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Bloodied Crown, Part 3
🕑 Added 2023-04-11 04:13:48 +0000 UTC**Authors Note: This chapter contains an excess of inworld dialogue and world-building. Important lines will be Bolded and otherwise large sections can be skipped. It is important the information is still there, for lore junkies or for curious people who like fantasy lore explanations. For all others, feel free to skip past the lengthier or wordier parts.**
***PART 3: Nature of Agony***
The roads back through Bardon twisted and wound throughout the countryside, flanked on all sides by the vast, once verdant fields now turned cemetery, as well as a dried riverbed and a huge swathe of forest. The dark pines loomed above the wagon train, casting shadows upon them even in the brightest of noontime sunlight.
The smell had diminished somewhat, the further away they got from the large corpse fields, but that did not change the sense of unease and dread that settled upon the men and women walking on those roughly paved paths and trails. The air was fetid and heavy, the ground pulled at their feet, and despite how far they traveled, the terrain never seemed to change much. Worse than all that, they all felt eyes, sinister, malevolent, and hungry, watching them at all times, lurking in the barely seen shadows of the trees. Tensions were high, and not a man amongst them slept easily.
It had been three days since they had captured the Dread Knight. In all that time, she had not moved much, or even at all save for the smallest shifting of that large, armored frame. The soldiers stayed well away from the iron cage, having since learned just what kind of deadly cargo they were helping transport back to the safety of civilization. Volunteers for those who would ride on the front of the prison wagon were scarce, and every night, a lottery was called to see which four-man team was assigned to watch over the wagon during alternating shifts. Abelaard had been very clear with the men as to the dangers of their charge. The enchantments upon the lock and cage were supposedly strong enough to contain the thing, but even being that near to it cast an aura of malice upon the guards, worsened by that ever-present sense of being watched.
Only one amongst the wagon train was willing to take the duties whenever no one else would. In fact, he asked for the task whenever he was allowed to. The others might have scoffed, and Hadrian more than once voiced his displeasure for it, but it still needed to be done. And no could curb Jericho's enthusiasm when dealing with a task that no one else wished to do.
***
"So, I have another question," Jericho said, half-turned around in the wagon's seat, facing the Dread Knight, and jotting things down furiously in his notepad with one of his most simple inventions, that being a quill. Specifically, a metal quill that contained its own select tube of ink so that he did not need the well to dip into. He simply exchanged cartridges as needed. His notebook rested on a small lap-desk, collapsible frame suspended above his lap by a series of metal pieces that allowed him to write without being jarred by the bumps of the road. His notes were well cataloged and spaced out, separated with bullet points, key parts underlined, and specific names, titles, or phrases written in a different color. He was well into the second of such journals, having filled the previous one already.
The silence of his passenger only encouraged his exuberance. While she never instigated their conversations, she was a very lucrative and fluent speaker when prompted. Her intelligence was unquestionable, but the others never seemed to see the value of it.
"Stories all tell about how Dread Knights are resurrected knights and warriors, brought back from the grave by dark magic. Does this kind of magic have a definitive source? If so, why do some Dread Knights have different kinds of magic from their fellows? Why are some of your kind in the legends portrayed as unfeeling monsters with no thought other than destruction, while others are adept commanders and tacticians? Is there a difference between Necromantic Knights and Demonic Knights? Are there any other kinds? What's the difference between a Dread Knight and a Wight or a Vampire? Do you require sustenance like a mortal? I've seen you eat your meals before, but is it a necessity? Can you supplement food with other sources of nourishment?"
Those green eyes gazed at him flatly, the face beneath the helmet never changing, never flickering with tell of emotion, thought, or inner turmoil. She simply watched, and brooded, and occasionally...
"Nine," the Dread Knight muttered, dispassionate voice still loud enough to be heard over the rumble of the cart's wheels, the rattle and hum of the ensorcelled iron cage, and the jingling of the surrounding soldiers' collective suits of armor.
"I'm sorry?" asked Jericho, glancing up from his desk and quill.
"That was nine questions. If you are going to ask so many, at least be honest as to the quantity. Or were you asking for me to answer any one of them that I felt inclined to?"
Jericho flushed and chuckled. "Whoops, my apologies." He grinned at her as if he had not done this countless times over the last few days of travel. "I just don't know anyone else who had the opportunity to sit down and actually chat with one of your kind. I'm trying to get it all down for posterity."
She blinked at him. "Understandable," she droned. "But if you wish clear, concise answers, you should ask your queries more slowly. I answer in time when I wish to. Badger me so relentlessly and I shall quickly tire of the conversation, reach out, and break your neck. Then perhaps I might enjoy my journey in relative silence."
