Sci-Fi fantasy from an unknown author
Amaranth Rose 024
The Raznack saga continues, in Chapter 24, Rendamion’s curse of the Wyvern
Chapter 23 can be found here: https://medium.com/@gjsittler/amaranth-rose-023-1d3c3c6e5c2b
The entire series is listed here: https://gjsittler.medium.com/list/this-mortal-coil-081bdde292a6
Chapter 24: Rendamion’s curse
“Lord Griffendahl,” the computer announced later that afternoon, “you have a visitor.”
“Who is it?” He was sitting at his desk, plowing through a pile of paperwork.
“Mensay Rendamion, My Lord.”
“I don’t think I know him.”
He wishes to discuss a recent going-over. He insists he wants to speak to you personally.”
“Very well, let him in.” Griffendahl allowed his managers great latitude in dealing with any problems which arose in the businesses he owned, with the understanding that they were free to refer to him any situation they preferred not to deal with. He assumed this was one of those.
The door opened to admit a tall, handsome man, his immaculate black hair beginning to gray at the edges. His dark suit fit his muscular figure to perfection. The crease in his dark trousers was crisp and sharp, and his shoes were polished to a mirror finish. He exuded power and authority along with the expensive cologne he wore. He stepped inside, and the door closed and locked behind him. His silvery gray eyes swept the room, settling finally on Griffendahl.
“I’m Mensay Rendamion of Rendam Wold. They told me at the cloning facility that I could find Lord Griffendahl here?” he said pleasantly, his voice deep and resonant.
Griffendahl surveyed the tall man carefully. An icy chill came over him, jarring him deeply. A look of horror crossed his face momentarily. Mensay Rendamion’s face reached down deep into the coffers of his memories and dredged up an almost identical face, belonging to a man long since dead and forgotten by all but himself. Shock flashed over him for a moment as memories assaulted him. In that instant he remembered the pain, the humiliation, the torment as the drunken man ravished his young body while he stared at him, committing his features to memory, helpless to defend himself. He remembered the feel of the frigid flagstone against his tender, naked skin, the sharp grains of gravel grinding into his flesh as the man used him repeatedly and lustily for his pleasure. His only distraction was the lone wyvern wheeling and soaring in the sky above him, its cries shrill and harsh. His keepers were across the courtyard dividing the money between themselves. It was doubly memorable because that was the day the old woman found him and put a stop to his keepers’ treating him that way. He shuddered slightly and drew a deep breath, willing himself back to the present with an effort.
“You’ve come to the right place. Please, have a seat.” He motioned to the chairs across the desk. “I am Lord Griffendahl. How may I help you?”
The visitor’s jaw dropped open a moment in surprise. Then he quietly took a seat; he was a handsome man, fluid and graceful in his movements. He studied the Inquisitor intently. Griffendahl bore his scrutiny patiently.
“You’re not what I expected. I understood you were an old man. A very old man. Ancient. You’re not much more than a youth.”
“I carry my age well,” Griffendahl said with a smirk. “How may I help you, Lord Rendamion?”
“I wanted to talk to you about my son’s going over. His name is Sarok; Sarok Rendamion.”
“Sarok? I remember him now, yes,” Griffendahl replied. “Is something wrong with him? Did something go wrong with his regeneration?”
“No, the regeneration went fine. They told me at the cloning facility that you saved his life. I wanted to thank you.”
“Who told you that?”
“The crew chief. I believe he said his name was Rokal. He said you calmed him when he became violent after his emergence. A rogue swamp lion which he and some friends were trying to track down and destroy injured him. They got separated and the beast got him.”
“How is he now?”
“He’ll be all right in time, we think,” Mensay said somewhat evasively. “It’s early yet. They tell me the first few weeks are hardest. He has… some persistent delusions, but they tell me he should get over them.”
“What sort of delusions?”
Rendamion sighed. “My son insists I was there when he came out of the cylinder. But I wasn’t. We were notified, and we left so as to be on time, but we were delayed a day by floods. He insists I was there and comforted him.”
