The Dragon Hunters (27 page)

Ibram remembered reading in the monastery’s libraries about the Mage orders. Once proud and distinguished, they soon fell into decay and ruin. Great scholars theorized they’d believed too much of their own mythology and succumbed to the vastness of their power. Perhaps that’s what propagated the rise of the dark Mages and the near destruction of Malweir. No one knew for certain, but Ibram clearly recalled one specific fact: the Mages had been considered child stealers and were resented by a large portion of the populace.

“If times were different, you would have been identified much sooner and taken to Ipn Shal,” Dakeb said. A tear formed in his eye at the mention of his beloved home. Magnificent beyond compare, only ruins remained.

“That doesn’t mean I want to become a Mage,” Ibram protested.

Dakeb sighed. “Sadly, it is not up to us to choose. Go and get some rest. We’ll speak more on this in the morning.”

The would-be warrior stumbled off to sleep, discovering he was more tired than he thought. Dakeb did the same. He smiled, truly smiled, for the first time in centuries. Malweir had hope once again. He only prayed there was enough time to follow through.

Rendezvous

The forest began to thin out. Massive trunks were replaced by saplings and shrubs. Golden streams of sunlight filtered through the slender canopy. Moss brightened the area, adding calmness and serenity. Dakeb breathed the fresh air and let out a long sigh.

“I’ve always loved the feel of the forest,” he said, to no one in particular. “Not so much the ancient hearts of the great Werds. No. They been alive much too long and tend to be bitter and full of contempt. There’s nothing like a mean-spirited tree that can’t go anywhere.”

Despite the lightheartedness in his laugh, Fitch found himself sneaking looks at the surrounding trees. Where he once considered fanciful imagination he now pictured angry beings uprooting themselves and falling upon them in a fit of blind rage.

“Why should they be angry?” he asked timidly.

Dakeb eyed him mischievously. “Imagine if you had to stand in one place and see the same sights for hundreds of years. What kind of mood would you be in?”

Laughter rippled through the group. It did little to ease Fitch’s apprehensions. He felt as if one of the mighty oaks was going to reach down and snatch him up.
Just one more thing to worry about. Dwim, dark wolves, Goblins, dragons, dark Mages, and now trees. What did I do so wrong in my life to arrive here?
Fitch wondered if there was any safe place left in the world. Such thoughts reawakened memories of his wife. He missed Shar. Every night he fell asleep thinking of her face. The image faded ever so slightly with time. Blurring around the edges. When she was gone he feared he was too.

The old Mage sensed his internal suffering. The pain bothered both of them, though Fitch had no way of knowing. As a Mage, Dakeb was forced to keep much to himself. Withholding certain information was necessary when so many forces worked in opposition. He’d lost track of the secrets kept and never spoken. Every last one stayed with him, haunting his waking thoughts and corrupting his dreams. Dakeb wasn’t sure what the extent of Fitch’s role in this adventure was, but he had a sinking suspicion it wasn’t going to be good. For reasons he still wasn’t sure of, Dakeb kept seeing the face of Fitch’s beloved Shar.

“Do you think Faeldrin will be there?” Cron asked Grelic, unconcerned about Fitch or Dakeb’s trees.

They rode side by side without once looking at each other. Both kept their eyes on the forest. Krek may have been steering them towards the mountains, but the enemy seemed to be everywhere these days. Neither particularly wanted to have another go with the minions of the Silver Mage before linking up with the Elves.

The giant grunted. “No reason for him not to be. The Aeldruin are famous for their punctuality. If he said they’ll be there, they will be.” He leaned closer. “It’s just a matter of figuring out where
there
is, compared to the terrain.”

“What do you mean?”

Grelic made a sweeping gesture. “Qail Werd runs for hundreds of leagues along the spine of the Darkwall Mountains. Sure, we know where Deldin Grim is, but it’s a large pass and Faeldrin will be able to find a suitable place for his mercenaries to hide should the dragon pop up. How much time are we going to lose trying to find them?”

“I’d like to think he is smart enough to set pickets and look for us,” Cron said.

“Providing he gets to us first. What if we arrive before they do?”