He laughed, as if she had not so politely just threatened to kill him. Again. He coughed then, covering his mouth with his wrist. The Dread Knight watched him do so. "I'm sorry, I'll try and ask more slowly and wait for your responses with patience." He beamed at the armored warrior. "Should I start over?"
She nodded.
"All right then..." he said, glancing down at his notes. "Ah yes, let's start with the first question just now. What sort of magic is used, typically, to resurrect or create a Dread Knight?"
She closed her eyes, and for a moment seemed as if she were not going to answer. She had done that from time to time, as if ignoring him, only for Jericho to wait her out until she saw fit to respond. Those emerald orbs opened again, fixating once more upon the Half-Elf. "Dread Knights are created through a magical ritual known as the Sanguine-Simulacrum." Jericho immediately began to scribble, using shorthand for one column after which he would go back and write out in length. "Taught to practitioners of the Fell arts by otherworldly sources, of which I am not aware of nor inclined to relay here, this ritual involves the body of a known, specifically named creature or person. These individuals are reputed warriors, often of the Divine Faith, since a Dread Knight needs a both physically and spiritually powerful mortal form to contain and reassimilate a soul."
Jericho wrote all of this down. "Simulacrum..." he sounded out as he paused in his note-taking. "From the scholar's definition 'a representation or imitation of a person or thing'?" She nodded. "Sanguine is the term used to describe blood or living material. So the ritual is supposedly named after the replication or imitation of living flesh?" Again, she nodded. "So will any known warrior's body do, or is it more specific than that?"
She shook her head. "The mage casting the Simulacrum must have personal knowledge of the person they are attempting to raise up as a Dread Knight, as well as access to private details of their lives that puts their mortal soul in jeopardy."
"Like spiritual blackmail?" queried the Half-Elf.
"In a way," she confirmed, voice still dispassionate and without any hint of inflection. "A warrior of faith, such as a Paladin, often dies in the grace of their God or Goddess, and as such their soul is protected in the afterlife. Paladins draw their strength and fortitude from divine blessings and augmentations that put them above the common knight or warrior. They are immune to disease and magical ailments, protected from fear, and blessed with longevity and often agelessness. These same augmentations change their physical body so that they are more able to handle the transference and channeling of divine energies. Any Cleric can confirm this."
"Fascinating..." muttered Jericho. "I admit, I've questioned several Paladins, but they've never been agreeable enough to divulge the nature of their piety and powers. They claimed it was 'from a higher calling' and that to explain it to a non-blessed person would be like explaining the wetness of rain."
"They do not want to give voice to the hypocrisy of their very nature," snorted the Dread Knight. "They condemn the worship and veneration of false idols, call for holy wars to stomp out cults or evil organizations, and expound the purity of faith and body amongst the masses who look upon them as heroes. They do not want to confess that by becoming a Paladin, they are not at all as Mortal as those they claim kinship with. They know that by acknowledging this, they gain an arrogance unlike any other, and that is more dangerous than any orc horde, or dark magical spell. They espouse judgment: the knowledge of right and wrong, good and evil, and the divine privilege to pass this same judgment upon those they consider to be unworthy, or worse, guilty. But it is this arrogance that clouds their minds, casting doubt and uncertainty; it makes them believe their choices are the same as the Divine doctrine they swore to uphold, and any action they take must then be condoned as if it were the Gods' will to do so. In truth, it is this arrogance which they fear more than anything else, a fear that no Divinity can wash away. What they do not want to confront is the very distinct possibility of truth that nature does not allow to go uncontested: the higher one climbs, the farther one then has to fall."
"Farther...one...falls..." muttered Jericho, metallic quill scratching hurriedly to keep up with her. He considered his notes, pursing his lips. His eyebrows furrowed and he looked away to the side, troubled.
"You realize the significance of what I have said," the Dread Knight whispered in a hiss barely audible. He looked up at her again. He almost imagined that she looked pleased by this observation. "History tells tales of traitors, the lowest of the low who commit atrocities for all sorts of reasons: power, wealth, revenge, to name a few. These sorts of betrayals pale in comparison to that which creates one of my kind. Even Paladins have been known to lose faith in their deities, losing access to their divine powers but their bodies remaining as they were, but in the worst cases undergoing terrible transformations. They become champions of depravity, lawlessness, evil; in direct contrast to what they once were by swearing those self-same oaths they did to their previous patron god or goddesses, only now to the dark powers. History has names for these warriors: Antipaladins, Fallen Knights, Darkblades, or Blackguards."
