The half dragon was so wrapped up in speculation that he only had a moment's warning before the attack. His keen sense of smell caught a faint musky scent an instant before two figures shimmered into existence before him. Sharpened steel arced toward him in the darkness, but the half-dragon had already begun to move, ducking beneath the whistling edge of one blade. As he turned, a second blade caught in the folds of his robe, slowing him down. He lashed out with a heavily muscled foot, catching one of his attackers in the gut. The assailant let out an explosive grunt and doubled over. Without hesitation, Drakken dived past the assassin and rolled to his feet.
Even in the tomblike darkness of the cellar, his dragon's vision caught sight of his attackers. Both were human. One, a beefy warrior who, by the look of him had once been an extraordinarily muscled man since gone to fat, wielded a wicked looking curved axe. His companion, a whipcord slim human with a well-groomed goatee, twirled a simple short sword in one hand and a hooked dagger in the other.
Despite the half-dragon's disadvantage, Drakken found his blood beginning to warm at the nearness of death. The beast slumbering deep within him began to awaken, and this time, he didn't fight it. In an instant, he knew what he would have to do. A low grumble escaped his lips as he launched himself at the smaller of the two assassins.
The man struck quick, a viperlike attack with the point of his short blade. Drakken didn't attempt to dodge, but almost seemed to leap onto the weapon. As the sword met thick scales, it bent slightly and slid to the side. Still moving forward, the half-dragon stepped slightly to the left of his assailant, grabbed the assassin's neck with a single clawed hand, and pulled the man to him as if in an embrace. In desperation, the screaming attacker sliced wildly with his dagger. Drakken let out a bellow of pain and rage as the blade cut through hardened scales as if they were silk.
Before he could finish his maneuver, however, the half-dragon sensed the second assassin moving in for a solid strike. He spun, holding his captive before him like a shield. As the man's axe fell, it bit deep into the chest of the first assassin, shattering the hapless man's ribs as it ended its fateful arc.
The fat warrior took a step back, releasing the axe as his eyes widened in obvious horror. At that moment, Drakken pounced. Dropping the gurgling remains of his captive, he leaped forward. Batting away his opponent's feeble attempts at stopping him, the half-dragon wrapped two clawed hands around the man's neck and squeezed with frightful force. The assassin's eyes bulged wildly moments before his windpipe collapsed between Drakken's scaled hands. Blood erupted from the warrior's mouth as he fell to the floor.
The half-dragon raised gore-encrusted hands before him and nearly roared with delight. The beast, he knew, was nearly free. He could feel it straining and pounding against the doors of its captivity. Drakken cast one last contemptuous look at the piles of meat before him-and froze as he caught sight of a familiar shape around the finger of the sword-wielding assassin.
He knew at once who was behind the murder of Brother Arranoth, and the knowledge quelled the wild anger within him. Not caring if anyone stumbled upon the two corpses, Drakken bounded up the stairs in search of the murderer.
Somewhere deep within him, the beast raged!
He emerged into chaos.
Despite the late hour, gray-cowled brothers scuttled to and fro, muttering prayers to Illmater as they carried buckets of water, heavy bags filled with grain and flour, and sundry other items. Drakken even caught the glint of steel, illuminated by the soft moonlight, among several of the abbey servants.
"Scouts spotted the humanoid horde outside the abbey gates," he heard some of the brethren say to one another. Still others said, "The orcs were already in the abbey cellars."
The half-dragon ignored it all, intent on his quarry. In the near pandemonium, he found it easy to slip by bands of abbey residents excitedly pursuing their specific tasks. No one accosted Drakken as he made his way to the guest house. A brief search of the guest master's logbook revealed the information he needed. Within moments he stood before a simple wooden door. Briefly, he thought about knocking, but a memory of Brother Arranoth's face, locked in the rigor of death, flashed in his mind. The door cracked and shattered beneath his blows.
He entered the room like a whirlwind, tossing silk blankets, richly woven clothing, and stacks of ledgers in his search. He knew what he sought would have to be there somewhere. Not caring about the noise he made, Drakken began rifling through cedar chests, dumping the contents on the floor. The half-dragon's frustration mounted as the moments went by without any discovery. A cold seed of doubt began to sprout within his mind. What if he was mistaken?
And yet he kept on searching, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. Finally, he reached the simple straw bed in the corner of the room. Angrily, he tore off the bedding, sending old straw reeds spilling to the floor. He was about to crack the whole bed frame when he caught sight of a small slip of paper among the reeds. He nearly shouted with triumph as he looked at the familiar neat lines of Brother Arranoth's handwriting.
It is clear to me now that Valerix has some deeper purpose for staying at the abbey than mere commerce. I have suspected for some time that he may be a dragon cultist, but today I discovered proof. I must tell Brother Abbot immediately upon his return from the village. I only hope I am in time.
Drakken's hands nearly shook as he read the missing journal entry. Valerix … a cultist! It began to make some sense. He would return to the abbot and-
The sound of hands slowly clapping behind him froze the half-dragon in place.
"Well done my scaled friend," the merchant's familiar voice seemed to echo in the room. "Well done, indeed."
Drakken turned to face the voice. Valerix the merchant stood in the entryway to the room, his corpulent face covered in a sheen of greasy sweat. The man's lips were pursed in a half pout.
"I see that you managed to survive the meeting with my associates," Valerix said. "A shame really, but I suppose it was to be expected."
The half-dragon took a step forward, the question already forming on his lips: "Why did you-?"
"Oh, come now," the merchant interrupted, his voice wheezing. "Surely you're not that stupid, are you? You've read Arranoth's journal. He's right. I was sent here by the Cult of the Dragon to see how things were progressing with Foilsunder-and I discovered you.
