The Tainted Sword

Chapter VII

Yvaughan pulled back the blanket and bit her Up. Her brutally deformed infant son lay there in the white-and-gold crib. Four nights ago, after a long and difficult delivery, Yvaughan had given birth to the child. She had screamed upon first seeing her son—one half of his head missing along with one eye, the hands twisted and corrupted with lesions, and the stump of a third leg forming out of his back, almost as if it were a tail. His bluish skin indicated he had stopped breathing, and for one hope-filled moment she thought the baby was stillborn. But Maldrake roared, pushed through the healers, and grabbed his infant boy. He shook the baby, screaming that he must live. The infant gasped and drew his first breath, and Yvaughan sank into a miasma of pain and horror.

Still recovering from her ordeal, Yvaughan stood now before the crib, clutching the rail for support. Her eyes fastened on the thing before her, the thing called her son. Even after four days he hadn’t died, though Teryl and the castle’s clerics had all sworn the child wouldn’t live, that he would die and be at peace.

These predictions brought curses from Lord Maldrake, who insisted that they give the infant the best care and magical healing possible. For three days and nights he haunted the nursery, making certain no one spoke of his son in any way that displeased him. Yvaughan meanwhile kept to her bed, unable and unwilling to see the creature called her son. Maldrake cursed her, too, and called in a wet nurse to feed the child. Only the direst threats to her family kept the woman with them after seeing the infant. But when Brisbois had returned earlier today, Maldrake had left immediately on an urgent matter. He’d commanded his son’s nurse to keep the boy alive.

Tonight, in the darkest hour, Yvaughan slipped from her bed, secure in the knowledge that Maldrake wasn’t at the castle. She faltered coming into the room, but then her resolve hardened, and she made her way to the beribboned bassinet.

It still hasn’t died, Yvaughan thought as she looked down on the baby, refusing to think of it as her son. It must die. I must kill it, for I gave it life. Weakly she picked up a tiny white pillow, one she had lovingly embroidered herself, and looked again at the hideously contorted mouth of her son. Give me strength, she prayed as a wave of wracking pain flowed through her. She steadied herself against the crib. Give me the strength to kill this monster. He’s evil, he’s evil. I know he’s evil. With one hand she held out the pillow and placed it on her son’s mouth. She pressed down. A tear formed on her cheek.

“My lady!” Teryl stood in the nursery’s doorway. “You are awake at this hour!” He advanced into the room, his eyes on Yvaughan, her hand holding the pillow over the child’s mouth. “Is there something wrong?”

Yvaughan stared uneasily at the aged mage. His withered form looked dark in the moonlight, like a living shadow. Suddenly she felt unsure of Teryl Auroch, the man whom she called friend. “Teryl,” she whispered, taking the pillow away from the baby. She covered her eyes with her hands, for she couldn’t bear to look at the infant anymore. “The child—he’s dead….”

“Let me check, lady. Sometimes infants breathe irregularly,” Teryl soothed. The mage came to the crib and looked down at the deformed baby.

Yvaughan could bear it no more, and she took a few faltering steps away, clutching at the little pillow. Teryl reached down into the crib with his right hand and said, “Poor, poor little baby.” His left hand fluttered convulsively, and he murmured words she didn’t understand. She thought she heard the child gasp and her own breath faltered. Fervently she hoped the mage wouldn’t cast a spell to keep the child alive.

The mage walked over to Yvaughan’s side and put his hand on her arm. The hand did not shake. Teryl looked at Yvaughan, his face swathed in dark shadows. His teeth flashed coldly, though his voice was warm with concern. “Lady, we knew it would happen sooner or later. Do not grieve. The child’s death was all for the better; he’s at peace now.” He put an arm around Yvaughan. “Come. Let me return you to your chamber.”

Stumbling out of the nursery, Yvaughan allowed herself to be led back to her room. She was numb with emotion. “How… how will I tell Maldrake?” she whispered. Her eyes were wide and unblinking.

“Leave that to me, my lady,” soothed Teryl. “When Lord Maldrake returns in the morning, I will tell him the tragic news. Now, he down and rest, lady. I will send someone to tend you.”

Yvaughan’s blue eyes were glazed. “Thank you, Teryl. A cup of warm tea would be delightful.” The white and green bird hopped to her pillow, rested its bill next to Yvaughan’s ear, and cooed.