"But to become what I am, a Dread Knight, their deity must lose faith in them through an action, or actions, that condemns them in the sight of the Divine, thus putting their immortal soul at risk. It is why we are called by another name: Oath-Breaker, for they have failed to uphold their Oath, rather than simply abandoning it. We fall from this grace through personal sin of such magnitude that it dooms us, losing every shred of self-supposed superiority and moral righteousness. Even a Blackguard would not satisfy this requirement, so long as they remain within their dark God's favor. We die, out of sight of the Gods, abandoned wholly by allies and the Divine alike, and become lost. It is in this vacuum of Death, the forever transition where we do not move on nor become reincarnated, that the Sanguine Simulacrum seeks we lost, forgotten, and rejected souls out. Our cold, rotting bodies are filled with new life, our old soul poured back into this husk and revived. It is this broken vessel that provides the perfect catalyst for one to be reborn, body and soul, as a Dread Knight."
"Reborn?" Jericho wrote as he maintained eye contact with her. "You mean, like as a figurative term for the sake of a narrative? Surely not literal." Her silence sent chills down his spine. He could have sworn she smiled, and that look made him, for the very first time since they had met, really look at her for what she was. Her eyes glittered.
She leaned towards him slightly. "Do you know why they say we cannot remember being born, little Half-Elf?" she asked, voice actually having dropped an octave, hushed and almost seductive. He leaned in closer, straining to hear her. "They say that the trauma we experience is so severe that it would drive our formative mind insane from sensory overload. Imagine it: coming into the world, suddenly able to see, and smell, and hear. Now imagine that in that instant you are discovering every single part of your body able to feel the world around you, every single facet of your mind able to experience feeling them, all at once. Heat, light, touch, taste." Her voice had dropped even lower, eyes hooded. She almost looked...pleased. "And you writhe, and you struggle, and you take that first, deep, breath in." She inhaled, and he couldn't help but do so as well. Her eyes flashed, somehow becoming brighter. Emerald green intensified, turning somehow sinister, sclera darkening to black. "But it doesn't stop. The sensations, the textures, the feel of the air on your skin, the straps tying your limbs down, the blades cutting your flesh, and the dark armor being forged onto your very body as it transforms. They go on, and on, every single feeling like a knife being driven into you, through you." Gone was that seductive tone. There was barely a foot between their faces, separated only by the shimmering barrier of the cage. "And you remember."
"What?" he asked, swallowing, mouth dry. "Remember what?"
"Death," she whispered. "Falling. Your soul leaving your body, becoming lost like a shipwrecked sailor in the ocean that is purgatory. And now you feel it coming back, towing you like a hook in your spine, dragging you blindly through the waves until your back hits the rocks and your head breaks the water." She actually shuddered, eyes flickering closed. She drew in a ragged breath as if just remembering the experience was forcing her to relive it. "With that first breath...every sensation becomes agony. Every feeling becomes mind-twisting, blood-curdling, nerve-shattering pain. A gust of air feels as if the flesh of your body is being stripped away. The slightest chill as if you are being set aflame. Warmth becomes like acid. Every flex of your new muscles tears them apart only for them to reform. Again, and again, and again. And you scream." Her voice had darkened, become raspier and savage. Gone was a woman's voice, replaced by the dark rattle of something far gone from anything living, anything feeling, anything remotely resembling a living being. "It drives...you...mad..." She suddenly slammed her gauntlet against the bars of her cage, punctuating that last world with a snarl, lips twisted into a sadistic smile.
Jericho jerked back in alarm. Sparks flashed and glowing motes of yellow and blue light danced in the air. Her hand sizzled, dark armor glowing before fading back to its lustreless gray. He looked across at her amused expression, stomach clenching and blood cold in his veins.
"Do you know why we wear this armor?" she queried. He shook his head. "It isn't just for protection against swords and arrows. It shields us from the world outside but does not blind our senses, merely dulls them. Within this armor, I feel nothing; absolute, blessed, nothing. No pain, no heat, no cold, no pleasure... Even now, with just my visor open, I can feel your world, your living world, upon my skin as you would feel the humidity of a swamp; choking me, blinding me, making my nerves tingle and itch. The cool breeze, the rays of the sun, the smell and taste of your breath..." Her lips parted. They had small scars on them, the veins just the faintest shade of black rather than a healthy red.
"More than the pain, however, we remember what created us. Not the ritual, the actions. The sin. The reason we lingered in the afterlife, never passing on. How we failed, in exquisite, minute detail. I said before that Paladins fear, above all, judgment, how easily they bandy it about, passing it down upon all those they feel are deserving. How right they are to fear judgment. The weight of those sins haunts us, consumes us. The world, inside and out, turns dark, and we strive to give it even the smallest amount of color again. And you would do anything to feel again. The more perverse, the more sinister, the more grisly the actions you take, the better it feels. It is part of why we Dread Knights, monsters that we are, become addicts of mortal vices, destruction, carnage, and death. The world becomes our easel, upon which to paint the masterpiece that is our suffering. War becomes our paintbrush, the blood we spill becomes the colors we spread on that canvas. We share our agony with the world, and rejoice as it turns to chaos and ruin." She laughed, and it sounded as hollow and cold as the echoes of a frozen cave.
