The Dragon Hunters (11 page)

Damn you, Cron
. He winced again. Even thinking bad thoughts hurt. Notam slowly wound his way down the corridors until he reached the commander’s quarters. He had every intention of giving the younger man a royal chewing. At least it sounded good. The sad reality was he allowed himself to succumb to temptation and peer pressure. Cron wasn’t to blame. It was all his fault.
Water. I need water and a pot to vomit in
.

He entered without knocking and felt his mouth drop. He came in expecting to find the captain behind his desk going over reports, patiently awaiting his arrival. Instead Notam noted the thin coat of dust on the polished maple chair. The desk was completely cleared except for a small parchment. Notam hesitantly unrolled it and read. His strength fled as he dropped down into Cron’s chair and stared blankly out of the window. The parchment crumbled in his hand.

“Damned fool, what have you done?” he whispered to the walls.

Eline

The ambience of the Stag and Bow’s common room left much to be desired. After three miserable days on the road west, they gained the sleepy village of Eline and were shocked by the lack of reception. People avoided making eye contact, instead shifting glances out of the corner of their eyes. Grelic and the others were met with open hostility and disdain, as if they were responsible for the bad times falling on Thrae.

They stumbled on a drunken Gnome who kindly pointed them to the stables for a silver penny. The owner was a burly man who’d seen better days. He asked an exuberant amount to store the horses overnight, backing down only after Grelic rolled his shoulders and confronted the man. He even offered the Stag and Bow as the best tavern in town.

“Food’s not so good but it’s the kind of place folks go to avoid questions,” he’d told them.

Pregen, of all of them, immediately complained of the lack of standards once they entered. Grelic held up a finger and scowled. The discussion ended abruptly. They paid for their rooms, price of dinner included, and changed into dry clothes. Baths were made available to each, for an additional fee of course, but they were able to wash the last three days worth of misery off before Grelic collected them to head downstairs.

The serving maid, an older woman slightly overweight and with a rosy complexion, brought them a platter of roast fowl, day-old dark bread, and a quarter wedge of white cheese. Ale and water were brought in large pewter mugs. Kialla was most appreciative for the table close to the fireplace. As much as she liked to present the toughened image, she still enjoyed being spoiled by the simple pleasures in life. They ate in relative silence. Spirits were too dampened for much banter. Then she noticed something peculiar.

“You’re not drinking?” she asked Grelic.

The giant shook his head, so slight it barely moved. His eyes never stopped scanning the gathered crowds. “Not until we see this task finished. It is too dangerous now. Besides, a few weeks without ale will only make it taste better when that golden liquid hits my lips again!”

“I was thinking more that it would do you some good to stay away,” she said as a not-so-subtle reminder that his drinking was what landed them in this situation in the first place.

Ibram finished his meal and wiped his mouth with a satisfying grin. The monks of the Order lived well enough but there was something to be said for a properly cooked meal in a proper tavern. Belly filled, sleep threatened to consume him. He frowned. Such behavior would have been acceptable for a monk but not for a warrior in the defense of Thrae. He owed it to himself to prove his worth. Ibram concealed a knowing smirk. Soon Grelic would understand his value and start treating him like an equal.

He stifled a yawn and stretched. “Where do we go now?”

Grelic eyed him questioningly. “To bed. We’ve a long journey ahead and will have need of strength before the end.”

Pregen laughed. The pleasant sound was quickly subsumed by the disorganized clamor from the rest of the crowds. Embarrassed and frustrated by the continual lack of respect, Ibram angered quickly. He only wanted to make a positive addition to the group, why couldn’t they understand?

“Don’t be so quick to anger,” Grelic cautioned. “You’ll have plenty of chances to get yourself killed. Patience, boy.”

Ibram looked to Fitch for support but the broken villager had already passed out.

Kialla intervened, recognizing the foolishness in Ibram’s eyes. “Look at it from our point of view, Ibram. We face an unknown enemy and you haven’t been tested in battle. The only way for this quest to succeed is by each of us doing our parts. We cannot afford to jump into a situation blind, no matter how eager we are.”

He tried his best to listen, to ignore the sting and implications of her words.

