The Dragon Hunters (2 page)

Grelic

The world shuddered and groaned under the pounding late winter storm. Few dared to brave the elements, even tucked away in the comparative safety of the major cities. Life in the kingdom of Thrae all but halted. The citizens of Kelis Dur huddled in their homes, eagerly awaiting the return of the sun. Yet no matter how difficult the times, there were always those who never stopped. Mercenaries and bounty hunters seldom found the time to pause. A winter storm was certainly no reason.

The roaring fire in the common room of the Battering Ram constantly attracted the wrong kinds of crowds no matter what nature threw in the way. Dozens of potential heroes and more than a few villains milled about, drinking and bragging. A bard sang tales of greatness off in the far corner as serving maids kept a steady stream of fresh mugs flowing to the paying customers. Many a pipe was lit, coating the ceiling with a thick layer of smoke.

“Damned strange happenings this winter I say,” old Bartus told the men at his table. His one eye scanned each for signs of what they might be thinking.

Helf laughed and drained his pint in a long gulp followed by a hearty belch. Foam dripped from his moustache. “You always say that, old man. Sometimes I think you want strange things to happen!”

Bartus jabbed an accusatory finger at him. “Says you! I know what I know. People talk.”

“Most have nothing useful to say,” Helf countered. “I didn’t come here to argue with you. I just want some more ale to take the chill off.”

“Judging from the size of your belly I’d say you been keeping warm often,” young Nurlen grinned. Unlike the others, time and age hadn’t begun to sink their teeth into him.

“Mind you, boy,” Bartus snarled. “We both be veterans of the Dwarf War. Back when you was suckling on your mother’s tit. You’d do well to hush yourself and listen.”

Nurlen stayed quiet. He’d been around them long enough to know they meant no ill. Helf watched the exchange, mindful of the hurt Bartus continued to carry. Losing his eye had cost him his job at the chandlery as well as his wife. He’d never been the same.

“You heard tell of that man they found a week ago? Near dead and half mad,” Bartus asked knowingly. “Says he keeps talking about demons in the night.”

“Faw!” Nurlen snorted. Youth didn’t necessarily involve naivety. “Demons and monsters don’t exist. All them are stories my ma used to tell me to keep me in line when I was getting out of hand.”

Bartus leaned forward, so close his drunken breath made Nurlen grimace. “Just where do you think them stories come from, boy? There’s many a strange thing that goes bump in the night round these parts. Many I don’t care to remember.” His voice trailed off. Bartus sat quietly, wishing some memories would fade.

Helf was about to break the unnerving silence when a table on the far side of the room suddenly flipped up. Mugs and dishes flew, sending beer, food, and worse across a large portion of patrons. Angered shouts were quickly drowned out when a beast of a man rose from the commotion. A heavy fist lashed out to catch the nearest city guard in the jaw. The sharp crack was unmistakable. The guard’s head twisted and he dropped. The big man roared and struck again. Another man fell. The crowd started easing back by the time the fourth man dropped.

He moved with lightning quickness. Snatching up the nearest man, he hefted him overhead and threw him into the crowd. Another man dropped his ale with a squeak and bumped into Bartus. The old man started to lash out when he caught a glimpse of the giant’s face.
I know you. Yes, I do
.

“Are you all right?” Helf asked, seeing the confusion in the old man’s eye.

A fresh squad of city guards burst through the front door, bringing chill, winds, snow, and legal fury with them. Their dark blue cloaks concealed boiled leather body armor and the standard truncheon of the city guard. The raven feather painted on the armor gave them purpose and a sense of pride.

“What’s all this?” bellowed the sergeant of the guard. His thick, black moustache had flakes of melting snow still clinging to it.

The big man bellowed with fresh challenge. Sergeant Phaes was no fool. He’d been in the city guard for nearly twenty years and had dealt with his share of drunken fools. He’d also seen enough to know when a man was so drunk he became dangerous.
Look at the size of this bastard. I’ll need a ballista to take him down
. Worse, he knew the man.

Phaes took a step forward and held up empty hands. “Take it easy, Grelic. It’s just your old pal, Phaes.”

Grelic’s eyes narrowed. Rage distorted his features and his face burned the color of fire. Regardless of anything the guard said, he was too drunk and angry to calm down now.

Shit
. “You don’t want to hurt anyone, Grelic. I know you. We’ve been friends a long time. Come sit with me and have a drink. Talk to me about what’s bothering you.”