Jericho sat back even further, feeling sick to his stomach. He was about to put down his pen, forget trying to understand this creature further when he saw a change. The chill, the ferocity, and the inhuman glee at the thoughts of such vile things fell away, not from her face, but her eyes. They turned flat once more, distant, and sad. He recognized that those were the eyes she always had. She nodded at his understanding, so small a motion that he might have missed it were it not for that realization.
"Perhaps we Dread Knights wish to make the world solely a replica of our inner torment. Perhaps we find comfort in being surrounded by a physical world similar to what we endure every day; death, destruction, rot, and decay. Maybe we do not then feel so alone, so forgotten and abandoned by all who we once called kin, who we once swore to protect, by those who we once loved." Her eyes had returned to a more human-like appearance, emerald irises shining at him with all the brightness of a jewel.
Sitting up straighter, Jericho resumed jotting down what she said in his notes. He turned the page and paused. She inspected his hesitation, making him feel for all the world like a cat watching the birds flitting about just outside of reach. "A question then, not about your kind, but instead more personal." She did not deny him, nor did she say anything to confirm she would answer. Such was her way. "Why were you here? Why were you standing there, all alone? I don't pretend there isn't some greater motive to your agreeing to come quietly with us, but I would ask you why you were out here, to begin with, in such a desolate and lifeless place. There are no towns to burn here, no civilians to slaughter, no disease to spread that has not already claimed every living inhabitant in the surrounding countryside."
She looked away from him for a moment as if truly thinking about what he had asked. A rock jarred the wagon and he made sure not to let his notes slide off his portable desk. He adjusted his hold on the pen, hand beginning to cramp up, but he waited patiently to see if she would respond.
"Perhaps...I was simply taking a moment's peace, in between the countless atrocities I've committed in this area," she drawled, actually sounding sarcastic. She glanced at him again, and he couldn't help but grin at the twinkle lurking behind those eyes. There was real life there; a joking, almost teasing air of sardonic wit. "Or so the locals would claim. Truthfully I am newly come to this region and would remember any recent crimes I'd done against so many surrounding kingdoms. My memories before now are...fuzzy. For the most part, I've no idea how I got to this country. As for exactly why I linger in such a place that no living soul would tread...it is closer to explain as to how you might go to the lakeside. In the same way that you might walk away from this place to get a breath of fresh air, so I came to these forgotten, wartorn, and deathly hollows to get away from it all. Your world is so...alive. My heart may beat in my chest, but there is no real life in my veins. I am more at home, here, amongst the charnel houses and slaughter fields, as you would be in a grand city or homely village. I see the corpses of countless beings, killed in an endless variety of ways, and feel less lonely."
Jericho paused at that. "You are...lonely?" She shrugged as if even that word was not accurate to the real emotion behind what she had said. He paused, but she did not elaborate further on what she might have meant, but he had a pretty good idea or at least part of one. He moved on. "I've heard, and read, that Dread Knights serve foul magicians, are rarely seen away from their sides. If it is not too personal, may I ask why you were all alone here, even if just 'taking in the sights' as you claim?"
"I am...unsure," she admitted after yet another long pause. She seemed to enjoy making him wait as if testing just how interested he was. "You are not privy to the workings of my mind, but even I admit to some confusion as to my being alone. I remember...what was before, vaguely as if the events were told to me by someone else. It becomes blurred by the pain, and so typically we blot it from our minds, desperate to escape this perpetual agony. We hide, behind our suits of armor, and become the monsters of cautionary tales. We also are bound to serve the Mage, as you say, that cast the Simulacrum, to whose will we are tied, and thus, to answer another of your questions: why are some of our kind mindless, and others wholly sentient? It is because we Dread Knights are created, these empty puppet shells, simulating life, to be used by others for their foul purposes. We are forged, like a sword, or a piece of armor, for a reason, by a practitioner who has need of such a champion, a mindless slave who will kill, and slaughter, and commit countless atrocities and depravities without a need for more, without a will to defy them or aspire for personal greatness. We are weapons, and we are discarded once our usefulness comes to an end. I know not how I came to wander on my own here, but perhaps I was cast aside by my master and was able to retain my own undeath without his help. Maybe I grew tired of following orders and I killed him." She laughed, eyes darkening again just for a moment. "I do hope that was the case." Her gauntlets flexed as if gripping something, claw-like fingers curling in as if whatever it was she imagined herself holding onto was being crushed beneath those steely digits.
