The Dragon Hunters (16 page)

“Ain’t a Goblin living that can best me,” Grelic snorted to an assortment of laughter.

Kialla stepped forward. “We’ve been talking.”

“And?”

“We’re with you, whatever you decide,” she answered. “Some of us are more reluctant than others, but we’re all in.”

Grelic finally exhaled that breath that had been trapped in his chest. “You do know we are heading into the Deadlands?”

“We know,” Ibram said.

Cron half smiled. “There are better places to see. I’ve heard the Twin Spires of Ragnash are lovely in the summer. If it’s the Deadlands so be it.”

“When do we leave?” Pregen asked. He wanted nothing to do with any of it and quietly tried to figure out when best to abandon the others.

Grelic nodded and settled his gaze on Fitch. His respect for the villager returning to confront his past rose, but Fitch was no soldier. Still, he gave Grelic a shrug and was about to speak when Grelic silenced him with a hand. The warrior sprinted back to the tree line and crouched. A bird abruptly stopped whistling in the distance. Grelic narrowed his eyes and searched the forest, rewarded with several dark shapes stalking towards him. The faint brush of metal reached his ears. It was an all-too-familiar sound. Grelic drew his sword as quietly as possible and hurried back to the group.

Kialla noticed that familiar gleam in his eyes and went for her weapons. “What is it?” she asked in passing.

“Goblins.”

The Aeldruin

A long, winding trail of mud and half-melted snow marked the passing column of horsemen through the eerily quiet forest. The midday sun was bright yet not quite hot enough to be a bother. Whispers of clouds hung randomly to the tranquil sky. Butterflies the mild colors of rainbows danced around the riders, inviting them to enjoy the peaceful mid-spring day. Bred for war and trained to endure long days, weeks even, on the hunt, horse and rider resisted the temptation to momentarily forget themselves.

The lead rider suddenly halted the column, rising in his stirrups. The others immediately fanned out in a wedge formation and searched the surrounding area for signs of danger. And they waited. No one spoke. A thin wind kicked up fresh pollen dropping from the pines. Horses snickered nervously, as if sensing something bad about to happen.

“Come out, Euorn,” the leader called. His voice was light, carefree.

Each rider was dressed similarly in a camouflage pattern of light and dark forest colors. A trained eye had trouble discerning them from their surroundings. Their cloaks were light yet durable and waterproof. The ancient fabric kept them cool in the hot summers and warm through the depths of winter. An equal number of men and women filled the ranks, just as it had been for generations. People across Malweir knew them for their martial prowess and often sought them out to settle petty squabbles and civil wars. They were the Aeldruin. High Elf mercenaries grown bored with the teachings of the Sacred Tree.

Euorn emerged from the shadows and lowered his hood. Lustrous brown hair with a hint of red and blonde hung down past his thin shoulders, concealing all but the very tops of his pointed ears. He grinned.

“Lord Faeldrin, there is sign of battle,” he reported without being asked.

Faeldrin also dropped his hood, revealing angular features centered around crisp eyes. “Where?”

Euorn gestured across the breadth of forest. “All over. The ambush happened here, or close by. It’s hard to tell how many Gwarmoran but my guess is near two and a half score.”

Even Faeldrin and his long centuries of mercenary work had never heard of so many attacking a singular target. “How many humans?”

“Six.”

Faeldrin balked. “Six? Are you sure?”

He regretted asking the moment the words left his mouth. Euorn was the best scout and tracker in the company. He’d been recruited for that very reason. In fact, every one of Faeldrin’s company was handpicked for the individual skills they brought. They had become his family and he cared for each dearly. Some took years, decades even, before relenting and joining him.

If Euorn took offense to being doubted he didn’t show it. Even he had trouble believing so few stood against so many of the Gwarmoran. “Aye. The signs are muddled but I’m positive there were just six.”

“Where are the bodies?”

Faeldrin looked over the battlefield, not looking forward to burying the remains.

“There are none. Leastwise none that aren’t Gwarmoran.”

The Elf Lord smiled.
This is getting intriguing, unless the remains are so horribly mangled the task proves overwhelming
. “Show me.”

They rode through the copse of trees, leaving the rest of the Aeldruin behind. Faeldrin immediately noticed dark splotches of blood and ichor on bushes and tree trunks. Dark wolf corpses lay scattered across the ground in growing numbers the deeper they rode. Faeldrin was impressed. Whoever controlled the wolves knew exactly what he was doing. The ravine walls were steep enough to prevent escape. Broken saplings, burned shrubs and blood-stained leaves lay heaped in piles, complicating the area for horses. He failed to see how anyone managed to survive.

“What made those scoring marks?” he asked after picking out the subtle signs of burns and ash.

