The Realms of the Dragons 2

POSSESSIONS

Flamerule, the Year of Wild Magic (1372 DR)

The streets of Zazesspur were silent in the deep hours between midnight and dawn. Count Kelmar Dargren and his men waited patiently, sweltering in the summer heat that dominated even in the sun's absence. Kelmar's eyes were focused only on his quarry, his every nerve on edge for even the slightest sign of movement.

His men, all in dark clothing, wearing hidden weapons and used to long nights, watched him warily. Kelmar's demeanor had been erratic of late, secretive and prone to irrational bouts of rage. All of them were loyal to the count due to his allegiance with the School of Stealth, Zazesspur's guild of assassins, but lately they had begun to wonder at their guild's faith in the man.

Kelmar saw their searching looks, felt their untrusting eyes on him, and heard their whispers, but he didn't care. He knew as long as the gold of coin graced their palms, they'd perform their duties. If not, the assassins guild itself knew how to discipline its own. Any threat he could have made to them would pale in comparison to the methods of the School of Stealth.

Most of them wondered if a cleaner death might be gained by abandoning the hunt entirely.

The past tenday had seen a series of grisly murders in and around the Merchant District. The bodies were near unrecognizable as having once been humanoid, only their perfect faces remained unblemished by cut or bruise. Faces locked in expressions of unspeakable horror.

Seasoned soldiers of the civil war that changed the political geography of Tethyr, grew visibly ill viewing the bodies. They noted that the blood remained a deep red long after death. Sure sign of a prolonged murder, terrible moments or even hours of fear before finally ending. This was no assassin or ambush killer, no simple street thug or thief. Only a pure, cold-blooded murderer could perpetrate such acts.

The seasoned assassins, sitting on the still warm cobblestones of a darkened alley, looked into the count's eyes and knew he held some secret to the puzzle of random killings. They could see the familiar spark of death in the man's stare and most privately feared it.

Kelmar grew impatient. His hand gripped the basket hilt of his saber in quiet anger. His dark black hair was matted to his forehead and beads of sweat collected in his knotted brow. With swift, precise motions he signaled to the four assassins behind him, his mastery of their silent language apparent, telling them to spread out in groups of two. Each would take a street and patrol, taking care to avoid the civic guard, which had become more difficult as the guard's numbers had nearly doubled since the killings began.

The men nodded and quietly padded out, clinging to shadows, hands on daggers and poisoned short swords. Watching them go, Kelmar let out a long held breath, pain lanced through his head, spreading into his neck. The pain had been frequent lately, strong enough to bring him to his knees at times, and with the pain came the visions.

He tried not to think of the nightmares that plagued him when the pain was strongest, the images of blood, dead faces screaming their silent torment. Warmth flooded his chest as the sound of rushing blood thrummed in his ears. Reaching into his tunic he pulled out the amulet he'd found when this had all begun. Its large ruby heart glowed, beating in tune with some unknown rhythm. He closed his fist around its warmth, looking all around for some glimpse of the killer he knew prowled the streets at that very moment.

He couldn't help but recall the first of those nightmarish images. A vision of his own death.

He shuddered at the thought.

Borial was glad to be free of the count for a few hours. Kelmar's obsession with this killer business was strange and a little disturbing to him. Borial's companion seemed not to care much, Faerdral had ever been light of brains and even lighter of insightful speculation. They'd stalked the length of Ivory street on the western end of the Merchant District, shadowing another pair on the parallel Temple street, and had stopped on the rooftop of an abandoned warehouse to survey the area from above before continuing.

"Faer?" He whispered.

"YeahBor?"

"What do you think this is all about?" Borial was being optimistic in expecting any real answer from his less than intellectual partner, but felt a need to make the attempt.

"All about? I just figured we'd have a better viewpoint from up here is all." Faerdral continued scanning the lengths of street available to his well-adjusted eyes. Many of his brothers in the guild suspected him of having some elf blood due to his excellent night vision.