Phaes felt his stomach cramp with the knowledge there was no way Grelic would fall for it. Instinct told him a fight was coming. He hoped no one got killed. His doubts nearly disappeared as Grelic took a quiet step forward. The big man’s face calmed just before his huge fist crashed into a guard’s head.

“Take him down!” Phaes cursed.

His men ran forward, swords drawn.

“Don’t make me do this, you big, dumb bastard,” Phaes shouted. “The king doesn’t want to see you back in the dungeons.”

Grelic didn’t care. Raising his fists above his head, he roared defiance. Phaes sidestepped the rushing man and gave a quick signal. A pair of guards dropped their swords and cast a heavy mesh net over Grelic before he could change his path. His momentum slowed. The rest of the guards closed in and beat Grelic to the floor. Only when he was unconscious and snoring did they stop. He didn’t stop fighting the entire way down. Another three men were taken out, the last being kicked so hard it dented his helmet. Phaes groggily regained his feet, swearing more than a few teeth were knocked out. He looked around the common room and was relieved to see everyone at least breathing. He’d once seen Grelic take out almost an entire Averonian infantry platoon singlehandedly. A hard man for hard time. Peace had no room for men like Grelic. And men like Grelic didn’t understand peace.

“Are you all right Sergeant?” one of the uninjured guards asked with a sly grin. Like Phaes, he too had been involved in more than one of Grelic’s episodes.

Phaes scowled. “How is it you never seem to get a scratch whenever we do this?”

The guard shrugged innocently. “I could say luck, but I don’t believe in it.”

Phaes rubbed his aching jaw. “Next time you go first.”

“Speaking of next time, what do we do with him?”

“Take him back to the outpost. Hopefully he’ll sober up and we can get him released.” Phaes knew King Rentor would find out quickly and he’d already threatened to take the old warrior’s head the next time he did something like this.

“Let’s hope the king doesn’t find out.”

Phaes agreed.
At least not until Grelic is sober and gone
.

It had been a long time since Grelic felt pain this intense. His entire body throbbed from the thorough beating at the hands of the city guard. Head swooning, he attempted to sit up but found the effort not worth the reward and collapsed back onto the stale mattress. Had he been more aware he would have realized at least one of his ribs was broken and his body a mass of bruises.

“Hurts doesn’t it?” a familiar voice said from somewhere nearby.

Grelic rolled over to his uninjured side and peered into the murky light. “Be better with some ale.”

“I’m afraid not, old friend. Ale’s what got you here in the first place.”

The giant warrior shook his head. Sobriety slowly filtered through his system. “Phaes? That you?”

“Aye,” answered the sergeant. “And it’s no ale for you. Rentor already wants your head for the last time. You almost killed poor Dagola.”

“He shouldn’t have gotten in the way. That was a private conversation,” Grelic protested sternly.

Phaes laughed. “A private conversation between you and half of the common room at the Stag. As I recall it all started when someone told you to be quiet.”

“Says you,” Grelic snorted. “He insulted me.”

Phaes rose and grabbed the pitcher of water sitting on the table beside him. Even though Grelic hadn’t asked, Phaes knew it was what the big man needed. Locked in the same room as always, the big man watched Phaes stroll casually to the door and pass the pitcher. They both knew the cage wasn’t built strong enough to keep Grelic locked up for long. Plenty of times Phaes worried that the bars were about to break while Grelic raged. Grelic nodded his appreciation, took the water, and drained half of it in one gulp.

“Are you going to let me out or is the king’s personal guard on the way to take me to the gallows?” he asked when the iron bars finally came into focus. “Seems being behind bars is becoming a habit for me. Although, free room and board does a man good on occasion.”

“On occasion,” Phaes agreed. “I doubt the king will be so nice as to allow you the opportunity to swing from one of his ropes. I’m guessing he’ll send the executioner in here to get it done. You’re not a liked man in the royal court.”

Grelic paused to consider this, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “How much time?”

Phaes shrugged. “A few hours at most. Not as long as a man of your stature needs to blend back in and become a decent member of society. Still, there’s enough time to escape Rentor’s wrath. Head back to the mountains and wait out the winter. He’ll forget this one soon enough.”

“The mountains? In this storm?” Grelic asked. “I’d never make it. Don’t care how strong I used to be.”

