A Mark of Kings, page 14
part #1 of The Shattered Reigns Series
Declan, however—despite the strange presence of the odd pair—hardly managed to give either of these two a glance.
It was the third figure, instead, that he couldn’t look away from, its dark, inhuman frame more shocking than anything he’d seen thus far.
The creature’s skin was a uniform pattern of smooth black scales, with long, lithe arms extending from a similarly corded chest that—setting aside the curved claws which tipped the slender fingers of its hands—seemed to be modeled after those of a man. The creature’s legs, tucked under the table, appeared only a little less human, scaled thighs, knees, and shins ending in feet that looked to be managed on the balls of taloned toes. A heavy, ridged tail poked out the space in the back of its chair—it bore no clothes to speak of, and seemed unperturbed by this fact—to slink slowly over the grassy floor behind it. Its head, unlike the rest of its body, was distinctly inhuman, blockish and serpentine, a little like the blunt skulls of the caimans that dwelled in the swamplands along Viridian’s southeastern coast, if caimans could have torn a man’s head from his shoulders in one snap. Not helping the image, the creature’s jaw hung slightly agape, revealing pointed white teeth the size of Declan’s little finger.
But it was the being’s eyes where the truth could be found. Its eyes, burning the same gilded shades he was so familiar with, watching him as silently as the others.
The same eyes that had gazed down on him from the smoke-filled sky of the burning forest as he’d remembered dreams of flight and endless skies…
“… Ryn?” Declan managed to get out, barely keeping his voice from catching in his throat. “Is that you?”
The creature’s face, originally so anxiously still it might have been dead stone, twisted in what could only have been described as relief. After a moment’s hesitant delay, it slowly got up, pushing itself onto its feet, and approached Declan around the table cautiously. Only when it stopped just within reach of him did Declan realize just how big it was—an easy head taller than even he—towering at least seven feet high in all.
It took every fiber of will he possessed not to draw the blade at his side.
Give me your hand.
The voice was familiar, even and calm within his head, but all the same the shock of it made Declan start and take a half-step back, gaping at the beastly thing he just couldn’t convince himself was his life-long companion. Again his mind struggled to keep pace. He had witnessed Ryn assume the form of a horse. Had seen him hunt as a wolf. Had watched him take flight as a soaring black hawk. Those transformations he had lived with all his days, hardly questioning the abilities when Ryn had chosen not to speak of them himself.
But this… This was something altogether different…
What are you? he tried to get out, transfixed by the creature’s reptilian features, only to have his voice fail him.
“Give him your hand. He won’t hurt you.”
The gentle words made Declan jump and look around. Unbeknownst to him, the half-elf had come to stand by his elbow, her footsteps muffled in the thick grass. She was smiling at him again, almost sadly, like she understood something of his confusion, of his fear.
It was disconcerting to witness, in a way, after the impassive glare which had been all she’d allowed him when they’d last been face-to-face…
When Declan did nothing, the woman laughed softly and—before he could think to protest—took his hand in hers. Her fingers were warm against his palm, soothing even, but just the same he couldn’t help but tense at her touch, earning another light laugh.
“Give him your hand, Declan,” she said again, her smile brighter this time, lifting his arm up slowly.
Declan didn’t bother asking how she knew his name. Instead, he resisted her instinctively, glancing back at the towering humanoid that stood before him, who’d now extended its own open hand expectantly. Declan couldn’t help but hesitate, couldn’t help but pause even if it was Ryn’s eyes that stared at him from that frightening face. The woman squeezed his palm, though, coaxing him on.
Finally—all the while asking himself once again at what point he’d left his sanity behind in the last few days—Declan allowed her to guide his arm forward, settling tense fingers against the cool, smooth scales of the creature’s waiting palm.
For a moment, nothing happened, and Declan wondered what was going on.
Then the dam broke for a second time, and the images came in a rush that almost brought him to his knees, and his body spasmed against the discomfort of the mental plunge.
Once more, he smelled the smoke and blood, heard the shearing sound of steel, the screams of the dying and the roar of disgorged fire. He gasped, legs weakening beneath him as he saw the corpses of soldiers and beasts alike scattered across the cliffs once more, and he hardly registered the still-unnamed half-elf taking him about the waist with her other arm, bearing part of his weight. Mercifully, in that moment of panic, the visions suddenly slowed, the memories coming easier, more carefully. They leafed across his mind with deliberate care, imprinted over the world he stood in, like someone was meticulously thumbing through the pages of a book.
“W-what are you doing?” he stammered, voice coming out strained, unable to think straight as whatever the presence was delved deeper his mind. The creature before him held its silence, and the recollections began to stream by faster. Declan saw the snow-capped ridge of the mountains, taking in the world from high above. He made out the pounding of wings and the echoing calls shivering through the winter. Lands and plains moved by below in bursts, lakes and rivers changing shape and form in the space of an instant. The brown-eyed woman. The ring. The dead rising from where they’d fallen. The world was a blur, and soon Declan was once more having trouble distinguishing what was present, and what was past.