"No not that, I mean, why does this new count seem so keen on stopping this killer? He's no stranger to blood as I've heard tell, even put his own brother, Count Lukan, in the ground himself, so the rumor goes."

Faerdral squinted his eyes as he thought the question over. Despite what his fellow assassins thought, he wasn't as dim as they envisioned him, he just took his time. After mulling the question over he finally replied, startling Borial, who'd begun to focus on the view as well: "I suppose its just good business."

"Business?"

"Yeah, the count's got a lot of coin in some of the businesses in this area and still has to pay taxes and tribute to the duke and the Council of Lords. Blood in the streets doesn't exactly bring in the coin. Hard to make a single gulder if everyone's too afraid to come and spend it."

Borial had to admit it made sense, he'd seen more than one nobleman pitch a fit if profits suffered even the slightest.

"Not to mention the count's less than honest operations on the side. I don't know about you, but I counted at least three patrols of civic guard we dodged getting here. Keeping things under the table is getting a lot more dicey these days."

Borial stared down at the street, nodding his agreement. Still, though, that look in Kelmar's eyes seemed darker, more circumspect than a nobleman merely tightening his purse strings.

A strange sound brought them both to full attention, their conversation forgotten as they listened, trying to pinpoint the noise. Again, a muffled voice just to the east of them. Swift as cats they descended the building's side, moving in the direction of the disturbance to the night's silence.

Creeping to the edge of a shadowed alleyway, Faerdral motioned for a stop, both could hear labored breathing from within the alley. Peering around the corner, his hand ready to draw the daggers at his waist, Faerdral looked into the shadows.

Only a sleeping beggar greeted his piercing eyes, wrapped in a tattered old cloak and bundled against the wall. Disappointed, Faerdral slumped against the stone building and relaxed his guard. Borial rolled his eyes in irritation, but continued to scan the street hoping to spot anything that could be reported later to the count. Faerdral straightened himself and began to walk across the alley's mouth to the next building, Borial fell in step beside him.

Just then, as Borial looked north down the intersecting street, something warm and wet landed on the right side of his face and down his neck. Pure instinct caused his left hand to draw his throwing dagger from its sheath as he turned. Only Faerdral stood there, his eyes wide and his mouth gasping quietly. Two curious looking bone blades had sprouted from his chest and seemed to raise him off the ground, his toes barely twitching above the cobblestones as his life bled from him.

As Faerdral's dagger fell from his hand, it was only then that Borial noticed it made no sound when it landed, as it should have clattered like a hundred swords in the still night air. Unaccustomed shock flooded Borial's veins, an inexplicable fear paralyzing his body, allowing only his eyes to move.

He saw a thick-scaled limb of some sort trailing away from Faerdral's back, covered in spines and sharp, boney barbs. It ended at the figure of the now quite awake beggar in the alley, twisting out from beneath his tattered robes like the sinuous tail of a serpent. The beggar was lying on his belly, raising himself on gray-skinned arms. Only two glowing eyes the color of late sunset and a smiling mouth of needle-sharp teeth were visible beneath the hood of his dirty robe.

Every muscle in Borial's body screamed to move, but pulsing waves of power were pouring from the beggar's violently trembling body. Uncontrollable fear weighed Borial down, he fell to his knees, his own dagger silently clattering to the street as his hands went limp.

Watching the form of the beggar grow larger, his neck lengthening, the robes filling with small veins and stretching out on still growing bones, Borial realized he'd never once prayed to any god save Tymora, the Lady of Luck, in all his life.

He saw the body of Faerdral shake like a rag doll and fall as the incredibly long tail whipped its twin blades from his back.

Borial stared into the much larger glowing eyes, rimmed in small barbs and sharp horns, fangs like ivory swords shined in the moonlight as the beast's wings folded to its sides.

He never once prayed again. His last sight being the harsh red-orange glow of late sunset over a field of teeth.

Kelmar dressed himself the next day, angry, the past night's complete failure still fresh on his mind. Not only did the assassins fail to even spot the beast called Grim, two of them got themselves killed, increasing the level of alarm in the city. This game was drawing too much attention for his taste.