Phaes slipped the key into the lock and opened the grate, iron door. “A few weeks of fresh air will do you good. You’ve been through more than any other man I’ve known. If anyone has it in them to survive a few weeks of winter it’s you.”

Grelic offered a sheepish grin. “There was a time when I believed those stories. I’m not a young man anymore, Phaes. Four decades have come and gone and what have I to show for it?” He held up his hands, scarred and leathered from a lifetime of toil. “Just these. My entire life’s story is trapped in these hands. But you, my friend, you have a wife and children. A home. That is the true test of a man. A legacy. When I’m gone, who will remember my name?”

Phaes recognized the speech. He’d heard it a dozen times. Grelic tended to grow sentimental, almost fatalistic, after a hard night’s drinking. “Another night like this and I might not be able to forget. You hit very hard.”

Grelic laughed. Phaes looked at him closely. The big man wasn’t actually a giant, but damned near close enough for these parts. He stood close to seven feet tall and had a massive, heavily muscled frame. Phaes guessed he was close to three hundred pounds with very little fat. His hair was turning grey and thinning. Scars crisscrossed most of his body. Thick eyebrows gave him a fierce look, almost concealing his ice-blue eyes. Three days’ worth of growth covered his lower face. His nose had been broken at least a dozen times. Any sane man would rightfully stay away, but Phaes valued friendship in any form. It certainly made his job easier.

Heavy knocking interrupted his thoughts. Phaes started towards the door when a deep voice bellowed, “Open in the name of the king!”

King Rentor

Broken rays of light punched down through the endless banks of dull grey clouds. A murder of crows launched from nearby treetops. Townsfolk considered them ill omens. Rumors of mystics and hedge sorcerers using the birds as familiars and for casting spells had been passed down through the generations. Whenever crows flew, windows were shut and children shooed inside. Even bad was happening across Kelis Dur without the crows.

King Rentor met the dawn with a dour expression. Well past the prime of his life, Rentor was a staunch man of immense stature. Near six feet tall and a great, barrel chest, he bore an imposing figure. His arms and legs were thickly muscled, resembling small tree trunks. A graying beard hung down to his steadily rounding stomach. Much of the hair on his head was gone. Rentor had been a great man, fitting of ruling the mountain kingdom of Thrae.

What comforts he usually found in the first rays of light were absent this day. His quiet moments of reflection and preparation lost to the vagaries of his troubles. Brow furrowed, he clasped his hands behind his back and frowned at the world. Word had already reached him that Grelic was at it again, busting up the Battering Ram this time and injuring many for no reason other than the fact that he couldn’t handle his drink. Rentor sighed. He actually liked the man. They had fought together during the Dwarf Wars. The big man had even saved Rentor’s life. If it were up to him alone, he would send him on his way. But the kingdom’s councilors were braying for blood.

Common wisdom said to exile Grelic. Regency warned otherwise. A king couldn’t allow himself to be ruled by emotion or personal feelings. At the very least Grelic would be transferred to the dungeons and held long enough for him to realize there were no more chances forthcoming. Long enough for Rentor to figure out what to do. The aging king sighed and pulled his bearskin cloak tight.
One week past spring and winter continues. Curse my luck for being born the heir to the frozen throne
. Reluctantly he went back inside. The day was beginning.

Rentor calmly strode down marble corridors, hands clasped behind. As much as he enjoyed governing his people, he was in no hurry to pick up the task today. Grelic was a nuisance but far from his only problem. Rumors of something sinister in the Thed Mountains plagued his informants. Miners were disappearing. Not enough to cause a stir, but enough to send trembles through the local communities. His initial fears were the Dwarves were starting up again and military action would be necessary. Dwarves were a fierce and hearty foe, but they fought with unparalleled honor. Rentor ruled them out. Something dark was brewing in the south.

His tired green eyes looked up at the sound of hurried footsteps. He struggled to keep them from rolling. Prime Minister Codel Mres always seemed to be in a hurry. He was also in the thin minority that thought what he had to say was important. Nine times from ten he carried some obscure bit of intelligence Rentor already knew. If they hadn’t been boyhood friends Rentor would have replaced Codel already.

“Good morning, sire,” Codel said with a smile. “A word?”

The king slapped a hard hand down on Codel’s shoulder. “It wouldn’t be a morning if we didn’t find the time for a word. What troubles do you bring me today?”

Codel’s eyes shifted nervously across the hall. “It is best left said behind closed doors.”