"Arranoth," he continued, waving pudgy fingers in the air, "simply got in my way."
Drakken took-another step forward, baring his teeth.
"I will kill you myself," the half-dragon nearly roared-the beast was lashing out at its cage once again.
"Ah, I might watch my temper, if I were you," Valerix lectured, a sneer evident upon his sagging face.
"What do you know of it," the half-dragon growled. His fingers twitched with the urge to tear apart the smug man's body. Drakken felt his hold upon himself weakening, and he knew with a terrible certainty that if he gave in to the rage rising within him, he would lose himself completely.
"More than you could ever imagine," the cultist replied. "The men I hired were supposed to dump another body in the cellar, murdered like Arranoth. I thought that might be enough to break you, to push you over the edge. But when you paid me a surprise visit the other day, I knew you were getting too close."
"So you sent them to kill me," Drakken stated.
Valerix shrugged, the motion sending ripples of bloated flesh bobbing beneath his silk robe.
"It seemed like the thing to do at the time."
"And now?" the half-dragon asked.
"If you kill me, we'll still win," Valerix replied, sweat dripping down from the wide expanse of his forehead.
"How?" Drakken nearly shouted the question.
"You feel it within you, don't you?" replied the merchant. "That sweet, delicious madness. Like a fever in the blood. It goads you, doesn't it?"
Drakken took a step back, horrified by the truth in the cultist's words. The maris eyes shone with a feverish light.
"Why do you let these damned clerics treat you like a servant?" Valerix continued. "They have tried to make you what you are not. Kill them. They deserve to die. Unleash your anger. Let it go. You've kept it within you for too long."
Drakken shook his head in denial, but in his heart he knew that Valerix was right. For just a moment, he saw the broken bodies of the Ilmatari, dead at his hand. He felt no remorse or guilt, but rather a deep sense of satisfaction. Then he remembered who it was who had taken him in when he was lost and alone. He remembered, too, the fact that the man before him had poisoned the only friend he really had in the world.
The vision ended.
With a growl, he took a step toward the sweating cultist. When the man squealed like a pig being butchered, Drakken found himself smiling.
At that moment, the monastery bells began to ring.
"Ahh," the cultist blubbered, "it appears… it appears that the orcs have breached the abbey gates. You'll have to make a choice now. Take your revenge and kill me j …or… or save your brothers from certain death." 1
The bells rang with renewed urgency, and even from | the guest house Drakken could hear the screams. He 1 hesitated for a moment, then with a roar that shook ‹ the room, he pushed the cultist out of the way and ran toward the abbey gates.
"Farewell, my friend," Valerix called after him in a sneering voice. "I doubt we shall meet again."
The half-dragon ignored him.
When he arrived at the gates, he found the courtyard strewn with the bodies of orcs, goblins, and humans alike. A group of Ilmatari were backed against a wall as a band of orcs pressed in. Drakken grabbed a pitted sword from a corpse and charged forward, yelling his defiance.
The beast was fully awake inside him, all but out of its cage. Three bounding steps brought him in the midst of the orcs. He swung the ancient sword with all the force of his anger. Two other blades cracked beneath the blow as the orcs erected a hasty defense. With another swing, he gutted an axe-wielding orc and ducked beneath the wild swing of another opponent.
He would have cleaved the heads of two other orcs except that a goblin darted forward and threw a weighted net, tangling Drakken's legs. The half-dragon stumbled slightly, giving the other orcs an opening. Three glowing spears pierced his chest with enough force to knock him back a few steps.
Red rage crested through him like a vast wave, carrying his pain, anger, and madness. He let out a roar and it changed, deepened, as the Rage spilled out of him in a single acidic blast. He watched in delicious satisfaction as the band of orcs before him fell back before the acid, skin sloughing off bone like melting ice. With a strangled groan, the remaining orcs fled, leaving sizzling flesh behind.
With a triumphant roar, he snapped the wooden hilts of the spears imbedded in his chest and turned to survey the foolish humans cowering before him. He was free at last! Free of their damned meddling, their concern, and most of all, their damnable prayers. He took a step toward them, ignoring the blood streaming from his wounds. With a single, painful motion he tore off the gray cloak, delighting in the feel of chill wind on hardened scale.
Another step brought him face to face with the cleric standing irt the front of the others. He wasn't cowering. The man stood before Drakken with his head held high, one arm held back as if protecting the others. Anger coursed through the half-dragon's veins.
This one, he thought, will pay for his insolence.
A single swipe of his clawed hand raked the offending cleric's face, sending him to his knees. Drakken stepped forward, intent on snapping the maris neck, but when the cleric looked up, the half-dragon saw the eyes of another old man, someone who, even in the midst of his madness, he remembered.
Time froze with that memory. He stood there with his hands poised to strike, gazing into eyes that were not simply eyes, but mirrors, reflecting his own soul.
This is not me/a voice from somewhere deep within the madness screamed.
This is you, the eyes seemed to say. And it is this that I love.
Drakken would have fled before the reality of that love, but his feet were rooted to the ground. Beneath the weight of that unyielding gaze he realized that for the past five years he had been running from himself, trying to be something that he wasn't. He looked upon the beast in all of its power, and he knew that he would never truly be free of it if he kept trying to lock it away. He and the beast were one. In the end, all he could do was let it go.
At once, the pain of his wounds became too great to stand. The half-dragon fell to his knees before the wounded form of Abbot Meremont.
"Forgive me," he whispered as a bubble of blood appeared on his lips.
"You are forgiven, my son," the abbot said, laying a bloodied hand upon Drakken's face.
And so, on a chill spring night, with three spears piercing his heart, Drakken Thaal yielded to love and gave himself up to a mystery older even than the gods. He toppled to the ground.
Finally at peace.