He left it at that. It was in the late hours of the morning when Krek stalked out of the thickening undergrowth. The faintest trickle of sweat dripped from his brow. Grelic frowned his apprehension. The furrowing scowl etched on Krek’s face sorted out his thoughts. Only one thing was capable of riling up the young bull more than Goblins. Elves. Grelic almost smiled.

Krek fixed him with a withering glare. “Horse tracks. Hours old.”

“The Elves?” Kialla asked.

“Possibly,” Grelic replied, not wanting to assume anything.

An overwhelming sense that their hunters were close on their trail lingered. He’d done his best to ignore the feeling since leaving Malg, but it resurfaced again. One step behind and lurking wickedly in the shadows, he could almost feel them. Hope made him answer quickly. Hope and the sudden need for companionship. Not for the first time did he feel the strong desire to retire.
Just a little more, you old fool. Just a little more and you can find out how normal people live
. The only problem was he wasn’t sure if that was the sort of mundane life he actually wanted.

“Krek, how much further to the forest edge?” he asked.

The Minotaur thought for a moment. “Close. Reach valley soon.”

“Do we stay here and wait or press on?” Cron asked.

Looking around, Grelic replied, “I’d just as soon be caught in the open if we have to fight. At least that way we’ll see them coming.”

“Don’t you think about anything besides battles?” Pregen snipped.

He’d been growing more impatient since leaving Malg. Dakeb had taken notice and immediately grew worried. For reasons he still wasn’t sure of, Dakeb kept silent. Whispers in the dark warned him the time was not yet right. There was still travelling to be done before Pregen Chur would come to meet his gods.

Grelic snarled. “It may be the only thing keeping us alive. Mind your tongue or I’ll knock a few more teeth out.”

The assassin shot him a vicious glare but kept his mouth shut. He knew when he was outmatched. “Krek, take us into the open. The sooner we get there the sooner we’re done with the mess.”

The comment instantly drew Kialla’s attention. Something clearly bothered Grelic and she was probably the only one he trusted enough to confide in. He was the rock holding this quest together. She feared what would happen if he broke down.

They rode on.

Cron took the opportunity to drop back and speak with Dakeb. Questions were bothering him and he needed answers.

“Beautiful day for a trip through the woods, don’t you think?” the Mage asked with a healthy grin. “Always made me feel good. There’s nothing like the soft grass underfoot.”

“That’s a fancy thought indeed,” Cron nodded. “I’m curious though, how is it our young Krek here speaks in broken sentences while Thorsus and his shamans act as if they were educated in Kelis Dur?”

“I was wondering when one of you was going to get to that. Make no mistake, captain of Thrae, Krek and the warrior class understand everything we say. Don’t dumb them down by assuming otherwise. Men have a tendency to underestimate the other races. It is an old failing.”

“They are the first other race I’ve ever actually met, other than Goblins,” Cron admitted. “Truth be told, I hold no expectations, at least none that I’m aware of.”

“A good field commander should always know his potential enemies. Not that I am saying the Minotaurs are capable of mounting a campaign to reclaim the northern kingdoms. Quite the opposite. They are a most peaceful people so long as you don’t get on their bad side.”

Cron bristled at being told how to do his job from a has-been and found the comments off the mark. “Dakeb, the Minotaurs.”

The Mage wore a stunned look. “Of course. Long ago, when the elder races first came to these shores and men were nonexistent, no two races spoke the same language. Those were terrible times. First came peace and the urge to cooperate for the good of the land. Peace, however, is not the way of life. There has always been conflict in one form or another. Not all is for the worst. New technologies rise from war. New philosophies and customs. More importantly, new understandings.”

“New hatreds and enemies as well,” Cron added.

“Indeed. All that changed when man came. Vast and vicious wars were fought. One hundred years came and went in constant struggle. Wild magic developed in all of the races but it wasn’t until the sons of Gaimos fled to Ipn Shal and constructed their home. The magic called to them. Called them away from land and lords. Meetings were secretly held in dark corners. Envoys were sent to those found to have the gift. Those were the very first Mages. Finally, after years of plotting and fleeing, representatives from each race meet in that most sacred place.”

“The ruins of Ipn Shal.”

