The Dragon Hunters (10 page)

Alone in the Dark

Mist covered the ground like a foul blanket. There was a slight chill to the air, a reminder that the night was dying. Kini Ar looked out the window of his guard tower and wondered what he was doing. The tower, if it could be called such, was more like a hunter’s platform. Barely large enough to fit a man, it offered a stable platform to shoot a bow, but little else. The only advantage Kini found was it allowed him to see a goodly distance, when the weather permitted.

Most of the villages in Thrae had erected similar defenses after word of Gend spread. Thim was no exception. Every man old enough took his turn during the nights in one of the four hastily constructed watch towers. The rest continued to build a palisade around the village. Last night had been Kini’s turn at watch. It wasn’t half as bad as he expected, considering none of them had any military experience. Kini was a simple baker. Breads and pastries were his specialty, not swords or a bow. He didn’t mind doing his part for his home, though he failed to see the point. Kini was convinced there wasn’t anything out there that needed to be defended against. Gend was either inflated due to the story being passed down or just made up to begin with. He scoffed at the notion of monsters attacking Thim.

The zip of an arrow and the wet thump of it striking his chest, piercing through his heart, were the last things Kini heard before his corpse tumbled from the platform.

Hundreds of bulky, dark shapes emerged from the mist and casually surrounded the sleeping village. Scourd walked among them, careful to keep silent as his Goblins executed their task just like they’d done a dozen times before. He impatiently waited until four pillars of flames rose above the village. All defending guards had been dispatched and their towers set ablaze. Thim was helpless. Scourd finally grinned savagely, a visage of utter malice and contempt for humankind.

He turned to the Goblin closest to him and ordered, “Unleash the Dwim.”

The Goblin stalked off, his grey barrel shape quickly being lost in the mist. Scourd felt the temperature drop sharply as scores of Dwim sidled through the Goblin ranks. He was careful to avoid their touch. Dwim were powerful creatures and certain death to anything they came in contact with. Their lidless, opaque eyes stared at the buildings and homes of Thim. Their mouths were locked in a rictus of agony, twisted by the dark powers of the netherworld. Dark Mages once delved too deep into the black arts and the Dwim were the result. They’d been human once. Men and women stolen in the night and transformed through unspeakable nightmares.

The Dwim struck with voracity seldom seen. Crashing through windows and doors, breaking through walls as if they were naught but curtains blowing in a soft wind. The Dwim fell on their prey with undisguised maliciousness. They killed without thought, sucking the very souls from their victims with a harrowing silent scream. Scourd listened to the utter silence gripping Thim and shivered. Such things simply should not be allowed to exist. He despised the mindless creatures. Most had been women or children. Dark Mages quickly discovered the value of twisting women. Through some foul comedy, the Mages tore the fabric of the world. Bred for the singular purpose of killing, Dwim were incapable of individual thought. They obeyed his orders without question but could easily be turned against Scourd should Ramulus decree.

Scourd watched and listened to the growing symphony of chaos. The Dwim had been instructed to capture another hundred villagers and kill the rest. Personally, Scourd thought his Goblins were more effective on the battlefield. He’d tried arguing the point with Ramulus but the dragon seldom listened, leading Scourd to believe a more nefarious character was pulling the strings in Druem. Dragons were revered for their ability to make war. They killed and slept. Hailing from the islands far to the west, Ramulus was one of the few winged beasts that actually made it this far. Scourd wondered why, and how.

“The Dwim are nearly finished,” hissed one of the Goblin captains.

Scourd snarled, the deep rumbling sound coming from his barrel chest. “Burn everything. Have the scum take the prisoners back to Mordrun Bal. Ramulus wants his army ready soon.”

“At once.”

The smell of burnt flesh soon choked the predawn air. Scourd inhaled deeply, relished the scent. His mouth watered.

“What of the bodies? We are hungry, Scourd,” an impish Goblin asked.

Scourd lashed out. The back of his hand crushed the imp’s skull with a sickening crunch. “Leave them where they died. Back to the Deadlands! Soldiers will come soon.”

The Goblin commander stalked off, leaving the dead Goblin in a spreading pool of blood and brain matter. Energy revitalized him. It had been so long since he last killed for pleasure, Scourd nearly forgot the sensation. Packs of Dwim started leaving the village, dragging half-senseless victims. Three wagons waited just beyond the tree line to carry the prisoners back to the laboratories of Mordrun Bal. Once the last prisoner was loaded, the Dwim disappeared. Scourd watched their wood-colored bodies dissolve into the mist with a tremor of disgust.

“Move out! We are out of time!” he ordered, suddenly eager to get as far away from the Dwim as possible.