Euorn’s eyebrow rose quickly. “If I had to guess I’d say Mage fire.”

“Mage fire? There haven’t been Mages in Malweir in over a hundred years. I don’t think one could have survived for so long alone,” Faeldrin replied.

“That’s what I thought as well, my lord,” Euorn agreed. He pointed to a row of ash piles. “Nothing else has that kind of kinetic energy. Not even an alchemist.”

Faeldrin looked to where he pointed.
Indeed, only a Mage has such might. But which sort, light or dark?

“Perhaps we should leave this place,” Euorn suggested.

“Do you recall the tales of the dark Mage?” Faeldrin asked. An ominous tone underscored his words.

The scout glanced nervously about. If the dark Mage was responsible for killing the wolves, the Aeldruin were dead as well. Euorn remembered all too well. He’d been there during the final battle of the war. He and Faeldrin fought side by side with men and Dwarves from the southern kingdoms. Averon was the strongest foe to the dark Mages and paid dearly for their defiance. Many of Euorn’s friends died that last day.

“More than just the Silver Mage survived,” he whispered.

“Aye. And it stands to reason a dark Mage wouldn’t kill creatures he or she helped create. The question remains, who did?”

“We should find out sometime tomorrow if we follow the trail?” Euorn concluded.

The putrefying stench of decay sickened both land and Elf. Faeldrin returned to the others and ordered, “Let us waste no time. There is a Mage traipsing around the countryside. We must find where his loyalties are.”

The Aeldruin rode through the battlefield with astonished looks. Few had seen such nightmarish scenes of slaughter. Gwarmoran packs were usually small, for the larger animals almost always turned on the younger. Seeing so many dead here left the Elves with a growing sense of impending dread. Even the horses felt it. They couldn’t break into the clear fast enough.

The air much cleaner, Faeldrin pushed them through the night. They found the campsite shortly after sundown. It was hastily scattered and had little trace of being occupied. Faeldrin found himself starting to like whoever it was they hunted.
Only fools would leave signs of their passing, whereas these people moved quickly and tried to cover their tracks. Unfortunately for them, we are Elves
. The Aeldruin paused only long enough to rest and water the horses. The next day went quickly and they soon found themselves riding into the outskirts of what had once been a village. The sounds of battle shattered the calm morning air. Sword clanged on sword. Men and beasts screamed.

Faeldrin drew his slender rapier without pause and bellowed, “Aeldruin, for up and advance!”

Battle of Gend

“How many?” Cron hissed. He eagerly drew his sword.

“I don’t know. Too many to be caught in the open like this,” Grelic said. “Fitch, we need a place to make a stand. Somewhere they can’t surround us.”

“This way,” Fitch said quickly.

They followed him across the center, through Mrs. Winbern’s withered gardens and down the main road leading out of Gend. Rounding the corner of what had been the chandlery, he pointed. Grelic looked around the surrounding area. Normally such a position wouldn’t be considered but the Goblin vanguard was already on them. Three large piles of rubble, storehouses, Fitch said, formed a loose semi-circle behind the chandlery. Depending on how many Goblins had come it might turn into a death trap. Grelic risked a look back down the street. He stopped counting at forty.
They’ve brought an entire company.

“Grelic, I can’t risk using my powers,” Dakeb said. “If even one of them escapes the enemy will know of my presence and we lose any advantage I may bring.”

Grelic let out a crisp guffaw. “I like how you think, Mage. We’ll have to see about killing them all, won’t we?”

“Unless we convince them to surrender,” Dakeb smirked.

“Kialla, I need your bow up here,” Grelic called.

She set her quiver down on a pile of burned logs. “I’m not going to get much range in this debris field. Think you can handle a close fight?”

“I’m looking forward to it. Just like old times.”

Old times, Kialla recalled, usually had better odds. They turned to watch Cron sprint towards them, thumbing the string of a borrowed bow.

“Best in my class,” he said in response to their looks.

Grelic looked closer and noticed it was his own bow. “Shoot as straight as you talk and the first round of ale is on me.”

The lead Goblin scouts were one hundred meters away and closing. Time was up.

“Pregen, you and Ibram cover the right. Fitch, I want you to stick close to Dakeb on the left,” Grelic ordered.

The thief ran the edge of sword lightly across the back of his wrist. “Where do you plan on being?”

Grelic gave a toothy grin. “Right in the middle. I’m going to see about making new friends.”

Pregen watched Grelic stalk forward, silently questioning his own bravado. He glanced at Ibram and asked, “Are you ready for this?”

The former monk didn’t reply, but merely drew his sword and loosened his shoulders. The time for talk was over.

“Relax, Ibram, or you’re going to get us both killed. Besides, you’ve already survived the Dwim and dark wolves. A few Goblins are nothing. You probably won’t even need to sharpen your sword when this is over. Come on. We need to get into position.” He led Ibram to cover behind the furthest pile of rubble.