His head still ached from using the amulet. He knew somehow that it was either linked to Grim or its magic assisted in locating the beast's kind. He wasn't sure if the pain and nightmare of activating it were worth the insanity of hunting the creature.

He strapped on his sword belt and the elegant silver-handled saber that had earned him quite a reputation in days gone by.

For many a year he'd merely been the good for nothing youngest son of the Dargren family. A nobody in the shadow of his late brother Count Lukan. His family's piousness and loyalty to the throne sickened him and he'd taken to drinking and dueling. His skill with the blade had drawn the attention of the School of Stealth, who saw in him a chance to gain another contact among the nobles. Kelmar had seen in them a useful and profitable ally.

He walked down the stairs to the common room of the Whispering Maiden. One of the newer inns built in the Garden District as part of the reconstruction period after the war. He enjoyed the luxury of the place and its discreetness. He had his own manor a few miles outside the city, his family's estate, but he preferred it here in the city. It proved easier in keeping an eye on things.

The common room was mostly empty now, but the smiling barkeep graciously had a small breakfast prepared for the count, despite it being already late in the afternoon. Kelmar sneered at the quail's eggs and bacon on his plate, the pain in his head having affected his stomach as well. He drank lustily of the spiced ale the inn had become famous for, then ordered another. He'd tempered his drinking since his younger days, but never lost the taste for it.

The nervous barmaid brought his second ale, wary of catching his eye, well accustomed to his moods and tempers. Kelmar paid her no mind, his thoughts far away from the inn, staring into the frothy surface of the ale. He tempted the veil of memory between him and his recent past once again, trying to peer into those secrets being kept even from himself.

The pain returned with a roar of fury through his head, he screamed, his fists clenching, knocking over the ale he'd ordered. The barmaid flinched, the barkeep shooing her away to the kitchens with a worried glance at the count. Kelmar breathed deeply, his eyes tightly shut, focusing on the present, no more of the past.

As the pain receded, the images came again. The amulet was warm and glowing beneath his black silk shirt, he gripped it through the cloth as he experienced another grotesquely of bloody images, terror filled eyes, and the taste of blood in his mouth. He almost grew ill at the last, but held his composure as the images too began to fade away.

It is time to explore other options, he thought.

He knew he'd been foolish to use the School of Stealth in all of this. Without telling them the nature of their target they were too ill-prepared for the beast, but Kelmar was determined to keep Grim's identity to himself, until he knew more about the circumstances that had brought the creature to Zazesspur. He had other suspicions as well, feelings that stirred in his heart and chilled his blood, but those he could not even admit to himself just yet. He had to know more.

He left the inn and made his way to the Carpet District on foot, enjoying the stares of the common folk as he walked amongst them. He never denied the rumors that he'd killed his brother Lukan, but neither did he address them.

Let them think what they will, he thought, rumor and fear can be powerful allies.

He kept close to the northeastern curve of the streets, avoiding the glare of early sunset and the aching twinge it brought to his sensitive eyes. The Carpet District had once been an area of ill-reputation before the war, currently under reconstruction and new laws it endeavored like all of Zazesspur to restore a more favorable opinion to itself. Kelmar shook his head at fond memories long past as he surveyed the newly restored shops and productive citizens slowly beginning to return to their homes in the fading light. He nodded to a small patrol of civic guardsmen, noting their lighter numbers during the day and dreading their annoyingly greater presence in the evening.

At last he came to a small stone building, at one time having had two stories, but a fire had seen to the upper half long ago. The lower half remained in liveable condition, though he loathed entering it at all.

Opening its slightly charred wooden door without knocking, he peered into the darkness seeking a familiar form usually huddled there. The scents of jasmine and sandalwood greeted him mixed with other smells best left unknown. A voice called out from behind him as he shut the door and bolted the latch.

"I could have killed you, little nephew." The voice was a dry whisper that carried throughout the room like the echo of a waterfall.