“Perhaps in his mind you were there.”
“What do you mean, My Lord?”
“Sarok was hallucinating. I comforted him, and he thought I was you. I didn’t see any reason to disabuse him of the notion. Don’t chide him about it. Just let it go.”
“Well, I’m very grateful to you, My Lord.”
“I’m glad to hear he’s all right,” Griffendahl said, smiling. “A rogue swamp lion, eh? What became of it?”
“The other hunters were able to destroy it. They brought Sarok here then. I really did not expect him to live, because of the curse.”
“What curse is that?”
“Our family suffers from the curse of the wyverns. Ever since the beginning times on Raznack, when the wyverns are seen flying over Rendam Wold, a son of the house of Rendamion perishes soon afterward. Three wyverns were seen over Rendam a few weeks before Sarok’s accident. The other members of the hunting party said they saw wyverns near where they found Sarok.”
“I see. Would you mind telling me the origin of this curse?”
Rendamion blushed, bowing his head abashedly. “I will tell you,” he said in a low voice, “though it does not redound well upon my house.” He was silent for a time. Then he sighed deeply and began.
“In the beginning time, my family was given a large land holding in the lowlands, including a good bit of marshlands, prime swamp lion territory. For the most part we’ve coexisted with them, only occasionally taking out the ones which choose to prey on our stock. My ancestor had some business in Castle Royal at the time. While he was there, he met up with some acquaintances and they made rather merry. He was single at the time, his wife and the mother of his children having died of a sudden illness the year before, and he was lonely. On a dare, he bought the use of a … a young child … an experimentally produced person. A Grotesque,” Rendamion choked on his words. He drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly before he continued. “He’d been alone for a long time, and he proceeded to enjoy him rather thoroughly while he was quite intoxicated. When he sobered up the next day and realized what he had done he was mortified. He sought to make amends but could find no way to do so; his efforts to find the child were thwarted at every turn. On his return to Rendam Wold, he recorded his shame in his personal diary. In it he also noted he’d been accompanied home by three wyverns, always soaring high in the sky above him. A few months after he’d returned home, he was out riding with some friends. They were attacked by wyverns. His friends were unharmed, but the creatures drove his horse over a cliff where they both perished. His friends got to him while he was still alive, and he told them what happened. He thought it was the wyverns somehow avenging the young boy he’d ill-used. Ever since then, a wyvern has been near Rendam Wold, and when a flight of three appears, almost inevitably a son of the house of Rendamion dies and cannot be regenerated.”
Griffendahl listened to this with a mounting sense of horror. “How often does this happen?”
“Almost every generation. It has taken quite a toll on my family over the years.”
“I think I’d have seen about getting the curse lifted.”
“It’s been tried repeatedly, to no avail. One of my ancestors even consulted an oracle.”
Oracles were hermits, mysterious nomadic men and women of strange appearance who gravitated to the wildest parts of Raznack, living ascetically among the forests and beasts. Some people said they talked with animals and plants and attributed magical powers to them. Griffendahl suspected they were descendants of grotesques not unlike himself, long lived and having little use for other humans. Many of them were quite knowledgeable in certain matters.
“What was the result of that?”
Rendamion shrugged.
“The Oracle told him to come back in a month. At that time she told him that when the child of the wyverns saved the life of a son of the House of Rendamion, and the father willingly offered himself to be sacrificed to the wyvern which does not fly, the curse would be ended. She handed him a scroll on which it was written, so there was no misunderstanding. None of us could make head nor tail of it, though. We assumed the child of the wyverns was a child they had somehow fostered, and there have been a few of those, but no one has ever heard of a wyvern that does not fly, so no one has ever been able to fulfill the prophecy and lift the curse.”
Griffendahl felt an icy blast sear his heart. He fingered the little iron key in his pocket, studying Mensay Rendamion intently. Tension built in him, straining at his nerves like an overstrung bow, twanging and twitching slightly as individual threads began to fray and snap. For a long time he did not speak. The room filled with silence like a thickening fog.
