trees. The kota bounded to her feet, brown eyes wide with caution. Then they heard the pounding hooves of riders.

Quinton shouted a warning. Neki drew his saber. The horses sensed the tension and screamed in fear. Ren had chosen to camp in a clearing again, concerned the watch would be unable to spot a threat before it was too late. Now Ren chastised his foolishness. They had no shelter, and no place to hide. The hooves pounded closer, inundating the still night, but it sounded like only one or two riders, not a troop of soldiers.