Jericho actually chuckled with her, causing her to fix him with that level, cold gaze. He quickly clammed up. "I admit, you are far more talkative than I originally hoped or ever dreamed you would be. I fully expected you to be as taciturn and silent as you were when we first found you."
"It has been a long time since I spoke so much to another," the Dread Knight retorted, not as if she were explaining herself, but more just stating a fact. "I find the conversation useful enough, and until I find your company vexing, at which point I shall break free of these bars and kill you, I do not see a point to remain silent. Doubtless, however, your own companions do not wish you to speak so much, or at all, to a reputed monster. I have seen and heard how they talk about your little rides on my chariot of luxury."
He snorted and grinned again at her. "Well, I've never paid much mind to the opinion of others when it comes to my studies and academic interests. Even my cousin wouldn't begrudge me this. And not many scholars can claim to having a private interview with a figure as infamous as one of your Order. I find everything you say incredibly fascinating, in a macabre sort of fashion. I could do without the death threats though," he admitted, actually plucking enough nerve to wink at her through the bars.
"Death threats?" she asked, almost seeming to arch an eyebrow beneath the helmet. "This is simple flirtation from whence I once came, my undead nature notwithstanding. You are amusing to taunt and threaten, and you do not rise to them as the others do. At first, it was puzzling, but I grew used to it. You will allow a question from me, however."
He nodded; she hadn't been so much asking as stating a fact. It distracted him from the puzzling notion that she claimed she was flirting with him.
"You seem and act as if not afraid of me. Why? Are you as foolhardy as a Paladin to claim you are immune to it?" Her eyes speared him in place.
He felt the pressure and weight of that gaze, and a shiver went up his spine. "I will give you the complete and utmost truth of that matter," he stated. He put down his metal quill. "I am terrified of you, as much as any of the men are, even my cousin. You are as intimidating a figure as any of your ilk have ever been portrayed. You speak with a voice as if echoing from inside a coffin or mausoleum, and every time you look at me, I can almost swear I can see myself dying inside of your eyes, as if you spend half your unconscious time planning out exactly how you plan to do it. Not if, but how."
Her only response was a long, slow blink. It drew his attention momentarily to her eyelashes. They were full, long, and very feminine, just as dark red as her hair was. They made a stark contrast to the paleness of her skin, the black tint of her veins just beneath the surface, and the vivid green of her eyes.
"But, in the same breath, I benefit nothing from just being afraid of you, like everyone else is." He crossed his arms, looking away from her and out across the fields and road ahead of them. "Fear, to me, mostly comes from suspicion, uncertainty, and misinformation. To know something is to strip away the mysticism and truly know what it is. Am I saying that, by knowing more about you, it makes me less afraid? No, but it does help me learn what is real, and what is fiction. I am more afraid of going through life not knowing than I am simply believing what I am told."
She stared at him for a long while, gaze unwavering. She nodded, and he felt a weight slide off of him, as if she had been probing his mind and words for honesty. "You are wise," she stated, although it did not feel like a compliment, despite that it made him smile and swell a bit. "Foolish. But wise. You taunt a tiger but you do so while understanding that it still might very well devour you. Fear is natural to mortal life, healthy as to its continuation. More than that, you were honest with me and did not attempt to lie, even if you did not tell me the whole truth. You have my respect, whatever that is worth, for not denying your true nature, nor mine. It would not have aided you to lie to me anyway. I can tell."
"Good judge of character?" he asked, voice amused and joking.
"Fear. It is part of my nature. I know what you are afraid of, Mageling, without you ever having to voice it. It is like a smell, each flavor of fear, and terror unique to mankind and mortality gifted with its own individual fragrance. Fear of death, most common. But there is also fear of the unknown, fear of monsters, fear of hunger or the darkness." She glanced away from him and he felt his gaze following her own. "Fear of failure." They both stared at the distant shape of Hadrian. "Fear of doubt, whether for one's self or an outside source," she continued, both their eyes sliding towards the dark armored form of Abelaard. The Elf seemed to stiffen as the Dread Knight's gaze fell upon him and he glanced back at the cage then lengthened his stride. "Fear of redemption." They looked at Yana, strumming on her shamisen. He expected her to say something about the Tiefling's twin brother nearby, but she did not. Maybe even she could not figure out the mute bladesman.
He looked back toward her, adjusting his seat and picking up his quill again. "Do you have time for another question?" he asked.
She smirked at him, one corner of her mouth lifting. "I have all the time in the world. You may ask another."
He flipped several pages back in his notes. "You've answered that one, and that one," he muttered, scratching out the lines as he went. "Oh yes, what's the difference..."
She cut him off. "Blood." Her voice was once again flat, matter of fact as it had been, obviously remembering the question from earlier despite their lengthy conversation. "The difference in a Death Knight's powers is the blood."