Grelic wasn’t going to wait for him to argue further. “Look, boy, I’m going to lay it out clearly. Up until last week you were a monk, a peacekeeper for lack of anything else. I’ve killed more men than years you’ve lived. This isn’t a game and no one is going to hold your hand. But I will not let you bring us down in ruin simply because you want to make a statement. There is a fine line between heroic and just plain stupid. Wait. Be patient and learn from what we can teach you. Blood and death are coming.”

Ibram finally gave in. Tears soaked his eyes. His pride stung. His feelings were battered. Doubt crept in as he struggled to maintain some semblance of control. Inner demons mocked his rationale. Ibram’s private war threatened to tear him apart yet he didn’t know who he could trust to go to. He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer to Harr, hoping his god would forgive his ignorance and transgressions.

“Entertaining as this is,” Pregen cut into the awkward silence, “I would like to know why we’re just going to sit in this drab, out-of-the-way tavern instead of pushing forward. Brother Ibram had the right of it. Time is against us. We should move while the enemy is off guard. Waiting will only work against us.”

Grelic ignored his initial instinct to crush the man’s pretty face. “We are going to wait. In the morning I want you and Fitch to buy enough supplies for two weeks. Ibram will see to the horses. Make sure they are ready to go quickly. Kialla, see if you can find a small wagon. An extra mount to carry additional supplies at the least.”

Pregen shot him a bored look. “Exactly what will you be doing?”

“I don’t know yet.”

The room erupted in song and cheer before the argument could develop. Dozens of well wishers poured through the doors to celebrate the spring wedding of the local crofter. Kialla smiled, forgetting the brewing mistrust between the group. The image of the bride quickly flashed by. She sighed, wondering when it would be her turn. No one noticed Ibram slip off during the confusion. Not even Pregen, with his deceptively shifting gaze, at least he never admitted it later. Nor did they notice the pair of uncomfortably familiar eyes staring at them from across the room.

Ibram breathed in the damp night air and felt refreshed. It stopped raining hours ago but the sky remained foul under a blanket of angry clouds. Darkness crowded in around the flickering street lights. He was reminded of the terrible power of the night, barely noticing he was the only one out. Smaller villages often thrived on the fear of the dark, a trait he found unhealthy at best. Monsters and such truly did roam the night.

He walked for a time, content in his solitude. Skipping mud holes and puddles occupied his thoughts, blissfully stealing him from his ordeals. The sword tapping his thigh after each step was both reassuring and troublesome. His deepest heart told him he was meant to be a warrior. His mind, however, refused to let Grelic’s words go. They weren’t spoken in anger or meant to belittle him, but the bite went deep. Ibram sucked in a deep breath and continued on with reinforced determination. He wasn’t going to let the giant beat him back.

“Oh thank the gods! Sir, please help!” an old lady cried, hobbling out from a twisting alley. “Please sir. Be kind. It’s my daughter. She’s in trouble.”

A fire sparked. Ibram saw purpose. A chance to prove his worth. “Look at me,” he soothed. “I can’t help you until you calm down and give me details.”

She trembled beneath the frayed, grey cloak. He noticed how frail she was, as if time was slowly chipping away at her very being. Deep lines crisscrossed her hands and face. Dirty, stringy hair clung to her cheeks, reminding him of a wet dog. Broken nails turned her hands into claws. She had an odd odor about her, as if she enjoyed living in filth. Warnings went off in his head. This woman wasn’t right. But before he could disengage she was half dragging him down the alley.

“Come, come. She is this way,” the woman urged.

Ibram felt a liking to his own grandmother. She walked with hunched shoulders, her back threatening to break any second. Soon he was lost in the daunting corridors of Eline. While nothing like Kelis Dur, everything in Eline looked exactly the same. An odd sensation tickled the back of his neck. He felt like he was being watched.

“Slow down, old one. It’s too dark here and I don’t know my way,” he called out just as her cloaked figure disappeared into the shadows.

Ibram’s hand drifted to his sword. His senses screamed.

“Where are you?” he called out. “I can’t see you. Come back!”

The odd hissing noise was so subtle he nearly missed it.

“You’ll see soon enough,” her voice crooned from the night.

Ibram swore the voice came from directly above. He took one cautious step though instinct warned to walk away. The crisp, metallic sound of his sword being jerked from the scabbard was virtually swallowed by the night. Thunder rumbled in the distance, menacing and threatening. His palms felt slick, insecure. Ibram envisioned dropping his sword at the wrong moment. He tightened his grip to compensate, so hard his knuckles bled white. Doubt and fear rose from the night to assail his composure.