* * * * *

Alfen Bew covered his ears and started singing to drown out the fresh chorus of screams. He hated the night. Especially those when more prisoners were brought in. It never occurred to him that they were all women or children. Alfen figured the men were sent down to work the mines. He watched a seemingly endless train of fresh prisoners being shoved into cages. He didn’t know any of them.

Alfen normally spent his time ignoring the others. He’d made the mistake of befriending others in the beginning. One by one they were taken away, never to be seen again. He was the last. Back then Alfen harbored hope of being rescued. Surely his parents, Rena and Bors, must be out searching the countryside with their dog Asha. They would be worried to death, not knowing where he was or even if he was still alive. That fear of unknowing kept Alfen going for only so long. Now he merely tried to not think about home. His family. His friends. He was six years old and more than likely going to die without ever seeing the sun again.

What Alfen couldn’t have known was his father was already dead, murdered by the same raiding party that captured him. His mother was gone as well, turned into one of the lifeless Dwim, one of the very creatures she used to warn him about in her tales of monsters and gobbledygook. Alfen Bew was as alone as he would ever be. Better men grew desperate and tried to escape. He was six. Escaping wasn’t very realistic. So Alfen spent his days avoiding others and trying to hide.

The screams grew closer. He couldn’t block them out any longer. Alfen finally gave in and crept closer to the bars of his cell to look. Shock rippled across his face. He knew the woman screaming! She’d always been kind to him, slipping him extra scraps of bread or rotted meat. She was one of the few who actually cared for him. While he never spoke very much with her, Alfen considered her a friend. Now she was being taken away just like all of the others. Sadness gripped him when she passed. Goblins sneered, ignoring the other prisoners. Alfen cowered with that old fear.

He suddenly lunged for the bars and shouted, “Let her go!”

The Goblin barked laughter and kept walking as the woman turned her head to give Alfen a final glance. Her soft eyes pleaded with him not to say anything else. The way her golden hair framed her face reminded him of his mother.

“Wait your turn, little one,” the second Goblin hissed.

Alfen gripped the bars so hard his hands hurt. He felt helpless, but what could he do? He finally sat down and tried to think. The only thing he could do for her was to never forget her name. He vowed to say it every night before he went to sleep. Shar.

A Bad Start

It began raining just before dawn. An unexpected cold front turned the mid-spring drizzle into cold, punishing rain. Grelic wiped the water from his brow in a useless gesture and kept riding. The foul tempered look etched into his face said what they were all feeling. He turned every so often to see if any of the others had given up and gone home yet. They’d only been on the road for a few days and misery set in. Ibram was the first to protest. Brave, but Grelic only laughed in his face. Monks were too soft if a little rain threatened to break him.

“Perfect way to start the quest,” Kialla smiled.

Grelic ignored the minor lust growing inside. Her auburn hair clung to her soft cheeks, enhancing her natural beauty. A heavy riding cloak managed to keep her from being thoroughly soaked. She told him it was a gift from the Elves of the Old Forest. He didn’t bother asking for what. Things just were.

“Mmm. I’m not sure who’s more uncomfortable, the monk or Pregen,” he replied.

Kialla laughed. It was a glorious sound to the older warrior, akin to song birds on the first true day of spring. A small part of him almost wished he had settled down and raised a family. A son. Sadly, Grelic knew he lacked the ability to keep women happy. There were times when he failed to keep himself happy. The thought of having others depend on him every day without fail frightened him.

She turned back to enjoy the thief’s discomfort. Pregen was the sort to willingly travel on long, dangerous journeys in unknown lands. She suspected he seldom left the major cities. “Master thief and part-time assassin! I hope you’re not taking him for his word, Grelic.”

“Relax. I’ve known him for a few years. He should do what I need him to.”

An uneasy thought dawned on her. “His deeds are seldom talked about. I never heard of him until the gardens. Grelic, he’s younger than me! He can get us all killed. Hells, he might even be working for the enemy.”

The painful slap of wet flesh echoed through the group. Grelic turned to watch Fitch pull a dead mosquito from his face. If he weren’t a naturally confident man, Grelic might start to lose hope. “At least we know his charming side is true.”

Kialla shot him a dirty look, though she reluctantly admitted Pregen did have a certain quality about him. And he was attractive. She guessed he came from wealth, given the softness of his hands and his smooth words. “Has he actually killed anyone?”

Grelic refused to answer.

Fitch cursed after killing yet another mosquito. He’d already lost count of how many times he’d been bitten. It was certainly more than everyone else combined. He was used to being miserable, or so he thought. Small village living offered everyday misery, whether from food or farming. At least he had Shar to keep him happy when he returned home. He sighed. That life seemed like so long ago. He changed the subject before that old wound reopened.

