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.
HOW SHARPER THAN A SERPENT'S TOOTH
Dave Gross
25 Ches, the Year of Rogue Dragons
Act I
Because…" said Talbot Uskevren, his voice rising with each syllable until it echoed throughout the Wide Realms playhouse, "… we… dorit …do… commissions!"
Mallion retreated so quickly that Ennis had to grab him before he fell backward off stage. Sivana flinched at the force of Talbot's outburst, and Presbart closed his eyes and grimaced. Not since his father's death had Talbot lost his temper so badly. He feared the worst, but a glance at the clenched fist he had been shaking at Mallion showed that his hands, at least, still appeared completely human.
Thank Tymora for small favors. His fellow players knew all too well that, despite appearances, the leader of their troupe was never completely human. It had been over two years since Talbot had become a werewolf-far more than a werewolf-but in that time he had learned to master the change, even when the moon was full. In moments of great anger, however, it was hard not to let the black beast emerge.