Then, just when he thought he was going to faint again, the visions stopped. Declan realized he was thinking, unbidden, of the dream he’d had the previous night, poised above the clouds, bearing witness to the new day and the rising sun.
The bestial being before him stilled suddenly, its eyes distant as it, too, undoubtedly, took in the images. After several more seconds, it carefully pulled its hand away from Declan’s, who sagged as he regained control of his own thoughts. The woman at his side helped him take a step back, leaning him up against the open doorway behind them, and he mumbled his thanks as his body slowly recovered from the intrusion.
That last memory was your own. How did you get it?
Ryn’s voice again. Declan had been expecting it, but still couldn’t keep himself from flinching.
“A dream,” he replied breathlessly, looking up at the monstrous figure. “Last night. I’ve never had it before.”
A look passed across the creature’s face that told Declan this news was not remotely welcome. It stared at him almost angrily, but he could tell the thing was looking beyond him, its mind taken by other concerns.
“You… You are Ryn… right?” Declan asked again, standing straighter as his legs finally found and reclaimed their own strength.
The creature’s eyes cleared, and it studied him for a long moment, like it was sizing up whether or not he could handle the answer.
Finally, it nodded.
Yes, Declan, the voice said quietly. I am Ryn.
And then it began to change.
The reptilian head grew, and its muscled arms thinned out as it fell on all fours in the grass beside the table. Its neck lengthened while its tail shrank, pulling into its body even as the scales of its skin seemed to crack and split into a thousand slivers, forming sleek hair. Within seconds, the black horse stood before them again, and Declan couldn’t help but breathe easier, seeing his friend back in a form he could wrap his head around, at least for the moment.
All the same, the shock of the situation was far from dissipating. He didn’t even notice the woman still holding on to him, supporting him up while he struggled to comprehend. Fortunately, this time he managed to get the question out, his voice as even as his hammering heart would allow.
“What are you?”
At this, the old man at the table blinked, turning in confusion to Ryn, his strange robes shifting over what looked to be a short, stocky frame. They made Declan think of physician’s mantles, complete with a multitude of pockets and linings, but were colored very oddly. Rather than the stark-white or blue of the trained surgeons of the capitals’ medical colleges, these robes were stained in a myriad of greens and browns and reds, like a scattering of turning leaves. Even the hood, pulled high over his head despite what felt like a return of the summer warmth, was stained in such a fashion.
Abruptly, Declan rather suspected he knew whose incomprehensible home he was standing in.
“What is he talking about?” The stranger’s slow question was addressed to the black stallion. “Have you never…?”
Ryn threw the man a quick glare. Of course I never told him! What good would it have done, aside from invite in trouble I couldn’t control? He shook his wide head in a disgruntled fashion. I don’t think any of this has made that remotely easier to do so, either.
The old man stared at him. “But… his parents? You said he carries it through his father? Surely he must have thought to—?”
Declan’s father passed when he was very young, Ryn cut the man off. Even if that hadn't been the case, it wouldn’t have changed anything. Ertus knew nothing of this either.
“What?” the stranger hissed in disbelief, eyes widening. “How long have—?” He stopped himself, apparently coming to some realization as his mouth dropped open. When he found his voice again, the man’s questions were tinged with something between sadness and anger. “How many generations of this family have you been watching over? Twenty? Thirty? And you never told any of them…?”
Ryn nodded slowly. Elalyn knew, he said, sounding like he wasn’t altogether pleased to admit even this much. Herst told her, against my better counsel. She was the last. Sehren, her son, wasn’t even five when she died…
“And you never told him yourself…” the old man finished for the horse slowly, leaning back in his chair heavily, clearly following Ryn’s words far better than Declan was as he stared blankly between the two of them. Apparently sharing something of a similar thought in that moment, the old stranger met his eyes. “Well… I think it’s about time you changed your ways…”
Apparently, was all Ryn answered with, turning, too, to look at Declan. Apparently…
After that, though, there was only silence.
“Oh. come on,” the half-elf at Declan’s side finally cut across the awkward pause, distinctly annoyed and finally sliding her arm out from around his back, stepping towards the other pair. “The last thing he probably remembers is the disaster in the woods! You bloody owe it to him, Ryn.”
It’s not so easy, Ester, Ryn answered her pointedly. Telling you was one thing. Bonner has exposed you to this world your entire life. Declan has not had the same opportunity.
At that, Declan mouthed at the air, trying to put his bewilderment into words, but the woman—Ester, it would seem—threw her hands up in exasperation.
“Only because you shielded him from it!” she insisted. “The man just survived a ghoul attack! The least you can do is buck up and tell him why!”
“Esteria…” the old stranger Ryn had called “Bonner” started warningly from his seat by the table, but the half-elf cut across him, too.
“No,” she snapped, glaring between the robed figure and the horse. “Even leaving the draugr aside, he—” she waved furiously at Declan “—just lugged me around for the better part of two days, saved my life at least twice and almost died as many times, and killed five men in the process. Can you blame me for thinking he’s earned the right to know his own history?”