His hushed tone was enough to convince Rentor. They shuffled into a quiet room where the prime minister could voice his concerns. Rentor went to the desk and poured two glasses of fresh water. “Tell me this involves a harem of the most beautiful women running loose in the palace,” he joked.

“To be so fortunate, though I doubt the queen would approve,” Codel said and smiled thinly. “There is trouble in the east.”

“I already know this.”

Codel shook his head. “Not this, sire. Word has come that the Silver Mage has conquered the kingdom of Gren. Strange creatures are now spotted in the night. Evil days are upon us.”

Rentor frowned. It was no secret the order of Mages had disintegrated and all but destroyed themselves, but those events were nearly three hundred years before he was born. The Silver Mage hadn’t been seen in almost all those years, prompting Rentor’s suspicions of whether Codel’s reports were accurate. Besides, Gren was very far away and the least of his concerns. He voiced that to Codel.

“Distance does not matter. The Bairn Hills are hundreds of leagues from here yet their armies came to war with us.”

“Point taken,” he said, his cheeks flushing at the rebuke. “What does a Mage have to do with our quaint little kingdom? There must be something you are missing.”

Codel wore a knowing smirk, as if he finally held the upper hand in a long standing duel. “There is. We have a man who claims to have seen the nightmares plaguing us. He’s half mad and recovering from severe trauma but I have every reason to believe his accounts.”

“How so?”

“Riders were dispatched to his village to validate his claims. They returned late last night and confirmed that the village of Gend has been burned to the ground. Blood stained the snow and there were hundreds of partially digested corpses. Men, women, and children.”

Rentor pinched his nose with his thumb and index finger in disgust. “Where is this man now?”

“Monks from the Order of Harr are tending him.”

“Codel, my friend, tonight you and I shall visit this man and hear his tale for ourselves. Until then we have the usual. Keep this under wraps. I don’t want panic spreading throughout the kingdom. It’s hard enough running Thrae on a normal day.”

Codel smiled outwardly, knowing the contempt he inwardly felt wouldn’t do him any good just yet.

* * * * *

The Order of Harr was one of the dying breeds. One of the oldest religious sects in all Malweir, their society was slowly being washed away by the basic lack of faith that set in most civilizations over time. Less people felt the need to prostrate themselves to the old gods. It was a new world, full of possibilities and individual realizations. Men simply didn’t care the way their ancestors did. The old gods were being replaced by industry and massive population centers.

Yet the monks persisted. They continued to wear the traditional grey robes and kept their heads shaved but for a sliver of a beard. Many were converted ex-convicts pardoned by the kings of Malweir. Harr was not so choosey when it came to proper followers. All it took was that moment of clarity when faith was professed and the brotherhood accepted with open arms.

Harr monastery rested on the edge of a mountainside. A single land road was the only entry and exit point. Peaceful as the monks were, they were none the fool. Too many times in their storied past they’d been prey to bandits or mobs of people whipped into fervor. A drawbridge spanned the narrow ravine leading to the main buildings. It was rigged to collapse, promising a long fall before a painful death on the jagged rocks below. The buildings were from an ancient time, carved out of the mountain itself. Statues of men and women lined the paths of the inner courtyard, their faces were worn away in the dimness of time.

The monastery had the look of contempt for the outside world. It was not warm. Not inviting. Everything was drab grey. The color signified their relationship to the ordinary. The belief that no man was better than the next. The philosophy of their god. Several walls had cracks and whole chunks of ledges and balconies had crumbled away. Empty windows peered out like haunting eyes. A lone sentry was always on duty in the bell tower to alert the monks of visitors. Faith alone wasn’t enough to protect them during hard times.

The bell started ringing an hour before midnight. Word spread quickly. A column of riders was approaching. A well-drilled reaction force of twelve monks marched to the walls, each wielding a short range crossbow and short sword. Though trained and drilled for such an event, the monks of Harr weren’t warriors. Few among them thought they stood even the slightest chance of repelling an assault if the enemy had their minds set. The bravest of them saw death moments away.

Father Seldis eased his way through the aging walls, helped by his trusted servant and acolyte, Phic. There were days when Seldis felt as old as the decrepit buildings he maintained. Close to eighty, he felt every day of it. So much so that the flesh was already wasting from his bones.

“Damned cold night for visitors,” Seldis said as freezing winds lashed him.

Phic shook his head for the hundredth time that day. “Father, you shouldn’t swear so much. You know Harr looks down on such behavior.”