Kelmar smiled as he turned to the speaker and said, "You knew I was coming, dear aunt, else you would not have left the door unlocked."

"Hmph," was all the reply he received besides some shifting noises and quiet mutterings about the arrogance of youth.

The count lifted a lantern from the small table by the door and carried it over to the stone fireplace where his aunt usually sat in a well worn cushioned chair. She'd refused his offer of a new chair when he'd taken over the family's finances and he did not push the issue. The offer had been reflexive and he didn't really care all that much for her comfort.

"Pyrasa," she said in the spidery and flowing language of magic, bringing the lantern flaring to life though there had been no oil in it for ages.

Kelmar looked at his aunt, his mother's twin sister, his expression unmoving and emotionless despite her hideous-ness. She'd grown bald long ago and one eye had been blinded by a falling cinder during the fire that had taken the upper floor of the house. She wouldn't stand for the touch of a healer, so it remained an empty socket surrounded by scar tissue.

She looked him over as well, noting the scar he proudly wore himself, a thin line on his left cheek, a reminder of an old duel and the pain of an inexperienced sword arm. It was his first and last scar. He still wore his coal black hair just past his shoulders. It contrasted sharply with his pale skin. An aftereffect of the nocturnal lifestyle he preferred.

In the silence of her gaze Kelmar began to feel his skin crawl, tiny tendrils of pain twisting through his veins. She was reading him, sifting through his being for the answers she knew he sought. He watched her reactions, reading her as well, waiting for her to find the pain, the nightmares.

Her single eye narrowed as it fell on the spot where the amulet rested beneath his shirt. He could feel it warming next to his skin, growing hotter as her magic neared it. His head began to throb again, the ache pulsing in time with the waves of heat growing from the amulet. He forced himself to remain still, fighting the sensation, clenching his eyes shut.

She gasped then as her magic brushed the edges of the amulet. Her body stiffened and she screamed-a strangled, scratchy sound that electrified the air as it escaped her, followed by a convulsing coughing fit. He heard her as she felt the amulet's power, an unbidden smile coming to his thin lips. He could not explain the feeling, but an acute joy overtook him as she suffered the amulet's touch with her mind. The sudden emotion was confusing and painful to him as well, bringing his headache to the edge of that dark place where the visions hid, the nightmares and omens that tasted of blood and fear.

Her quiet spell was broken. She sat hunched over. Her breath wheezing past wrinkled lips stained with small droplets of blood. The spell had cost her somewhat, using more power than she'd anticipated. She looked up at him, awaiting the answer to the questions she had regarding that same dark place, a place she dared not go.

His own pain subsiding, Kelmar opened his eyes and nonchalantly answered her, "His name isXexillidaulgrymm, I call him Grim. A fang dragon. I feel his hunger, see through his eyes at times, and taste what he tastes, but all at the cost of the pain. I have no memory of encountering this monster before, I simply know things without knowing them." He stopped then, looking at her as she listened.

"There's more to it than that isn't there?" her quick, whispered query lashed at him. "What do you feel? What do you know?" Never once did her eyes leave the soft glow of the amulet, now visible through his shirt.

Kelmar shuddered at his own thoughts, anger welling up in him, his lip curled in quiet rage, and he said, "I think he's taken my soul."

"Possible, but souls are not easily taken. Especially by fang dragons, more known for their appropriate names than their skill with the more sophisticated sorceries involving souls." Her words seemed softer to him, causing the count to suspect she was withholding something, "I wish my sister was still alive, she was the soul-sorceress, more the necromancer than I."

She looked at him sideways, from the corner of her eye, "You will hunt the beast again tonight?"

His determined look had answered her question almost before she'd asked it.

Slowly, on creaking joints, she rose from her chair. She shuffled over to an antique cabinet, filled with bottles and pouches, the source of the room's vague odor. From it she pulled five slivers of string, interwoven with an odorless black herb. Returning to the chair, she handed them to him carefully.