“Mensay Rendamion, are you prepared to die to fulfill this prophecy?” His throat was dry and tight, and it came out very sharply and harsh as rocks grinding in a rock slide.
Rendamion looked at him in shock, his face paling beneath his tanned skin, his jaw slack with surprise and shock, a hint of fear creeping into his handsome features after a moment. His jaw went tight then, a muscle quivering in his cheek ever so slightly, his lips thinly compressed as he stared at Griffendahl.
“What do you mean, Lord Griffendahl?” he asked after a long time.
“Are you prepared to die to fulfill this prophecy, Mensay Rendamion? Will you offer yourself willingly as a sacrifice to the wyvern to end this curse, here and now?”
“I don’t understand. Are you telling me you know who the child of the wyvern is? Is there such a thing as a flightless wyvern?” Rendamion looked puzzled.
“I do know who the child of the wyvern is. I can take you to a flightless wyvern right now, if you’re willing to sacrifice yourself so your son and his descendants will be free of the curse.”
Fear and hope played an odd dance on Rendamion’s face as Griffendahl watched. For a long time the man was silent, staring at Griffendahl. Finally he spoke slowly, his voice heavy with emotion.
“I would give myself willingly, if it would save my son Sarok from the agony of seeing his son destroyed as I almost did, as so many of my forebears have done. The pain of losing a child does not compare to living with the fear of that loss for every male child, and the constant watching of the skies for the dreaded omen. Yes, I would give myself up to spare him that torment, Lord Griffendahl. Willingly. Regretfully, but willingly.”
“You are a brave man, Mensay Rendamion,” Griffendahl said. He stood and reached for his cloak, pulling it around his shoulders; it was a cold day.
“Come, I’ll take you to the wyvern,” he said quietly.
Rendamion looked up at him, puzzled. “I don’t understand. Who is the child of the wyvern? Where does that fit in?”
Griffendahl looked at him soberly. “I am part wyvern. The flightless wyvern I am taking you to is my parent.”
Rendamion looked at him, fear creeping across his face. “You are the child of the wyvern?”
Griffendahl nodded.
Mensay stood up a little shakily. “Lead me to my doom, My Lord,” he said, his voice none too steady. “I had no idea this day would be my last,” he said as he fought to keep from trembling on his feet. He looked at Griffendahl. “Say goodbye to my son for me, would you, please, My Lord? Tell him I did this for him.”
“I will,” Griffendahl said, swallowing hard as he led him through the castle. He stopped at the kitchen to get a platter of scraps and leftovers. Then he led Rendamion by a circuitous path to Vyrrim’s lair. Outside the door he stopped.
“Wyverns don’t like to be surprised,” he warned Rendamion. “Above all, you must not back down from it, or run away. Either one will trigger a feeding frenzy, and you don’t want to do that.”
Rendamion blanched. Griffendahl unlocked the door and motioned him inside. The low rumble of Vyrrim’s snores issued from the inner chamber as Griffendahl locked the door behind them. He crossed to the stone table and set down the platter of food.
“Vyrrim, dear, it’s me, Myrrielle. Wake up, dear, you’ve got company.”
The snoring stopped abruptly. There was a rustling and shuffling, and Vyrrim came shambling out. It saw Griffendahl and rumbled a greeting, eyeing the plate of food with a pleased expression. Then it turned to Rendamion, staring at him silently. Then he extended his head toward the man, sniffing and studying him carefully. He turned to Griffendahl then and spoke to him in Wyvern, his voice low and rumbling like a freight train rolling on rough tracks.
“His name is Mensay Rendamion of Rendam Wold. He’s come here willingly, as a sacrifice. He’s here because of a prophecy which I think you’re involved in. Something about a curse on his family, because one of his ancestors ravished a little child once. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this, would you Vyrrim?”
Vyrrim nodded and spoke again. His good wing reached out, wrapping tenderly around Griffendahl, drawing his close. Griffendahl put his arms around the creature’s neck affectionately. Vyrrim rumbled for some time.
