The Dragon Hunters (5 page)

Gend

It was well past midnight by the time they finished burying what remained of the villagers and washed the blood from their hands. Cron had never seen such a horrible mess. The smell of death permeated the air so badly he wondered if this part of Thrae would ever recover. Body parts, what they could find, were thrown into a large pit and burned before the plague could take hold. Wolves and other predators had already reduced the workload. Some of the blood covering the ground was already washing away with the melting snow. What Gend needed was a good, long rain to cleanse the land.

Cron finally led the column away just before dawn. Blood-red fingers of sunlight crept into the world. He quickly looked away. The riders moved through the fading shadows, towards the flickering glow of torches in the night. Forward scouts halted the column and were sent to investigate. Notam went with them while Cron had the rest form a defensive circle and wait.

The smell of rotting flesh immediately unsettled the horses. Notam gently stroke his roan’s neck. Peering through the trees, he managed to see a row of severed heads surrounding by torches. Whoever had committed the atrocities at Gend was still in the area and leading them on. Notam spared a glance at the heads, disturbed to find every eye open and staring back at him.

“Damnation,” he muttered. “Captain’s going to want to see this. You wait here. I’m going back to bring the rest of the patrol up.”

Notam spurred his horse to a gallop and disappeared from view. Neither of the two scouts noticed the pale eyes malevolently glaring at them from either side of the trail. By the time Notam returned there wasn’t a sign of either man. It was as if the forest came alive and took them. Cron deployed the squads and conducted a thorough search of the surrounding area. They spent six hours desperately looking for their comrades and never found a single track. With great reluctance, he called an end to their search just before dusk. The patrol returned to Kelis Dur with two less men.

* * * * *

Reben didn’t know how he wound up in the cave. He didn’t know why he was bleeding from three different wounds or how he’d gotten wounded. The first thing he remembered was watching a battered sword plunge through Ele’s chest. Deep red blood bubbled across Ele’s lips and his eyes rolled mercifully back into his head. The corpse hit the ground with the sound of wet meat. Reben stared down into his friend’s lifeless eyes.

That’s when he started to struggle. To find a way to escape. Others needed to be warned. If he could only find Notam or Captain Cron. Sharp pain exploded from the back of his head suddenly. His vision blackened with speckled lights. Grotesque laughter echoed around the chamber. Rough hands shoved him forward. His chin struck the slime-covered ground and he blacked out.

Three sets of eyes glared down on him when he awoke. Two were pale yellow. A low hiss called from the darkness of the cave.

“He’s awake.”

A deeper, more wicked voice rumbled in response, “Go and get Scourd. He wants to see this man suffer.”

Hissing laughter followed and one of the sets of eyes disappeared. The hatred clinging to the voice was unmistakable. Reben started to lose hope. There were plenty of races in Malweir that hated men but none so bitter as Goblins. Ancient legend suggested that men and Goblins once shared the same lands and enjoyed the prosperity of peace. Then the trouble began and war engulfed both races. Man was victorious. Goblins and their kin never enjoyed the kiss of the sun or the embrace of the summer wind since. Courage fled Reben as he realized what his captors were. There would be no dawn for him. Hope crashed around him like so many shattered icicles on stone.

“Look at him! Squirming like he can escape. Don’t you worry, Scourd knows what to do with you.”

Rough fingers gripped his hair, pushing him away. Reben quivered but stayed quiet. Anything he had to say would only give his enemy more power. The best he could hope for was a quick death. He looked around, trying to get a better view of his surroundings. The cave was small; walls were covered in greenish slime. Rusted chains hung in no apparent order. Bits of rotted flesh and more than a few bones still clung to several. Reben thought the wretched odor of Gend was bad, but this went far beyond. Soiled straw was strewn across the uneven floor. Dark stains, probably blood, ran up to his body.