Dakeb smiled fondly. “Aye. Though it was naught but an empty spot beside Thuil Lake at the time. The wars ended and peace settled. The magnificent complex of Ipn Shal rose and people from all walks of life came to learn and study. Some came to work, some to join our private guard. Kings and leaders sent their heirs and announced successors to learn and develop so that they could return and be equals. So, you see, every royal house learned what became the common tongue. Of course some needed a little magical influence to move their tongues this way or that,” he chuckled. “Just about every race can speak the common tongue.”

Cron stifled a soft yawn, Dakeb’s answer being too long to keep his total attention. “I understand Thorsus better and it stands to reason the shamans are the custodians of their people, but what of the rank and file? How is Krek’s speech so primitive?”

“Have you tried living in a dank cavern for hundreds of years? The answer is remarkably simple. Cut off from the rest of the world after the Mage War, the Minotaurs simply had no use for common speech. They’re forgetting.”

“Considering how little we know of these smaller races it makes sense,” Cron said. “I don’t think Rentor knows they live in his kingdom.”

“Some things are best kept quiet. If Rentor doesn’t know, chances are his enemies don’t either. Think of the potential damage the dark Mage can do should he learn of the secret kingdom of Malg.”

“I’m thinking more along the lines of how much the strength of the Minotaurs can help us. The Goblins wouldn’t stand a chance,” Cron admitted. “Of course there is still the dragon to deal with but that’s why you’re here.”

Don’t put too much faith in me. I still don’t know the extent of my strength. There are still areas I have yet to be tested
. “Thorsus and his kind wouldn’t be welcomed or accepted in Kelis Dur.”

“Do you think it would come to that?” Cron asked.

He’d been wrestling with thoughts of anarchy and chaos running rampant across Thrae as the war came closer. Those visions seemed ever closer the further they plowed into the mystery of the Deadlands. Life used to be simple. He was one of the highest ranking officers in Kelis Dur and never thought to spend long hours wondering over what might or might not happen should the kingdom be invaded. Everything changed that fateful day in Gend. Cron found himself in a world he didn’t understand. Political intrigue and positioning were as alien as the Minotaurs. He didn’t have the stomach for games on any level. This thinly disguised disdain put him in contempt of his superiors. He almost decided to return to the city and lead the defenses. The part that bothered him the most was the prospect of having to fight his friends.

“The future holds too many variables. Even I can’t discern it,” Dakeb said. “Always fluid and difficult to control. Men often suffer from the fallacy of thinking fate and destiny are within their ability to control. If only they knew the truth.”

“The truth? Surely men have some measure of control. You can’t expect me to believe that all we do is for nothing. Our actions shape the future,” Cron argued.

Dakeb fought to keep his grin from spreading. It had been decades since he and Seldis had a thought-provoking conversation like this. “Only to a minor extent. Do you think what we do today is going to have impact on whether it rains tomorrow?”

“That’s the weather, Dakeb. We don’t control that.”

“Why not?”

“It is too vast. We don’t decide if it’s going to rain any more than when the wind blows or the ground trembles.”

Dakeb nodded. “So the Dwarves mining in the deep earth have nothing to do with provoking a quake?”

“Of course not. How can a pick and hammer shake the world?” Cron replied.

“How can what we do today shape the world in the grand schemes of time? If you kill a man today, tomorrow you know you’ll be a fugitive. That much is easily rectifiable. Don’t kill anyone. But the scheme of things is another matter altogether. Who in Thrae remembers what it was like one thousand years ago?”

“You contradict yourself, my friend,” Cron smiled. “One moment you say we can’t do that and the next you give an example of how much we have affected our destiny.”

“Therein lies the dilemma. Think how easily it would be for men to make their own future in a preordained path! What troubles or life-shaping experiences could there possibly be without some measure of freedom? The old gods would be usurped from their heavens and wicked men might reign.” Seeing the confusion building in Cron’s eyes, the old Mage let out an exaggerated sigh. “I don’t pretend to fully understand myself. Perhaps if the gods wanted us to understand we’d be gods ourselves. Imagine how bad off we’d be!”

Cron chuckled. “All Malweir would be on its head. I believe I’m more confused now than when we first started this conversation.”

“You definitely have the makings of a future Mage if so,” Dakeb replied.

They looked up because of an unexpected snarl from Krek. Finally, the edges of Qail Werd lay before them.

“Many tracks,” the scout announced, pointing left and right.