As night settled on the little village of Bywater, a dark, menacing shape glided in broad circles above its single street. The creature’s wings of leather whispered on the evening breeze. He watched as townsfolk closed their shops and walked quietly to their houses. Not one of them looked to the sky. Even the lamplighters did not look beyond the glow of their lanterns.

But then a horse neighed shrilly, and others took up the cry. They tugged at their hitching rings. A few lucky ones pulled free. They raced toward the forest east of Bywater, leaving their mates behind. The remaining horses pulled fearfully against the reins, rearing to break free.

The dragon descended. He hovered above the struggling horses, his golden eyes malevolently studying their fear. Lower the dragon came, its massive talons sinking into view from the lamplight. One claw-tipped hand seized a piebald pony as a child might grasp a toy. The pony bucked and kicked to keep the fearsome claws at bay, but to no avail. The talon wrenched the pony from the ground, snapping its haltered neck. The dragon flung the limp body across the road, where it smashed through the window of the abandoned winery. The remaining horses screamed. Lunging into the pack, the great wyrm set both claws to the slaughter. In moments seven horses lay dying, their death rattles rising into the air as their blood sank to the ground.

Townspeople rushed out, a few with swords in hand, but most with bows or axes. Baildon threw open his mercantile, arming the farmers with his most powerful weapons and giving the bowyers all the arrows he possessed. The people had known the dragon was back in the Wulfholdes, but they never dreamed the wyrm would come so far south to their little village. They were not cowards, however, and they would defend what was rightly theirs.

The townspeople rushed from the mercantile, shouting angrily and brandishing picks and flails. As they approached the gruesome carnage, however, their courage melted. They halted, their angry words dying in the sounds of the horses’ screams. Dropping their makeshift weapons, some of the villagers turned and fled.

The dragon stomped past the scattered bodies of the horses. He turned to the townspeople, and his golden eyes positively glowed. The remaining folk fell back as sudden fear gripped their hearts. A lucky handful of villagers ran in stunned terror, leaving the doomed village behind. The others were too stricken to move. The dragon hissed, and a large green cloud spewed from his maw. The vapor covered the throng of remaining defenders, and they began to cough and wheeze at the choking cloud. Many fell to the muddy snow, their limbs writhing with deadly spasms. The dragon advanced.

It was a brutal massacre, according to the accounts of those few who survived. The great wyrm simply advanced and slew all those who stood before him. His wings beat down and buffeted those his arms couldn’t reach to rend. His tail lashed out behind and battered those few who tried to stand after his initial attack. But most horrible of all was his mouth, with its rows of wicked, pointed teeth that snapped constantly. That maw delivered death and dismemberment left and right.

The carnage did not end when the folk lay dead; it continued throughout that long, terrifying night. The beast couldn’t be stopped. The archers shot arrow after arrow, but they could not penetrate the dragon’s hide. They shot at the leathery wings, the glassy eyes, and the blood-gorged mouth. These attacks only infuriated the beast to a greater rage.

Bywater’s only wizard, who had prudently waited for the initial attack to subside before he appeared, had prepared all his best spells in defense of the village. By relaying messages through archers and runners, the villagers planned their next move. The archers would let loose a barrage of arrows. Under that cover, four or five of the most skilled men would attack the dragon’s rear flanks, using the merchant’s magical weapons. Then, while the dragon was being distracted on all sides, the mage would launch his spells.

All worked as planned. The arrows whistled toward the beast’s eyes and mouth and wings, the weapons bit into his flanks, and lightning streaked through the air toward the creature’s massive heart. But the dragon ignored the raining missiles, flicked his tail and took out the rear guard, and launched his own spell at the mage who challenged him. The dragon’s ball of fire engulfed the mage and all the farmers surrounding him. The fire exploded backward and onto the blacksmith’s shop. Before long, the south side of the street was in flames.

The horses on the street were dead, many of them disemboweled. Two-thirds of the townsmen lay dead as well. The people of Bywater were shattered—their last hope had died with the mage. Those few who still had their wits about them turned and fled the town.

But Verdilith was still not finished. The glow in his eyes grew red, and his teeth gleamed evilly. The light of a few remaining lanterns cast a faint glow on the gleaming green hide of the beast as he coursed the street. He sniffed the smoke-filled air, and a line of saliva fell hissing from his mouth. He reached toward the front of a house. The wooden doors groaned as he ripped them from their hinges. Next came the screams of women and children hidden inside.