"Like...racial?" he asked, flipping to a fresh page, annotating the header, and beginning to scratch down notes once again. "I can't assume that just because you were born one race that your magic and abilities stem from if you were originally Human versus of Orc blood or Dwarf, for examples."
She shook her armored head, reclining a bit in her seated position, although he noticed she was careful not to lean against the bars of her cage. "Not at all. I'm no more Human anymore than I was an Elf at the time of my death. I speak of the ritual."
Jericho nodded, chuckling and feeling his cheeks flush. "Right, right. Sorry, that was a foolish question."
"Yes, it was," she stated, although he could have sworn that she smirked again. "The kind of blood used in the Simulacrum determines the type of Dread Knight that is created. The limits to their powers, the types of abilities they possess, even the growth of their mental, physical, and magical states. Most commonly, the blood of Demons is used for this ritual, although some of my kind are blooded by powerful Undead, monstrous entities, even Fey."
"Could you be more specific? I'm not asking as if I wanted to perform it, but the fact that biologically the specific kind of blood sacrifice used can help craft a Dread Knight is incredibly interesting. Like using different metals to forge a sword. How much blood is typically needed for the ritual?"
"Life."
"I'm sorry?"
She looked away from him. "Simulacrum Sanguine. Lifeblood. Life for life."
Cold settled into the pit of his stomach. "You mean...to create you, the caster has to take the life of another creature?"
"Or creatures," she stated bluntly. "We are beings of death, brought back from purgatory and our souls bound back into our own unliving corpses, some of which have had time to rot or decay. The blood facilitates new life, repairing and replacing the muscle structure and internal organs, as well as helping to transform the vessel into the perfect husk for the Dread Knight's powers to be forged. It is a not unfounded rumor that the spellcasters behind the use of the Simulacrum seek the perfect combination of eldritch knowledge and blood magic to rebirth Malik himself. So far, their attempts to create the perfect Dread Knight have been unsuccessful. A living creature is brought into the ritual, killed, and its blood becomes the lifeforce to rebirth the vessel."
Swallowing down his gall at such a horrific idea, he dared to ask, "So...what kind of Dread Knight were you made into?"
"Is it not obvious?" she asked, turning her gaze solely upon him once again. Her eyes darkened, her armor jostled, and he could swear he saw her shadow, cast by the setting sun now firmly at the rear of the column, expand like a pair of monstrous wings towards him. "What creature do you know, in legend, can extend its aura like I can? What mythological monstrosity is most feared amongst the common folk? Whose magical powers are in their most venerable strength likened to a living God?"
He smirked at her, trying to shrug off the slowly expanding mental image of her as he had seen before in the field. "You mean to say that, for your Simulacrum, they killed...a..." His eyes went wide as the image refused to fade. He saw the shadow grow horns, not unlike those on her helmet. The image of a scaly tail lashed behind her expanding form, armored bulk filling the cage. Claws gouged furrows in the wooden floor, the scent of acid and foulness leaked from the fanged visor. "A Dragon...?!" he whispered, unable to look away.
The Dragon-Fear loomed over him, her swollen, black-scaled, mental shape filling the cage. Those claws strained the bars, the enchantments upon them a paltry barrier to such strength and terror. She could easily reach out and crush him, pull him into her jaws and devour him. Her green eyes twinkled with satisfaction that could only be described as sexually hungry. "You look exquisite when you're scared..." she rasped down at him. "I might like to keep you when all this is said and done. Your terror is wonderful." He could swear he saw the bars bending as she leaned towards him.
Just like that, the fear faded, as abruptly as if a wind had blown it away. She reclined back into her slouched back position, eyes still twinkling and amused. He took several deep breaths, heart hammering, his writing hand shaking so badly that several flecks of ink had spattered the page where he had been writing. He closed his eyes, tearing his focus away from her. He heard her chuckle, shift her armored weight again. He almost could have sworn he felt her breathing on the back of his neck.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Mageling?" she teased, whispering in his ear. "Be my fearful plaything? Do you want me to burst free of my bindings, slaughter your companions, drag you screaming from this place? I could be persuaded to do so. It wouldn't take much convincing...just a broken lock."
He opened his eyes. His nerves calmed, his heart slowed, and his chest released its built-up tension. He looked back at her with a level gaze. She had not actually moved, but she did seem surprised at the steely cool in his eyes, at the confident, almost bored expression he was giving her. "Bullies like you always try and take it one step too far," he chastised. "You almost had me convinced for a second there, Dragon-Fear or no. You can't actually break out of there, not on your own. You know I'm the only one who can unlock that cage."