"Tie these charms round the hilts of five swords using a cross knot. When the dragon is joined in battle, slip the knots and release their magic, they will protect you and your men and cause grievous harm to the wyrm."

Kelmar eyed the strings warily, remembering the faces of the dead assassins who'd met the beast.

She added, "Mind that bauble round your neck as well. I don't know where you came by it, but it seems to want to bring you and this Grim together. It will find the dragon for you, though you may well wish it hadn't."

The count stood and nodded to his aunt, still suspecting her for holding back, but he assumed she had her reasons. Without a word he turned and walked out of the uncomfortable stone dwelling, into the darkness of the early evening. Curiously, he heard the bolt latched quickly behind him.

In the shadows of an abandoned shop in the Merchant District, Grim sat in the constricting form of the beggar, staring out at the street through broken windows. The visions had come to him again when he awoke there.

He'd seen the old crone in her little stone hovel, using her human sorceries and muttering little human words. He'd felt the mind of the count seeking him out, using the power of the mysterious amulet. The pain of the search was excruciating, though it thrilled Grim to feel it. His blood burned and his very soul writhed in agony, all the while he grew stronger, more powerful. More deadly.

The smell of fear from outside and the sound of beating hearts informed him that the count had been successful. He'd sent his men to prepare an ambush for him. Four assassins tried to hide amongst the shadows of the surrounding buildings. Clearly, Kelmar hadn't told them yet of Grim's true nature. Thin, ash gray lips pulled back in a smile, revealing an impossible number of sharp teeth.

Fine, he thought, I'll give them their ambush.

He stood then and walked to the door, affecting the limp he'd perfected while in the guise of the old beggar. He made a slow progress to the center of the street and stopped, standing in the moonlight of Selune, waiting for his hunters to attack. He did not smell or sense the presence of the count, cursing Kelmar silently for his cowardice.

The quick snap of crossbows firing amused Grim as he felt the bolts hit his chest and shoulders. The poison they carried had a strong, pungent odor, potent, but useless against him. He shrugged the bolts away. They had only barely pierced the surface of his tough skin.

Taunting them, he used his natural ability to mimic sounds, reproducing the song of a young girl he'd hunted five nights ago. The child's voice floated through the dark streets, the lilting tunes of her rhyme chilling the air of the summer night. The assassins shivered involuntarily and gripped their swords tighter, preparing to release the knotted charms given to them by the count.

As they touched the magic strings, Grim's song stopped, his humor fading in the presence of their magic. Rage replaced it and he stood straighter, more focused. He would not suffer the arrogance of insects who sought death.

They came then on silent feet, from four directions, surrounding Grim. Faster than the eye, Grim rushed the assassin to his left, releasing his hold on the beggar's form. His body rippled as the bonds of magic faded, his bladed tail appearing whiplike from beneath his torn robes, which mended and began expanding into wings.

He twisted his footing and fell to all fours, his long neck turning to face the other three assassins while the fourth was cut in half by his deadly tail. Grim could see the magic glowing on their blades, but sudden fear slowed their steps as the dragon showed himself fully.

He was a horror to behold, every scale of his forty foot long form seemed dedicated to cutting or piercing, barbs and bony horns crowned his fang-filled mouth. His wings were short and unaccustomed to long flight, but were perfect for quick pouncing and leaping. He crouched like a large hunting cat as he approached them, his eyes glowing in anger at their audacity.

The man to Grim's left lunged at him, his faith in the magic blade giving him courage. Grim's tail blades knocked the sword from the assassin's right hand, severing the fingers neatly at the knuckle. Barely had shock begun to register before the tail whipped the man again, disemboweling him.

With Grim's attention diverted momentarily, the assassin to his right slid in silently, swinging his ensorceled blade and scoring a wicked gash in the dragon's right shoulder near his wing joint. Grim roared as the pain of the magic wounded him and reflexively clawed at the offender, talons buried deep into the assassin's unarmored chest sent him flying to crash in a bloody heap against a nearby wall.