The Goblins had closed to fifty meters when a stiff wind blew up, casually throwing the tiny band’s scent at them. Halting immediately, the lead Goblin tipped his head back to sniff the wind with a wide, flat nose. Drool escaped from between twisted and cracked teeth. Humans. More scouts caught the scent and a cry rose up through their ranks. Weapons were raised. Natural pack hunters, Goblins had muddy grey-green skin and stood close to five feet. Most were heavily muscled and overly armored. They weren’t exceptional fighters, often relying on strength of numbers. They knew they had the advantage and prepared to attack.

They halted immediately when a huge man emerged from hiding to confront them. He taunted them. Mocking them with his defiance. The Goblin whip master pushed his way to the front ranks. He had one eye and a long, white scar running the length of his face where the other had been.

“What’s this?” he snapped.

Grelic placed the tip of his broadsword into the dirt and waited. His feet were spread a comfortable distance apart. His body language suggested he was calm, relaxed. Goblins spit and yelled insults in their foul language. Grelic didn’t blink. The whip master cracked his leather and the mob quieted.

“Where there’s one, there’s more,” he snarled. “Move slow, dogs. It’s man flesh for supper!”

They started forward under the heavy crack of the whip. Grelic remained still. He was the wall upon which their might would break. The lone obstacle standing between them and a magnificent feast. Goblins strained under the whip. The natural instinct to attack without caution roiled within. It was all the whip master could do to neglect his own primal urges, but this man was dangerous. Otherwise he wouldn’t be so foolish as to stand before a Goblin pack alone.

Unseen, Cron feathered his first arrow and drew. His breathing slowed as he sighted in on his target. Taking the wind, distance, and speed of the enemy advance into consideration, Cron pulled the string tighter and loosed. The arrow whistled through the air and struck the smaller Goblin beside the whip master. He fell dead with a gurgled cry.

“Nice shot,” Kialla said and fired a matching shot to the opposite side.

Cron was impressed. The Goblins recoiled as a third fell dead in only a handful of seconds. “This makes dying easier.”

“What does?”

He fired again. “Being next to a pretty woman.”

Kialla blushed and killed another Goblin.

Trapped in the middle of the killing ground, Grelic held his position. Arrows whizzed by without him blinking. Goblins were dying quickly but not enough to force their retreat. Grelic was going to have to get his hands dirty after all. He jerked his sword free and exhaled a slow, deep breath as the Goblins charged. The first scout to reach him fell in two pieces. Hot blood splashed down Grelic’s legs. A second heaved a throwing knife. Grelic ducked and swung a heavy body blow that ripped open the Goblin’s rib cage. Bones crunched and organs flopped uselessly to the ground. Dark blood frothed on the Goblin’s lips before it sank to its knees. Grelic gave his blade a twist and yanked it free.

A third Goblin went down under a crushing blow to the head. Strands of hair clung wildly to Grelic’s face and neck as he immersed himself in the killing. His eyes were wild, stern. Goblin warriors lost faith upon seeing their reflections cast back upon them. Grelic was death. The whip master bellowed for the attack. Two more dropped with arrows in their chests. By then it was too late. The Goblin ranks crashed into Grelic.

He met them with sword and fury. His blood boiled with rage. He swung, a short chop hacking off an arm. Grelic kicked another hard in the stomach. A barbed blade caught his right bicep, tearing a small chunk of muscle away. He winced as hot jets of pain lanced through his body. Fists slammed into him. Booted feet kicked. Grelic continued to fight despite the overwhelming numbers. He hacked and slashed. Punched and squeezed. The pile of bodies grew. Finally, the whip master had had enough and sounded the retreat.

Eleven dead Goblins lay at Grelic’s feet. He would have smiled if he thought he had enough left to fight the rest off. Truth was, he was exhausted. A week of constantly being on the run and forced into one miserable situation after the next left him with little but his reserves. Grelic cursed himself for getting old when he wasn’t paying attention and readied himself for another charge. He figured he had enough left for one good push. After that…

The whip master snarled and lashed out at anyone unfortunate enough to get too close. “Worthless scum! Can’t kill one man!”

A wounded Goblin snapped back. Dark blood ran down his mangled right arm. “It was an ambush. They had archers!”

The whip master spit venom on the bleeding soldier. “Bring up the rest of the lads. Swing around their flanks. Kill them all and bring me their heads!”

They turned away, leaving their dead, and hurried back to the center of Gend. Grelic watched them go, knowing the battle was far from over. Goblins were vengeful creatures. He picked his way through the corpses and went to Kialla and Cron. She flashed an admonishing glare in direct contrast to Cron’s open awe.