Almost a millennia of history, Ryn answered, still not looking away from Declan, but his tone hinted that the woman was testing his patience. Of which—I would remind you—you’ve been around for hardly a fraction.
“Which puts me in the best position to speak for him when I say he needs to know.” Ester seemed to sense that she was pushing her luck with the horse, her voice no longer edged with impatience. Instead, it was closer to pleading. “Things are happening, Ryn. You know it, and Father knows it. Declan should as well.”
“She’s not wrong…” Bonner chimed in with a sing-song voice, earning himself yet another glare from the horse.
“W-wait…” Declan finally managed, stumbling over the word while his thoughts raced to keep pace, trying to make sense of the jumbled conversation. “Herst? Elalyn? Wh-who are they? And what are ghouls? A-and draugr?” He struggled to keep track of all his questions. “And what do you mean my ‘history?’”
At this last question, the other three fell quiet, all eyes on him once again.
Finally, Ryn spoke up. What do you remember of yesterday, Declan?
Declan blanched at the question, not so sure he wanted to think more about the events of the previous evening than he had to. All the same, he swallowed, and did his best to answer steadily. “We… We left The Woodsman’s Rest in the morning, looking for the hermit like Brohn and Dia suggested.” He paused to glance at the old man, who had “harrumph”-ed at his words and muttered something that sounded like “hermit, my foot.”
After that, Ryn pressed Declan, ignoring the robed stranger. After we followed the trail. What do you recall?
Declan grimaced. “The attack. I remember the attack. The bodies… They were… moving…”
Ryn nodded steadily at that, meeting his eyes carefully. Ghouls, the horse told him. A type of draugr, though you can call them whatever you like: lurchers, walkers. The elves call them ‘yn’feri’. In the end, whatever name you choose amounts to the same thing: corpses, reanimated with black magic, bestowed with a Purpose that drives them ceaselessly towards their given goal.
Declan felt his hands go numb. “Magic?” he repeated faintly. “‘A-a purpose’?”
In answer, Ryn shot an angry look at Ester, who’d stepped closer to Declan again, anxiously watching him like she was afraid he might need her arm once more. I said it was too much, the horse half-snarled in clear irritation.
Before Ester could respond, Declan interrupted. “N-no,” he wheezed, watching his friend with wide eyes. “Tell me… Tell me more… How do you know this?” He glanced at the others. “How do you all know this? And who are you?”
“Apparently, I’m a ‘hermit’.” The old man’s grunted response was something between amused and resigned.
How else would you describe yourself? Ryn asked him with a raised eyebrow. Even I didn’t know you were out here. I only started to suspect when I smelled you on Ester when we first found her. He looked back at Declan, bobbing his head in the direction of the half-elf. You’ve already met Esteria, of a fashion, I believe, so I’ll let her make her own introductions later. This, however—he indicated the old man at the table with a flick of his muzzle—is her father, Bonner Fehn, a very old friend of mine, and the reason the two of you are standing here with nothing more than a few scars to show for the last two days.
“yr’Essel,” Bonner corrected with a smile, bowing his head briefly in Declan’s direction. “Bonner yr’Essel, now, as I have been for more years than I can count. Remind yourself that the er’enthyl are a matriarchy before you go and marry an elf, boy.” He chuckled at his own joke before waving a hand at his daughter. “As for how we know these things, Esteria has been fortunate enough to have learned through study and explanation.” He glanced at Ryn. “As for the pair of us…”
Bonner and I—the horse picked up for him—have a more hands-on experience. When it comes to the ghouls… He paused shortly, studying Declan’s face before continuing. We helped throw what we thought were the last of them over a cliff, more than seven hundred years ago.
For a long time, Declan stared at his friend, wondering if he’d misheard the statement. When Ryn did nothing more than meet his gaze evenly, he finally choked out the obvious question that came to mind.
“S-seven hundred years?!” he demanded. “How can you be seven hundred years old?!”
Ryn gave him a sad sort of smile, at that.
Oh, I’m older than that, Declan. That’s rather young, in fact, for a dragon.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Thump.
Declan saw himself slide down the frame of the door as though from a great distance, not even registering the cushioned thud of his rear hitting the grass, or Ester’s scrambled attempt to catch him as his legs finally gave up on trying to keep him standing. From his place on the floor he stared up at Ryn, taking in the horse’s form as he fought to come to grips with his friend’s words.
“What…?” he started unevenly. Ester crouched down at his side, putting a hand on his shoulder to keep him steady. “What… did you say?”
You heard me fine. Ryn sounded resigned, taking a step closer. I don’t need to repeat it.
Absently, Declan nodded, watching the stallion come to stand over him. He remembered vividly the indistinct shape of the colossal head towering above him in the smoke-choked air of the ruined forest. He recalled the gleam of those known eyes shining down on him through the smog. First ghouls, then magic…
Now… this?
Declan didn’t know what to think, much less what to say. It was like two parts of his mind were battling against each other, one half screaming that he should have known all along, the other half fighting with all its might to cling to the concept he held of this oldest friend.
“You’re not…” were the only words he managed to get out, unable to look away from Ryn. “You can’t be…”
