The Elder's Curse by Andrew Walbrown (ereader for textbooks TXT) 📕

The Matriarch called out into the night in her draconic tongue, the language sounding like a raging tempest. When no reply was made she called out once more, this time with much more force, so much that Ulam saw a small flicker of light ignite underneath the layer of scales. Either her tone or her words garnered a response, though, because moments later a much more pacified voice answered.

“He sounds far away,” Amantius mused.

He sounds like he is in immense pain, Ulam thought, suddenly feeling pity for the dragon, though he had yet to meet him. I cannot imagine what it must be like to be him, to live for centuries watching a dark curse slowly overtake every inch of the body, forever relying on the goodwill of strangers in hopes of breaking the spell.

“The Elder comes,” the Matriarch said, her eyes fixed on the edge of the shadows.

Suddenly a dragon the size of the Matriarch appeared, though much more muscular than the dragoness. Unlike the others, this dragon had two long horns protruding from the top of its head, long and sharp, with ridges spiraling forever upwards. Though his scales were primarily as red as a cardinal, a few had a charcoal hue as well. As soon as the newcomer fully entered the moonlight, Ulam was able to see the grimace on the Elder’s face, as well as the source of his agony. Not only were all four feet encased in heavy, impenetrable stone, but he was also blinded by massive buildups around his eyes. Both wings were solid rock, the enormous weight a burden on the Elder’s spine. Throughout his entire body were smaller concentrations of stone, a dozen new epicenters from where the curse had spread. It reminded Ulam of the moles that decorated the arms and legs of Accarian sailors and farmers, only the patches of accursed stone on the Elder were far more painful and fatal than any blemish.

“The powerstone is here,” the Elder started. Though each word was an arduous task for him, there was an element of hope in his voice. “I can sense its energy.”

“Go on,” the Matriarch said, nudging Mazargo forward with her tail, “your time has come.”

“Y-yes, M-Mazargo’s time,” the Mwai stuttered. He turned to Kona and reached out a leather-gloved hand. “The stone, please.”

Kona reached into a pocket of her satchel and retrieved the amber powerstone, the gem wrapped in a sheet of cloth. Ulam grunted as he saw the stone pass hands, realizing they had hidden the powerstone in the satchel because they knew he would never have guessed it was in Kona’s possession. I have to admit, that was clever.

The Elder laid down in front of Mazargo, unwittingly crushing a small patch of unlucky flowers with his colossal frame. Though he did not speak, his quick and laborious breathing was a non-verbal confession to the amount of anguish he felt, as well as the excitement pulsing through his veins. Ulam looked to the Matriarch and saw an eagerness in her eyes, for although she felt no physical pain, she had long been burdened by the emotional toll of the Elder’s curse. And now that he saw the extent of Kuruk’s villainy, as well as the effect it had on the Matriarch, Ulam felt selfish for wanting the amber powerstone to further his ambitions. His need to seize the stone and use it as a map to find the location of his Orcish brethren slowly melted away, instead replaced with a desire to see the Elder healed. How could I possibly want the stone for myself now that I have heard the anguish in his voice?

Mazargo sat in front of the Elder, holding the amber jewel in his leather-gloved hands. Even from a distance, Ulam could see Mazargo was shaking, looking far more nervous than he had ever seen the mage. He strained his ears to hear what Mazargo was saying, but like the few spells he witnessed in Kuruk’s Tower, the words were a jumble of syllables and almost entirely inaudible. Mazargo seemed to be making progress, though, because as he spoke the amber powerstone began to beam with an almost blinding radiance.

Then suddenly Mazargo’s lips became still, his mouth stopping halfway through a word. He knitted his brow and pinched the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes tight and shaking his head. With the ritual paused the amber glow slowly waned, returning the gem to its neutral state. Realizing something unexpected must have occurred, Ulam crossed the field and kneeled beside Mazargo. He then reached out and placed a gentle hand on the mage as a show of support, the contact causing Mazargo to flinch.

“Sorry,” Ulam whispered, wanting to keep the conversation private. “What happened?”

Mazargo opened an eye, his green one, and frowned. “Mazargo botched the spell.”

Ulam grunted. “Can you start over?”

“Yes, but Mazargo forgets a few words to the spell.” Mazargo then shrugged. “If he continues, anything may happen. Mazargo could heal the Elder, but he could also cause his death. Or Mazargo’s death. Or perhaps every flower here will turn bright pink.”

“Bright pink? Like the lever in Kuruk’s Tower?”

“Yes. Mazargo only knew half the words to that spell as well. His memory is not the best. Perhaps he should have been something other than a mage, like a baker.”

Ulam gave Mazargo a sidelong glance. “You would have to remember ingredients; I do not think you would have been a very good baker.”

“True,” Mazargo replied with a wily grin, “but one could also say Mazargo is not a very good mage either.”

They both chuckled loud enough to draw an ireful look from the Matriarch, who seemed to be bankrupt of patience. Beside them the Elder shifted, letting out a long, pain-filled sigh with enough force to propel dirt into the air. Ulam turned his attention to Amantius, using the expressions on his face to non-verbally communicate their current situation. Or, at the very least, to warn