All sense fled Grim as the pain in his shoulder became a dull throb. He roared again, releasing the dragonfear he'd kept within. The fear washed over the final assassin in waves, battering against his willpower in rhythm to Grim's massive heartbeat.

The man turned to run, dropping his sword behind him. Grim pounced then, painfully beating his wings in a single thrust, to land on the man's back. His weight had easily crushed the life from the doomed assassin, but in his blood-lust Grim tore the man's body to pieces anyway, crushing the bones and soft flesh in his powerful claws.

Then he stopped, hearing noises approaching from behind him, footsteps walking purposefully toward the grisly scene. Finally, Grim thought, the count arrives to see my work firsthand.

Appearing from a street to the north, a single guardsman stopped as the moonlight revealed the splashes of blood and crumpled bodies. His stomach twisted, seeing the violence of the scene. Looking up to his left he froze as he saw Grim approaching him.

Grim cursed himself for the noise he'd created in his killing. He'd attracted the attention of the civic guard. This one would soon be followed by many more.

Leaping forward before the man could scream or run for help, he clamped his jaws around the guardsman's chest, sinking his fangs through the thin chain shirt and drawing blood.

The man gasped and gurgled, one of his lungs punctured by Grim's bite, as the dragon carried him quickly away to hide in a darkened alley farther down the street.

The bite of the fang dragon, like all of his kind, was draining, stealing a victim's life, leaching one's spirit away in a vice grip of death.

The guard's struggles grew weaker as his life-force fed Grim's injuries, partially closing the wound in his shoulder. Despite the healing he received, pain flared through Grim's chest, causing him to squeeze the man's body even tighter as he collapsed to the ground, hidden in shadow. The pain was like before, but different somehow, coming from within as confusing images flooded his mind.

The amulet, the prize of his hoard that he'd left so long ago near Myth Drannor, floated across his vision. He'd forgotten it had once been his, a powerful artifact he had treasured for centuries. Ancient memories came rushing back to him, particularly the wizard who'd tried to steal his soul, using the amulet to augment his necromancy.

He remembered defeating the wizard, but after that his memories were broken and sketchy. Enemy after enemy had come searching for him, all with the amulet in hand, causing him pain and nightmares. Finally as the pain of memory grew to extremes within his mind, he saw the young face of the civic guard he just killed, stained red and framed in the amulet's glow.

The tortured face grew closer and new memories slammed into his mind with the force of ancient magic. Memories of growing up on a farm outside of Zazesspur, the smell of the fields at harvest, the desire to wield a sword, to help people, to become more than a mere farmer. The energy of the man's life, coursing in the dragon's veins, became a fire in his mind.

Grim passed out as the intensity of the barrage became too painful, his struggling mind too weak to resist such magic.

His skin grew tighter as his consciousness faded, scales disappeared and fangs receded.

The silence of the evening resumed its vigil, blanketing the remains of those that had disturbed it.

Three patrols of civic guard soon arrived from different directions. Their commander, one Captain Begg, began to oversee the investigation and removal of bodies. One of his officers approached him to report.

"Sir, our men have returned from Count Kelmar's estate, from which he'd been absent for a tenday according to the servants. They found no sign of him at the Whispering Maiden either. Should we continue searching for him?"

Captain Begg shook his head slowly, "Don't bother, some hunters found the count's body yesterday, hidden in the woods near where his brother had been killed."

Confused, the officer replied, "But sir, I saw the count just yesterd-"

"I know. And I don't know." The captain shook his head. It had been a trying tenday. He looked up, noticing one of his men standing just outside the murder scene staring aimlessly. "Thaedras? Where have you been? And what happened to you?"

Thaedras turned his head, looked at the bleeding gash in his right shoulder. He could feel a strange warmth against his chest, could feel a necklace of some sort beneath his tunic.

A flicker of pain pulsed behind his eyes as he tried to remember, to answer the captain's question. He clenched his eyes shut as the pain grew, a single vision passing through his mind as the ache slowly faded. A vision of his own death.

He shuddered at the thought.