Ibram had spent what felt like years secretly practicing his love for the sword. It was only against wooden obstacles or in play with some of the younger monks with a passion for adventure. Grelic had the right of it. He’d never faced another opponent in combat. Didn’t know the feeling of his steel plunging into flesh or the reliving of that moment every time he closed his eyes. The true test of a nightmare was living through it. Ibram was about to begin his walk down the hard path of a warrior.

He muttered a soft prayer to Harr and dropped into a fighting stance. Shadows stirred to his left and right. The enemy leapt at him. Grey-brown figures lashed out, driving him back. Pain lanced across his lower ribs. He’d been cut. A venomous hiss burned his ears. Hot blood trickled down his flank. Ibram barely made out the shapes of his attackers. A blow from the right caught him across the thigh, gouging a small chunk of flesh away. He lashed out, desperate to strike back. The air whistled from the strength of an empty blow.

Overextended, he pitched forward. An attacker jumped and planted both feet in the small of his back. Ibram crashed down on broken rocks and old tree bark. The force of the impact knocked his sword loose. Struggling to catch his breath, he wiped the blood from his eyes and drew his dagger. Ibram managed to roll away a split second before a second attacker landed where his head had been. With no time, Ibram heaved his dagger and was rewarded with a fleshy thud. The attacker screamed an unholy sound and flashed palely. Ibram stared into the empty eyes of his foe and reeled from shock.

Shriveled brown skin crawled in the glow. Long arms and legs gave the creature a gangly appearance. The stench of decomposing flesh choked the air. Ibram swallowed his fears and dashed to his sword. He rose slowly, as if every muscle threatened rebellion. His breath came in ragged gasps from the strange combination of fear and excitement. Back against the wall of the closest building, he waited for what promised to be agonizing death.

The Dwim ripped the dagger from its chest and wailed with a mournful hiss. Others emerged from the night, slowly creeping towards Ibram. He gagged from the overpowering stench. Death had come. Ibram knew he lacked the skill to fight the undead. His heart cried out at the injustice. The Dwim closed in. They smelled his fear. The scent of his blood awakened primal urges buried deep within. Sickly ichors dripped from thousands of wounds. Vapors clung to them in miasmic clouds.

Ibram found no consolation from wounding one. The monster kept coming, ignorant of the fact it wept puss and foul liquids. His eyes nervously shifted from wall to wall. Four Dwim lurched in, penning him against the slime-slickened wall. There was no way he could defeat so many. He considered praying again, though Harr hadn’t listened to his earlier pleas. Father Seldis once suggested he prayed for the wrong reasons. It seemed ridiculous at the time. What god ignored the cries of his followers? Ibram frowned, knowing the answer he refused to admit. He raised his sword and prepared to die.

Violent green light, bright and filled with vibrancy, exploded the darkness with the arrogance of unnatural fire. Two of the Dwim were incinerated instantly. Ibram threw up his arm to protect his eyes as the very strength fled his body. For a moment he stood dazed in the after effects of the blast. His hearing felt muted, muffled. Tiny spots danced behind his eyelids. The sound of steel tearing tortured flesh became crisp. As did the ensuing guttural groan. Another Dwim, eviscerated from neck to groin, fell dead at his feet. Darkness reclaimed the alley.

Ibram awoke with a low groan. He tried to move but the amount of physical pain wracking his body quickly changed his mind. He swore a group of Dwarves were slamming his skull with their hammers while singing a baleful dirge. Ibram quickly passed back into unconsciousness, waking up several times during the night. Each time lasted but a moment, hardly enough for him to look through the fog at the group of concerned faces staring worriedly back.

He became lost in the dark, wandering down empty paths leading to an obscure dream. Reality danced away as if fearful to his touch. His nightmares became so violent only a god could withstand them. Strange and deadly beasts intent on rendering Malweir to ashes struggled to break loose. Ibram watched helplessly as the world barreled towards oblivion. Malevolent forces battled for his soul, desperately trying to rip it from his flesh. He resisted, but at great cost.

Good and evil surrounded him to wage war. Ibram lay in stupor, unable to defend himself. A shadow stole his gaze, hovering over him protectively. The outline of a man took shape, bathed in an almost imperceptible blue tinge. He reached out for Ibram’s hand. The monk faded as their hands touched.