“They could have picked a better day,” he griped to Ibram.

Ibram didn’t care. He rode without focus, wishing for the bad weather to pass. Destiny had summoned and he knew he was about to become a great hero, an immortal legend passed down through generations. The rain threatened to dampen his spirits enough to make him reconsider.

“This isn’t so bad. Consider it a cleansing by Harr before we truly begin the quest,” Ibram replied. He held up a cupped hand, letting the water fill it before drinking quickly. “This is the life, Fitch! We’re practically kings of our world.”

Fitch was fairly positive Ibram was ready to draw his sword and start hacking away at imaginary heroes like children do. He had an odd suspicion of the real reason Ibram left the order. Fitch started to think the man was borderline psychotic.

“If this is what being a king is like I’ll have no part in it.”

Ibram was stunned. He failed to see how any man wouldn’t enjoy the freedom of doing whatever he wanted or where. After all, heroes didn’t answer to others. “Why did you let Father Seldis convince you to come along?”

Fitch shrugged, the answer lost in the jumble of broken thoughts and unfinished memories. “To help the kingdom I suppose.”

Ibram fell silent, so coldly were the words spoken.

Grelic finally called a halt around midday. They’d come upon an abandoned hunting lodge and decided to break for a quick meal and the chance to dry out a little before continuing. They fixed a hasty meal of dried meat and cheese while sitting around the small campfire. Grelic warned against anything larger despite it being the middle of the day. They couldn’t afford to take chances.

He noticed they sat divided. Standing in the doorway, he paused from looking up into the dismal skies to study his group. The rains lightened enough to offer the false promise of hope but there wasn’t any sign Grelic found that the storms were going to abate. He saw how Ibram sulked off to one side. Fitch seemed desperate to escape Pregen’s boasts and sordid tales. Kialla caught his eye and she rose.

She walked softly to the giant and offered a cup of steaming tea, which he drank quickly. The warm feeling spread through his chilled body.

“Thank you,” he told her and handed the cup back.

She took a moment to look at the weather before replying. Storm clouds grew darker to the east, promising more rain. She stuck her hand outside, watching the droplets roll down the back of her hand.

“Quite the odd collection we have, eh?” he said.

“What’s bothering you? I’ve heard all of your stories,” she teased. “Seems there were plenty of times you managed more with worse.”

“Some stories are only meant to build the legends. You should know that.”

“So the hero of Kressel Tine didn’t exist?”

He shot her a menacing glare. “You damned well know that’s true.”

“Lighten up. I was just kidding,” she spat back. “What’s wrong with you? Talk to me, Grelic.”

He watched the rain. Lightning danced through the murky sky. “None of this makes any sense. Something sinister is behind our problems. Dark times are approaching. Don’t trust any of these people, Kialla. One of them is a spy.”

She immediately thought of Pregen. His mercenary ways could easily have been compromised for the right price.

“How do you know?”

“We’re being followed.”

She resisted the urge to reach for her sword. Grelic gave her a knowing glance before he walked off into the rain. Her instincts took over. She scanned the tree line for any sign of their pursuer. She could feel it. That gnawing presence growing in the back of her mind. Danger called to her, whispering her name like a jaded lover. The warnings were subtle enough not to raise alarms. Yet. She looked up in time to see Grelic fade into the ground-clinging mist.

“Where is he going?” asked Ibram. The look on his face was the same as a child’s pride at sneaking up on his father.

“To scout the land,” she replied simply.

“By himself? What if something is out there? He shouldn’t be alone,” he exclaimed.

Grelic was a legend but even heroes needed help from time to time.

Kialla barred the door as Ibram made to follow. “No. He works better alone. Right now you’ll just get in the way and draw attention to him. Let him work. Grelic knows what he’s doing.”

Mild rage flushed his face. “Why should I listen to a woman? What do you know of war?”

Kialla leveled her most menacing glare, cool and deadly. “Tell me, monk, what do you? How many hours have you spent on your knees praying while better men shed their blood in your defense? Don’t speak to me of war.”

Ibram clenched his teeth and stormed back to the fire. He stayed silent for the longest time, letting the flames lick up his hatred. When he couldn’t stand it any longer he made to get up and confront her.

“She probably just saved your life,” Pregen said calmly in a low voice.

Ibram spun. “I can take care of myself, thief.”