“Yes, that’s the gist of it,” Griffendahl said. He looked at Rendamion. “Perhaps you ought to hear his side of it, Vyrrim. I don’t think you quite know what the whole effect has been.” He was frowning, and his arms were crossed tightly over his chest.
Vyrrim rumbled again.
“Mensay, I want you to tell Vyrrim what you told me in my office, about this curse and how this has affected you and your family.”
The man looked at him with a perplexed look. “Do you mean to tell me it talks? It can understand our language?”
Griffendahl nodded. “They’re very intelligent creatures. They just can’t make the sounds our speech requires. Tell him what you told me, Mensay, about your family, your worries for your children.”
Rendamion complied with Griffendahl’s request. When he finished speaking, Vyrrim rumbled something to Griffendahl. His face grew pale.
“What do you intend to do?”
Vyrrim replied. Griffendahl looked worried. Vyrrim growled again. They conversed for some time, Griffendahl shifting into Wyvern as well. He shrugged.
“All right. I’ll tell him.” He led Rendamion across the room. Vyrrim tucked into the platter of food happily. The sound of slurping and bones being crushed to splinters attracted Rendamion’s attention.
“Don’t look,” Griffendahl warned, but it was too late. The man’s face went white, and he covered his mouth with his hands and looked away hastily.
“I asked Vyrrim about the curse,” Griffendahl said when Mensay recovered himself. “It said it would help you. But there are a couple of conditions you have to fulfill.” He hesitated.
“What are the conditions?” Rendamion asked, his voice quavering.
“You have to stay here with Vyrrim for a full day, as penance.”
“What’s the other condition?” Rendamion asked in a whisper.
“You have to take off your clothes and give them to me. You have to be naked.”
For a moment Griffendahl thought Rendamion was going to faint. He went very pale and choked slightly. He glanced over Griffendahl’s shoulder at Vyrrim, who was just finishing off the platter of food and licking it clean. He was shaking.
“It’s going to eat me, isn’t it?” he whispered.
“I don’t know. Vyrrim wouldn’t promise me it wouldn’t, but it didn’t say it would, either. I have no idea what it intends to do with you. It wouldn’t tell me. All it would say was something about a suitable punishment.” He did not meet the man’s eyes. While acting in the capacity of Griffendahl’s parent Vyrrim had on rare occasions seen fit to punish him, and the memory still made him flinch.
For a moment Rendamion’s eyes clouded with fear. Then his resolve stiffened. “It’s all right. If it will end the curse and keep my son and his descendents safe, I don’t care if it eats me. I would gladly give my life to ensure theirs.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Just remember, don’t shrink or back away, and don’t run away.”
Vyrrim looked at the two men.
“Lar-r-r nokh,” it said.
“That means ‘come here now’, in Wyvern,” Griffendahl explained. “If a wyvern says that to you, go to it at once.” He pushed Rendamion in the back gently, steering him toward the ungainly creature. Vyrrim sniffed him carefully. Then it took a few steps toward the inner room.
“Lar-r-r nokh,” it said again. Griffendahl urged Rendamion forward again. They walked into the dimly lit chamber. Vyrrim shuffled over to a thick stone slab about a foot and a half thick.
“Lar-r-r nokh.” This time Rendamion need no urging. He walked stoically over to the wyvern. It said something to Griffendahl.
“Take off your clothes and give them to me,” Griffendahl translated. He averted his gaze as the other man stoically complied.
“Tell my son Sarok I loved him,” Rendamion said as he thrust the small, tidy pile of clothing into his hands along with a pair of shoes. “Tell him I loved him enough to die for him.” He shivered slightly in the cold air, and bit his lip to keep his teeth from chattering.
Griffendahl met his eyes then. “I will.” He watched as Vyrrim’s long, pink tongue shot out and licked the man. He flinched, but did not move otherwise.
Vyrrim motioned to the stone slab with a wing tip, fixing Rendamion in his gaze.