“They’ll come at our flanks next. Maybe behind us,” he said.

“What were you thinking, jumping out in front of a full company of Goblin infantry? You could have been killed,” Kialla scolded.

“I had everything under control,” he replied with a hurt look.

She had her doubts but there wasn’t time to argue. The Goblins weren’t going to wait long before they attacked again. Kialla checked her quiver and frowned. There were only ten arrows left. Ten shots before she’d have to draw her sword, Lady Killer, and slash her way through the fray. Her heart was racing despite the calm she tried to project.
Get it together. They’re just Goblins
.

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t ignore the feeling of cold dread creeping around her inner thoughts. She felt like they were being pushed in a certain direction. The enemy seemed to drive their every action since leaving the capital. She glanced at Cron, who appeared indifferent to the situation. Frustrated and helpless, she readied for the next attack.

Fitch listened to the sounds of the battle and cringed. Being in one was bad enough, but listening to one rage so close rattled his nerves to the point of breaking completely. The small measure of confidence instilled by Father Seldis at the monastery was waning rapidly. Childishly, he wished Grelic would just kill the Goblins and be done with it. He’d seen enough of warfare and foul magic over the last few days for three lifetimes. He failed to understand why the others seemed so absorbed by it. Violence was not a worthwhile endeavor. Did they want to be killed?

“I don’t want to die,” he confessed between hyperventilated sobs.

Dakeb touched his forearm reassuringly. “That isn’t up to us, Fitch. We are only here for a short time. Some will leave their marks in the annals of history. Others are remembered fondly in the hearts of those they touched. Some are only known for the evil they wrought on Malweir. That, Fitch, is why we are here now. We are the chosen to stand up to evil before it is too late.”

He still didn’t understand. “I’m no hero, Dakeb.”

The old Mage smiled warmly. “What does a hero look like? More often than not the men and women remembered as heroes were simple people with no such aspirations. Don’t look down on yourself. Before this quest is finished you shall find your strength. Take heart.”

Fitch opened his mouth to reply when Grelic returned. The big man looked like death.

“How many are there?” Dakeb asked quickly.

“At least forty,” the giant replied. “We got a little more than a quarter of them.”

“They appear to have taken a good piece of you as well,” Pregen called from across the open area.

Grelic snorted a laugh. “It will take more than that to do me in, lad.”
Not too much more, though. I’ve spent too much time fighting in bars instead of in the wild
.

“Now what?” Dakeb asked.

Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Grelic answered, “We need to strengthen the flanks. The Goblins won’t come at me from the front again. Looks like it’s your turn to play, Pregen.”

“How long do you figure?”

A black spear struck the ground a few meters away, followed by a blood-curdling yell.

“Now.”

A mass of armored Goblins rounded the far corner on Pregen and immediately launched into an assault. They’d learned their lesson from delaying and gave their enemy no time to react. Coming four abreast, the Goblins bellowed ancient war cries. The first one died with a dagger in his neck. The others trampled his body beneath their boots and kept coming. Pregen grinned savagely as he watched them kill one of their own. They were making his job easier, but not enough. Soon enough the Goblins were upon them. Pregen spun and slashed, taking one by the throat and another with a deep cut to the right thigh. Black blood spurted and the Goblin clutched his leg in a fruitless attempt to stop the bleeding.

Ibram breathed jerkily and raised his sword. A small Goblin leapt over a body and flew at Ibram. Blocking the wild thrust with his downward-turned blade, Ibram stumbled back. He managed to regain his balance and ripped the Goblin’s stomach out. Blood and entrails splashed onto his boots. A second Goblin attacked before the first fell away and drove Ibram to his knees. The ex-monk stabbed upwards and impaled his foe.

Grelic let out a horrible roar and charged into the fight. He barely managed to bring his sword up to bat away a spear aiming for his chest. Then he struck swiftly. The sword sliced diagonally down between the Goblin’s neck and shoulder. Two others rushed forward and tackled both to the ground while Grelic’s sword was still stuck in the corpse. Hot saliva drooled onto his cheeks. Claws and teeth ripped his face and hands. Grelic managed to curl a hand around one of the Goblin’s throats and squeezed. The Goblin sputtered and gasped as life fled. Using the dead Goblin as a shield, Grelic shoved the second off and stabbed him in the heart with his own dagger. The giant rolled to his knees and took a deep breath.

A quick look at the battle left him with improved spirits. Pregen was hacking and slashing his way through the Goblins with the skill and precision of a fencing master. This was the first Grelic had actually witnessed the thief in action and he was suitably impressed. He showed finesse the giant lacked. Grelic preferred to crush through his enemies with brute force. Grace and flare were for men afraid to get their hands dirty. Still, Pregen was holding his own against a foe with no such compunctions.