Reben looked up and stared into the third set of eyes. Unlike the other two, these eyes didn’t glow yellow. They were cold, calculating. If he didn’t know better he’d have sworn he’d seen them before. The figure slipped back into the shadows after noticing Reben staring. Exhausted, the scout dropped his head and tried hard not to weep. He didn’t know where he was or how he got here. The last thing he remembered was Notam leaving him and Ele at the strange ritual site. A dark fog rolled in the moment Notam turned and left. Reben tried to scream, to shout out at his sergeant for help. Darkness took him and he awoke to Ele being speared.

“Has he spoken?” asked a voice laden with centuries of pure hatred.

A more human voice replied, “We haven’t asked him anything yet.”

Reben heard bones cracking.

“Good. We begin.”

A smaller figure bowed and knelt in front of the prone scout. “What were you looking for in Gend?”

Reben’s eyes widened. That voice. Those eyes. He cringed in shock, knowing he had met this man once before.

“I know you,” he said. His parched throat burned. “Traitor!”

The man rocked closer, giving Reben a long, hard look at his face. “Traitor? That depends on which point of view you take. So you can’t say that I’m not a generous man, I’m going to ask you one time. Forsake your allegiance to Rentor and join us.” He held out his empty palms. “In this hand I can give you life. A kingdom of riches and wealth. The freedom and debauchery that comes with owning your own lands. This hand brings only death. You will die without anyone ever finding you. Lost to the vagaries of time and forgotten by history. What is your answer?”

Reben spit in his face. The man didn’t even blink. Calmly wiping his face, he tucked the rag back into his tunic pocket, smiled, and stood. He turned to the yellow-eyed Goblin and said, “Cut his hands off. Perhaps he’ll be more reasonable afterwards.”

The Goblin snarled and drew a rusted sword. The same one used to kill Ele. Reben screamed as the jagged steel hacked down through flesh and bone. Rivers of blood poured onto the straw and stone.

“It doesn’t need to be this way. Tell us what we want to know and I promise to kill you quickly. Why did Rentor send you to Gend? What does he know?”

Reben could barely cry. Pain threatened to steal his consciousness. His body already felt cooler. It takes a grown man roughly five minutes to bleed out. Time was not in his favor. If he could only last long enough without answering questions.

“Last chance. Tell us now,” the man barked sharply.

Reben lost himself in the pain. Tears cleansed his cheeks. He wet himself. His bowels emptied. Unexpected calmness spread through him, making the experience almost peaceful. His eyes drooped.

The man looked down at the blood-spattered hem of his robes in disgust. He had no qualms with ordering someone’s execution though the actual deed was revolting. Blood never washed out, staining clothes and soul equally. “Send his head to Rentor. I’m leaving for Kelis Dur.”

Scourd, the Goblin, snarled, “What do we tell Ramulus?”

“Tell him the king knows nothing. Ride back to Druem and find the shard. I’ll keep the king busy long enough so he won’t become a problem. The sooner we find the shard the sooner Ramulus can make his war on men.”

He pulled his hood up and left the Goblins to their murder. Reben was so close to death he barely felt the cold blade sawing through his neck. Even if he had, it would have been a welcomed relief.

* * * * *

Rage consumed Cron. He’d lost men before, more than he cared to remember. But that was in battle. Men were supposed to die in battle. Reben and Ele were the first he’d lost on a routine patrol. Not killed. Lost. Disappeared without a trace. Cron took personal responsibility and went to inform the next of kin for both men. He’d offered his resignation to King Rentor. The king waved him off, saying there’d be a time soon enough when brave men would lay down their lives under the auspice of war. Cron knew Rentor still wasn’t telling him everything. When he stopped to consider it, he didn’t think he wanted to know the full truth.

He stood looking out his window, barely noticing the fresh spring morning. Blooms were popping out along the branches. The snow was nearly gone. Song birds had come back, filling the courtyard with joyous melody. Days were gradually warming up. The sun was shining. Cron cared less. His every waking thought was dedicated to his missing men. Nightmares plagued his dreams, often waking him in a cold sweat. He swore on the gods of his forefathers to discover the truth.