Pregen shrugged. “I’m sure you can. I’m also sure Grelic could kill you before you even knew he was near. There’s no complacency among people like us. This isn’t your precious Order of Harr. Even that young lady in the doorway has killed men. You don’t really think you’re a match for her, do you? We were each picked for a reason, Ibram. Let the warriors fight the battles.”

“I’m just as good as any of you,” Ibram mumbled, much of the fire drained from his voice. He slumped down. The absence of anger left him cold.

Kialla winced from the hurt tone in his voice. Part of her wanted to say something. To let him know it wasn’t personal. The rest, the vast majority, knew his inexperience and brashness was going to get one of them hurt or worse. She wasn’t about to let that happen.

The storm picked up.

Grelic returned shortly. He was soaked to the bone. The dangerous look in his eyes was enough to keep any question unasked. He took a seat in front of the fire and made a futile attempt at getting warm. Chills wracked his massive body. Dirty water dribbled down his face and neck. It made an evil hiss whenever it struck the hungry flames. His face was sour. The quiet reminder of why he didn’t like living in Thrae. Only Kialla noticed the speckle of blood on the cuff of his sleeve.

They waited just long enough for Grelic to lose the chill and change into dry clothes before heading back out. His mood darkened with the sky, as if the trek through the forest had wrought an undeniable change in him. The giant let his horse stretch his legs. Together they led the company down the winding forest road.

“What did you find?” Kialla asked him once she was sure they wouldn’t be overheard.

Grelic’s eyes flittered across his field of vision. “We are being followed. There were horse tracks running parallel to our course. I tracked them back for a while. Whoever it may be, they’re no pathfinders. There were too many signs. Broken branches. Footprints in the mud. I searched as long as I dared and then doubled back.”

She knew him better. “The blood?”

Grelic laughed. “I thought it had all washed away. That is all that was left of a Goblin scout.”

Kialla frowned. “Goblins don’t ride horses and there are no werebeasts in Thrae the last I knew. Who’s on the horse?”

“A good question,” Grelic replied. “I found the Goblin about a hundred meters into the trees. I think he was watching both us and the rider. He never saw my dagger though. I never found the rider or any other Goblin.”

An uneasy feeling was growing inside her. “Goblins never travel alone. It looks like the spy Rentor warned us about already knows our route. Do you still think it’s one of us?”

He frowned. “I don’t trust a single one of them if that’s what you mean.”

“Should we try to catch him?” she asked. The idea of being pursued all the way to Gend troubled her greatly.

“No. I want to get to Eline as soon as possible and out of this weather. A good night’s rest will do us all some good. From there we strike for Gend and discover the truth to this madness.”

They rode west, each lost in vastly different and disturbing thoughts.

Three full days and nights it rained. The mood of the quest worsened hourly, spoiled by foul weather and constant unspoken hostility. By dusk of the third day they arrived at the small city of Eline. Farm houses and freshly plowed fields alerted the group and soon the outlying areas turned to houses and shops. Smoke columned up from chimneys, suggesting warmth and a place to rest. Grelic had been here before, only the last time there hadn’t been a crude wall or towers. He halted them just outside of range for the archers standing guard.

“Mind your tongues here. These people are spooked by what happened in Gend. Don’t mention our quest or where we’re from,” he said and his iron gaze fell on Fitch. “It’s going to be hard enough trying to blend in for the short time we’re here. Stay in your rooms as much as you can.”

Ibram’s face tightened as if to speak but he stayed quiet.

“Let’s go,” Grelic ordered.

The tiny band hailed the guards and rode to the gates of Eline.

* * * * *

Notam cursed himself for letting Cron drink so much. The sun was almost at its peak before he groaned out of bed. Seldom the heavy drinker, he found the taste heavy and bitter. Though it fit the generally dour people of Thrae, he preferred a light berry-flavored wine. That alone made him a rarity amongst the ranks.

Head pounding, Notam felt his stomach lurch. The color drained from his face as his body revolted against the alcohol forced into it. He walked across the courtyard on unsteady legs to the steps of the command building. The semi-light of the sun trying to break through the ever-present veil of grey clouds sent lightning bolts into his eyes. He dreaded climbing the short flight of steps leading up to the front doors. Twin lion statues flanking the steps were uncharacteristically intimidating this afternoon. Notam tried to ignore their unflinching glare and climbed.

The sentry on duty snapped to attention. Notam winced as the steel-capped spear butt crashed onto the grey slate floor. He waved off the guard’s diligence with an aggravated grimace and struggled on. As much as a stickler as he was for drill and ceremony, Notam clutched his aching head from the reverberations. He despised the guard now almost as much as Cron. Each footstep inside was as harsh as a thunderclap, turning the brightness in the hall into coffin nails.