“You’re too young to know better, young Phic,” Seldis reminded him sternly. “As far as what Harr thinks, well, I’ll let you know when I go see him. It won’t be too much longer. We both know that. So stop your fussing and get to the gate to greet our visitors.”

“Yes, Father,” Phic said and hurried about his task.

Seldis admired the youth. Taken from a broken home as a mere babe, Phic had been groomed and trained to become a valuable member of the Order. It didn’t take much for Seldis to imagine the boy wearing the head monk robes one day.

The gates opened with an aggravated groan. Golden torchlight invaded the blackened courtyard. Seldis smiled as King Rentor’s imposing figure came into view. Monks bowed and whispered astonished greetings at the surprise visit. It had been a long time since the king of Thrae bothered to grace them with his presence. Seldis, however, remained wary. Rentor was a good man but there was no mystery as to the purpose of his visit. He’d come to see their guest.

Rentor graciously accepted his hand. “Well met, old man,” he said with a heartfelt smile.

“King Rentor. What an unexpected pleasure, and on so cold a winter night,” Seldis smiled back.

Rentor feigned a shiver. “Damned unseasonable, even for your mountain retreat.”

“Come inside. There is hot soup and ale for your men in the kitchens and I believe I might have just the thing to ease the cold from our bones in my private study.”

The king laughed. “Father Seldis, you are a very insightful man.”

“Amazing what a lifetime of enlightenment will do for you,” he said and waved off the compliment. “Brother Phic, be so good as to see to the king’s men. And get our brothers back inside. We don’t need any more statues out here.”

Phic bowed and went about his takes. The courtyard quickly filled with warriors, monks, and horses. The men of the Order of Harr left their frigid positions, most eager to get back to sleep and forget how close they’d stumbled towards getting killed. Only Brother Ibram stayed in the midnight cold. His youthful eyes absorbed every detail about the soldiers milling below. How many nights had he wasted lying awake on his meager cot thinking of quests and crusades? Oh how he longed to be the hero rescuing the kidnapped princess from unspeakable evil! But such was not his lot. He was a monk in the Order of Harr. The quest he served was not one of heroism and grateful women, but of self-deprivations and eternal enlightenment. Even so, Brother Ibram went to sleep with visions of battles raging in his mind.

Seldis poured a tall goblet of mulled wine and relaxed in his favorite chair. A small fire cackled softly, casting a warm glow over the old furniture and shelves of dust-covered books. Rolled up scrolls lay scattered about the room, some in organized piles, others left wherever he finished reading them. Tidiness wasn’t overly important at this stage in his life.

“I suppose I should ask why you’ve come, for formality’s sake,” Seldis said after a few uncomfortable moments of silence.

Rentor gave a knowing look. “We both know why I’m here. Besides, I know of your talents towards mind reading.”

“Don’t be ashamed of that, Rentor. My gift extends to everyone if I choose.”

“Is he still alive?” asked the king, leaning forward slightly to betray his nervousness. “He may be the only link I have in figuring out what is happening in my kingdom.”

Seldis smiled and drank deeply. “There is much more going on than you can imagine. I feel great evil stirring. Dark times are ahead.”

“Your words are cold,” Rentor scowled.

“I offer neither hope nor doom.”

“What can you give me?” He drained the rest of his wine.

Seldis did the same and answered, “A chance.”

“I don’t like the sound of that. Failure may also be implied.”

“Indeed, but you’ll come to find that a great many truths we cling to are simple fabrications of something greater. Success or failure. Who are we to question the will of Harr, or any of the other gods?”

Rentor finally leaned back. “I prefer cold steel in my hand and an enemy I can fight. Win or lose. Not the whim of a half-forgotten deity I’ll never meet. Offer me a chance at closing battle with this new threat and I’ll take your odds.”

“As I said, Rentor, all I can offer is a chance. What you do along the way will determine your destiny.”

Increasingly uncomfortable, Rentor set his empty goblet down and stretched. “Your fire burns low. It needs more wood.”

Seldis folded his arms across his thin chest and watched Rentor add another log. He knew the king was a superstitious man, careful never to cross the gods despite all of his bluster. He also knew a difficult journey lay ahead. Seldis was old but his eyes were as sharp as a hawk’s. Visions told him of the coming ordeal though the outcome remained veiled. Seldis didn’t doubt Rentor had the strength to carry through; he’d seen the man in battle. It wasn’t strength that worried him.