By water rang with the cries of the dying that night, and the cries of the living on every night thereafter.

The dragon winged his way north and to the east after ravaging Bywater. The town had sated his blood and appeased his cruel appetites, but the night wasn’t finished. He slowed his flight once he crossed the fork of the river and entered the hills surrounded on either side by the Castellan and the Highreach rivers. Greasetongue’s orc tribe claimed this treacherous land for its own. The dragon would call on the Rooster’s tribe located farther west after his work here was done.

Verdilith scented the air carefully, changed his direction, and flew another thirty wingspans before spying the light of a fire well hidden in the rugged hills. He went into a slow spiral to give himself time to take in the temperament of the camp before the orcs could discover his presence.

Gliding in lower, the wyrm laughed, a low rumble that started at the base of his long neck and worked its way out of his mouth as a roar. Shrieks filled the air, and Verdilith was pleased by the pleasant sound of his prey. He was going to enjoy this.

Maldrake stared at the white pillow Teryl Auroch had just handed him. The blond lord didn’t move, and Brisbois was moved to compassion for his friend. He said as gently as he could, “Yvaughan’s young yet, Maldrake. There’ll be other children.”

Maldrake burst into movement. He threw the pillow at Teryl’s feet and rounded on Brisbois. “She killed my son! Didn’t you hear Teryl? There will be no more children!” The noble threw up his hands and began circling the small chamber in the tower that the three of them used for meetings. “The plan’s ruined! Completely ruined!”

“The plan?” Brisbois asked, puzzled.

“The, ah, plan to have his son inherit the estates of Penhaligon, should the baroness not take a husband,” Teryl rejoined smoothly as Maldrake paced the room.

“Arteris is still young! What’s Maldrake thinking of?” Brisbois asked the mage. The knight stared at Teryl Auroch and wondered just what had happened last night. Today the wizard had lost much of his nervousness, as well as his obsequiousness. He’d even lost the habit of shaking, which had always annoyed Brisbois enormously. Teryl’s new steadiness, however, annoyed Brisbois even more.

Maldrake whirled on the two men. “You!” he pointed to Teryl. “Get back to Yvaughan’s side. You failed me by not keeping my son alive last night, by not watching that woman. Fail me again, Teryl Auroch, and you won’t like the consequences!” Maldrake’s green eyes glittered with wrath in the sunlight, but Teryl merely bowed calmly and left without a word.

The blond lord turned on Brisbois and grabbed his blue tunic. Maldrake stared up at Brisbois and growled, “I blame you for the death of my son, Brisbois.”

Brisbois’ eyes grew wide with innocent fear. “Me? Maldrake, why me? I left last night only to attend to another crisis. I suppose you blame me for the dragon’s slaughter at the stable, too!”

“That’s not it,” Maldrake hissed, giving the knight a contemptuous push and turning away. The lord paced the room twice before turning on Brisbois again. “If you had killed Flinn and not just destroyed his home, I wouldn’t have had to go out last night. I could have protected my son from that woman.”

Brisbois snapped, “Flinn had too much help for me to take them all on, and he was never alone long enough for me to finish the deed. Besides, does Flinn really have to die? Isn’t burning his house enough?”

Maldrake screamed. “No, it’s not! He’s the one who’s made Yvaughan what she is, Brisbois! Can’t you see that? Yvaughan’s been hearing his voice—what other evidence do you want? He’s trying to get her back! He knows I have her, and now he wants her back.”

Brisbois shook his head. “Now wait a minute, Maldrake,” he said sternly. “Flinn didn’t even know you and Yvaughan were in love when the council stripped him of knighthood, unless you told him and didn’t tell me. It’s possible Flinn doesn’t even know you married her—I certainly didn’t tell him.” Brisbois hit his fist on the lacquered table, an inspired light entering his eyes. “Maldrake! Did you notice how Teryl acted? Something strange has happened to him—he’s not his usual kowtowing self. Maybe he killed your son! I don’t trust him, and I never have!”

Maldrake peered at Brisbois from beneath his heavy-lidded eyes. “Brisbois, my dear Brisbois, Teryl would never harm my son,” the young lord said, his lips curling into a sneer of a smile. Maldrake extended a chair for the knight. “I think it’s time I tell you a thing or two….”