Weeks went by without any clues. Numerous patrols were sent back to Gend without proper authorization. Every one of them returned without anything to report. Cron decided to step up the training schedule. Several junior officers agreed that battle was coming. When it arrived, there would be little time to prepare. Cron needed to be ready for the storm to strike. Finally, after nearly a month of agonizing over Reben and Ele, Rentor summoned him.

Stewards escorted Cron to the king’s private quarters. None of them spoke once Cron announced himself. Their slippered feet stole over the gold-streaked marble. His own footsteps were heavy and cumbersome by comparison. Statues of past kings and heroes lined the entrance halls. All seemed to glare down on him accusingly. Cron ignored the statues and marched on. The stewards escorted to a door twice as tall as a man and made of rich mahogany. They bowed and left the captain to find his own way inside.

Scowling with contempt, Cron turned the gold handle and pushed the door open. The sight nearly stole his breath. Six pairs of black marble pillars supported the vaulted ceiling. Stained glass windows stretched nearly ten meters high. A hung, many tiered chandelier hung from the ceiling. The wooden framework lined panes of lightly colored blue. Reflected sunlight filtered through the windows, producing a star-like effect. Cron had never seen such a sight. Potted trees and various plants from the southern jungles of Brodein lined the walls of the circular chamber. Flowered vines crawled up the pillars and a light mist was in the air. So taken by the sight, Cron failed to notice Rentor’s imposing figure standing beside a bubbling fountain, feeding ornamental fish.

“Impressive, is it not?” Rentor asked. “I had it built after my first year as king. Even then the stress of leadership was more hassle than it was worth. I needed a place to relax where I could come to be alone and reflect upon my decisions.”

Cron went to the position of attention and stayed silent.

“Perhaps you need such a place,” Renter suggested with a sad smile. “The disappearance of those two men…”

“Reben and Ele, sire,” Cron firmly said.

Rentor nodded. “Reben and Ele. It still bothers you?”

A scarlet bird with dark purple tail feathers chirped from atop a pillar.

“Our enemy has finally deemed it necessary to tell us what happened.”

Cron’s throat tightened for reasons he wasn’t sure. Deep in his heart he knew both men were long dead. He stared at the king with bitter apprehension, not daring to hope.

“A constable discovered the bag outside of one of the taverns in the middle of the street. He brought it straight to the palace after inspecting the contents. Reben and Ele are both dead, Cron.”

“I’d like to see for myself, sire,” Cron whispered.

The sack sat atop a ceramic pedestal on the far side of the room. He smelled the rot and decay from where he stood. Visions of Gend sickened him. Cron knew what was in the sack. He didn’t want to look in, to see what remained of his scouts. But he had to. He’d never forgive himself if he didn’t. First step unsteady, he pushed forward lest the demons plague him further.

Cron cursed himself for the foolishness of it. He was in the presence of king and friend, the garrison commander of Kelis Dur. Righting himself back to the proud warrior he was, Captain Cron purposefully strode to the pedestal and opened the sack. A swarm of tiny gnats flew up in his face. The smell of raw death assaulted his senses. Cron caught the glint of sunlight reflecting off of a glazed-over eye. He closed the sack and exhaled a long, slow breath.

“Do we know who did this?” Cron asked.

Rentor’s face darkened. “Whispers. Shadows in the dark, but nothing substantial enough to chase. Whoever it is doesn’t want us snooping around Gend. That makes me want to know what happened more. I’ve noticed you have patrols routinely going out there now and your training exercises have increased. What do you know you’re not telling me?”

Cron cleared his throat, eyes never leaving Rentor. “We both know, sire. War is coming. I understand your hesitancy but I am a military commander, not the king of a land. When the call does come, your army will be prepared to fight.”

“All the more reason for me not to involve the army any more than necessary.”

“What do you have in mind?” Cron let curiosity get the better.

“Doesn’t a king always?”

Cron wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He bowed once and excused himself, taking the sack with him. Rentor excused him and stayed in the chamber. The song of the scarlet thornbill soothed his raw nerves.