She blinked. Then she smiled. "Oh, are you?" she asked, and his stomach clenched right back up again. Damn. She looked far too satisfied by that. "Well isn't that interesting?" she asked. She leaned back fully, laying down on the cage floor. "I think we are done here for the evening, little Mageling. You've made a welcome playmate, and I'm satisfied with our game for now. We seem to be stopping for the night, so I'll see you again on the morrow."
He blinked in surprise, looking around. The wagon train had indeed pulled off to the side of the main road, the men disassembling the packs and tents to set up for another camp. He glowered back down at the recumbent Dread Knight, and then he chuckled, shaking his head. He closed his notes and stowed his metal quill in a pocket of his coat. "I'd almost believe you enjoy taunting me so much," he said, to which she did not respond. "Trying to make me trip up, manipulate me into doing something you want me to. I suppose I'll see you tomorrow, yes." He climbed down off the wagon seat and cracked his back, groaning loudly. He walked past her wagon towards his own at the very rear of the column. A nearby squad of men was already pulling straws to see who had the night duty of watching over her. "I have one more question to ask of you, maybe in repayment for amusing you?"
She twitched, barely at that, but otherwise did not acknowledge him. He waited, and eventually, she let out a hollow sigh. "So like a man, give him exactly what he asks for and he isn't satisfied. Ask, Half-Elf, but do not expect me to have to answer."
"I never do," he said, chuckling. "It is nice to see that I can get that kind of lifelike reaction out of you. Almost makes me think there really is more to you than this unliving, unfeeling persona you put out there. Oh sorry, I mean your incredibly intimidating and monstrous aura."
Her eye flashed towards him out of the corner of her visor, and he swore she actually growled a bit in annoyance. "Killing you is becoming a much slower process in my mind than I originally intended."
"I tremble in fear," he shot back. "I wanted to ask what to call you, other than just Dread Knight."
She stared at him, turning her helmeted head to face him. The visor clattered, closing back up and obscuring her pale face completely. Only the light of her glowing green eye shone from inside that dark metal helm. "I am Dread Knight, monster, Dragonblooded, and scourge," she rasped out at him, making the men nearby shrink back, but not him. "My name means 'She, born of War, Reborn of the Slaughter' and the rest your impudent mind can put together from there. I shall pray for your sickness to spread to your tongue and choke you in your sleep."
"She, born of War," repeated Jericho, jotting that down hurriedly. "In what original tongue?"
She did not answer him, turning her helmet away completely.
"Very well. I'll figure it out," he said, voice bright and cheerful. "Goodnight." He walked away, nodding to the squad of men waiting anxiously nearby. "She seems to be in a better mood lately men," he commented amusingly. "Still, best not to trouble her too much. Cranky girls like her need their beauty rest."
The men chuckled nervously. "As you say, sir," responded one of them. "Although, beg pardon, but how do you stomach teasing and taunting it? The very sight of it turns my stomach."
"She," Jericho snapped curtly. "Not it. Besides, she's just a person, as scary as she is." He almost thought he heard the armored warrior stir, but probably not.
The soldier nodded. "As you say," he repeated, but as Jericho walked back toward his wagon, he heard the man mutter to his fellows, "Balmy, that one. Lord's cousin or no, he's mad. Always been that way, hasn't he?"
Putting their words out of his mind, the Half-Elf strode towards his tent. He coughed into a handkerchief, grimacing at the dark stains dotting the linen cloth. The cough was getting worse. He tiredly shoved it into a pocket and pulled open the back to his wagon, preparing to climb inside.
"Cousin, a word?" came a sharp voice behind him.
He jumped, fumbling to not drop his notes, and turned to look at where the voice had come from. Hadrian leaned against the side of the nearest wagon, arms crossed, watching him with a deadly serious gaze. He grinned despite this, putting down his various journals and turning to face his Human cousin. "Yes?"
"I wanted to speak to you about the prisoner," he began, and Jericho sighed. This again. Hadrian's cold blue eyes narrowed slightly. "I've said it many times now, and I'll say it again: you spend too much time with that creature. It can't be trusted."
"Who ever said I trusted her?" Jericho countered calmly. "I simply am taking advantage of our unique situation to fill in the academic gaps that exist around others of her kind. She has been reasonably compliant up until now, and I see no reason to not attempt to learn as much as I can before we hand her over for the bounty."
"So you say. And you have formed no attachment to it?" Hadrian asked, standing up straight but keeping his arms crossed.
Jericho couldn't help but scowl, his cheeks slightly flushed. "She," he began firmly. "Is not some abandoned puppy, nor am I a naive child that wants to take in the latest odd creature. Not anymore anyway. I'm very aware of how dangerous she is, but that doesn't mean I have to compromise who I am just because everyone else would rather believe in rumors and legends. Are you forbidding my interviewing of her further?"