“Lar-r-r nokh.”
Rendamion shuddered momentarily. He felt much like a sacrificial lamb being led onto the slaughtering floor. He gritted his teeth to keep from shivering and climbed up onto the stone slab. To his surprise it was warm. Vyrrim nudged him gently toward the depression in the center.
Vyrrim rumbled quietly. Griffendahl nodded and left then, carefully locking the door on the way out. He waited a few moments outside, but heard nothing. He sighed and returned to his office, placing the clothing and shoes in a cupboard and sitting down at his desk, burying his face in his hands. He felt cold inside. He was very much in need of comforting. Finally he rose and went in search of Debbie. He found her at the laboratory.
She looked up to see him standing in the doorway, an uncertain look on his face.
“Hello, Myrrielle!” Her gaze shifted to the clock momentarily. “I’m not late for something, am I?”
“No,” he said quietly, his dark eyes flickering restlessly between her and the room. He went to her and put his arms around her, clinging to her almost desperately. He was trembling slightly. “Are you nearly done, Debbie?”
“Almost, Myrrielle. I just have to finish my notes. Is something wrong?”
“Just a bad … memory. Something brought it up … someone. I just want to be with you. I don’t want to be alone.”
She pulled another chair alongside hers. “Sit down, then. I’ll only be a few minutes.”
He sat beside her, shifting restlessly, now putting an arm around her shoulders, or her waist, now resting his hand on her thigh or knee, leaning into her side, nervously seeking to make as much contact with her as possible. She finished as quickly as she could.
“What’s got you so disturbed, Myrrielle? What’s wrong?” she asked, turning to face him. He took her in his arms, crushing her to him.
“I saw a ghost today. It frightened me.” He released her finally. “Let’s go home. I just want to be in your arms where I’m safe.”
They made love for a long time that evening, him straining, every muscle taut, pounding wildly, driving himself into her, seeking to fill her with his seed over and over as she cried out in ecstasy. At last they lay, still clasped in the conjugal embrace, resting.
“Oh, Debbie,” he whispered. “I feel safe when I am in your arms, safe like I have never been before.” He kissed her passion-swollen lips. “You make me forget all the bad things that ever happened.” “And the bad things I’ve done, like sending Mensay Rendamion to his doom”, he thought to himself.
She reached up to him and kissed him, gently at first, then with more passion. “I love you, Myrrielle. I want to love you ’til all the hurt goes away and all you have left is love.” She kissed him again and he felt his passion begin to stir once more. “I think this time it is I who will love you.” She caught his wrists and imprisoned them as she suited her actions to her words. He struggled briefly; he could very well have forced his way out of the situation, but he surrendered and let her have her way instead. She proceeded to ravish him lovingly.
“Oh! Ooh! Debbie, mercy! Have mercy!” he cried mockingly.
She chuckled wickedly. “Oh, I’ll show you mercy, darling Myrrielle,” she said, laughing. “Later.”
At the end they lay together, spent and content in the afterglow of their lovemaking.
“Ghosts all gone, Myrrielle?”
He smiled and kissed her. “Yes, love. All gone.”
“Shucks,” she sniffed, pretending to pout. “I was hoping there might be one or two left.” Her hand touched his cheek, then slid gently down his throat, coming to rest on his muscular shoulder, kneading gently.
He chuckled. “I don’t have to have ghosts for you to love me.”
“You don’t?”
He reached for the light switch. “No.”
The light went out. There was the sound of a brief struggle.
“Aha!” Debbie said triumphantly. “I’ve got you now!”
Griffendahl sighed exaggeratedly. “I’m so frightened! Whatever will I do?” he wailed mockingly.
“Be still and enjoy it.”
Wisely, he did.
Chapter 25 is published here: https://gjsittler.medium.com/amaranth-rose-025-e1494ba422ef
NOTE: Comments and claps are encouragement to publish more. Since the author is deceased, there won’t be any edits, other than spelling or punctuation correction.