"Would that I could," growled his cousin hotly. The fire dwindled in his eyes then and he chuckled, rubbing at them in exhaustion. "A Draytn does not ask permission, and forbiddance just makes us desire it more. We've always been like that, every member of our family, ever since our ancestor, your namesake, founded the noble line. I just worry, cousin. I've spoken to Abelaard extensively about...her." He stressed the pronoun with distaste. "I'm not doubting your force of will, nor your common sense."
"Well, it certainly sounds like you are," shot back Jericho, temper rising. His ears burned and he realized he was beginning to sound as if he were trying to pick a fight with his Lord cousin. He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. It would not do the camp morale any favors for their leader to be arguing with his eccentric cousin. It would only undermine Hadrian's authority more. "I am being as careful as I can around the Dread Knight. Her answers to my questions are prolifically profound, and while I've no doubt that she could kill me in an instant, there is no chance she can escape the cage unless I remove the lock."
"Therein lies my concern," Hadrian responded, lowering his voice and walking closer. "I do not speak as if I consider you witless or as if you were easy to manipulate. But her kind are masters at such things. It will say anything, anything at all, to lead you on, garner sympathy for it, cause your doubts to grow and your conviction to fade. Not because you are an easy target, but because she is that skilled. She will tell you anything to get you to be more on her side, just that one tiny step closer to accomplishing whatever sinister goal she has in her mind. Even tell you the truth."
Jericho tried to counter this statement but instead paused, conflicted. Hadrian nodded, seeing the wheels turning in his cousin's head.
"I'm just asking you to be careful," repeated Hadrian. "Don't take any more chances than you have to with it. Come riding with me tomorrow at the front of the column. It's been a while since we had a chance to talk, just as cousins. Surely your academic interests can wait until tomorrow evening?"
Sighing deeply, Jericho's lips turned up in a classic Draytn smirk and they both nodded. "I'll think on it. For now, I need to put my notes away for the evening, take Yana's concoction, and get some sleep."
"You do that," Hadrian grinned, walking forwards and patting Jericho on the arm. "We only have a bridge to cross and we will be out of Bardon officially by tomorrow night. Then it is nothing but smooth roads towards our destination and a fat purse of a reward. Our adventures have only just begun, you know!"
Grinning back, the Half-Elf traded grips with his cousin, then watched Hadrian march off towards his personal tent. He climbed inside of his wagon, put away his coat, writing supplies, desk, and journals, and forced himself to swallow the bitter tea that Yana had prepared for him earlier. The horrific, black substance tasted like swallowing charcoal mixed with oil. He washed it down with a sip of water, then laid down on his bed. His grey eyes fixed on the ceiling of his magically augmented chambers, mind racing over the things the Dread Knight had told him today. Their last repartee particularly stood out to him. Sighing, he rose, grabbed up a tome of languages, and his notes, and set to pondering out definitions in over a dozen racial dialects.
It took him over an hour before he found something similar to what he was looking for. "Zherric..." he muttered, following the cryptic black lines inked into the parchment. "Of the Necrit-Demon base word meaning War and the waging of it...Kuldros meaning slaughter, no that isn't it..." He flipped to another page he had earmarked. "Zerrickainen, of the Draconic tongue, also meaning the same. Root word between them is Zher." He pondered this, opening another book and flipping to the index to search for notes on words meaning "Born of". He found the idiom "Ifen" of the shared Elven, Draconic, and Celestial tongues.
"She, born of War," he whispered to himself, using a spare piece of parchment and scribbling out various combinations and possibilities of the root words put together. "No, that would mean She IS born of war. And that one means Warrior's child...plus that's in dwarven." He paused, remembering the distinct design of her intimidating hammer weapon, then rapidly opened a Dwarven dictionary. He turned to the root word for 'Female Child'. "Zara..." he read out loud. "Meaning blooming flower, or flower that is reborn." He flipped open the Draconic volume again. "Born of Dragons, Scourge..." He jotted down every root word, cross-indexing the base letters between Draconic, Celestial, and Dwarven.
Across from these lines, he compared them to the single word he had written out. Zara. He crossed off the incorrect terms, and finally settled back with a smirk, staring between the only remaining word that connected to the name. He put down his reading glasses, closing the books, and returning them to their shelves. He leaned his head out of the wagon, staring over towards the distant, dark silhouette of the glittering cage, and the four sentries uneasily standing around it. He grinned wider.
"Goodnight...Zherrif, She, born of War."
It may have just been his imagination, but he thought he saw her dark shadowy shape stir. Even from that distance, he could have sworn he felt her emerald eyes fall upon him. He nodded. "That's your name..." he muttered in satisfaction. He laid flat once again on his bed, beaming at the ceiling, even as his eyes began to drift closed. "I like your other name better..." He yawned.
"Zara...that's a pretty name."
***END OF PART 3***
