The Dragon Hunters (7 page)

He casually turned from the king and went back to his window. His one outlet to the real world. A flock of brown geese honked nearby, returning to their spring roosts. “Battle is all I’ve ever known. War. Duels. There is thrill in swinging the blade. I want to have some say in the men coming with me. Battles are won by men who live, breathe, and die together. The people you send will just get in my way and probably won’t return. This is my only demand.”

His words were slow, calculated. Rentor immediately recognized the underlying threat. He was being warned not to send anyone along that was going to betray Grelic once the mission was complete. If suspicion kept the giant on his toes, so be it. Ever so slowly, Rentor closed his mouth and turned. He’d done what he set out to do. The rest was on Grelic.

The giant didn’t bother turning back around until after the king was long gone. That’s when he noticed the key placed expertly in the lock and an empty hallway beyond.

Secrets

Fitch Iane shot up from a troubled sleep. Sweat pooled in the grooves of his forehead. His eyes were streaked through with red. Dark bags circled around his eyes gave him a haunted look. Lightning crashed outside. Fitch jumped. His heart pounded. Fragments of the dream infiltrated his waking self. It had been the same one since the monks of Harr first revived him. Since then he hadn’t awoke on his own, until now. Brother Arabub, half asleep himself, nearly jumped at the commotion and excitedly ran to find Father Seldis. The old man had requested to know the moment anything important happened.

The aged oak door groaned close, leaving Fitch alone again. Panic threatened to set in. He struggled to slow his breath, quietly battling the demons leaping up from the darkness. He tossed back the bearskin blankets and eased his feet to the cold, stone floor for the first time in weeks. Fitch wanted to stand but not even the magic worked by the monks of Harr was enough to give him back his previous strength.

Fitch breathed the strange air and looked around. He was clean and shaved. The monks were adamant about taking care of him as much as possible. His bedding was fresh and scented candles burned softly against the far wall. Appreciating everything the monks had done for him, Fitch knew there was no way he could ever repay their hospitality. He used to frown upon the Order. The monks of Harr were often persecuted through primal fear and a lack of understanding. After this he intended on being an ardent supporter until the day he died.

Father Seldis entered the room and smiled warmly. “I hear you’ve recovered, my boy. Congratulations. You had us worried for a while.”

Seldis buried his doubts. He’d figured Fitch for a dead man from the moment he was brought in. There was an unmistakable darkness in the man’s heart. A decay so deep and hurtful no amount of healing could help. That darkness was eventually going to claim him. It was just a matter of time. Seldis wept inwardly. No man deserved such torments before going to join his forefathers.

It was all Fitch could do not to laugh. “Father! I’ve never felt so alive. It’s almost as if I’ve been reborn. What have I done to deserve such treasures?”

Seldis returned his smile with equal enthusiasm. “Perhaps the gods decided they have need of you. Perhaps the pain in your soul is finally healing. We could spend the rest of our lives discussing the finer points of theology and still not come close to the true answer. The world is strange and mysterious. Who are we to contradict the will of the gods?”

“I’ve never been a believer in the old gods,” Fitch admitted almost ashamedly. “A farmer’s life is practical more often than not. Praying doesn’t grow crops or put food on the table. My people, my family, saw little need for the gods. We struggled through life on the merits of our own hard work and determination. I’ve never seen proof of a god.”

Seldis remained silent, content with letting him vent.

“I have seen darkness. Pure, uncontrollable darkness. I was lost, Father. I saw demons ruin my home and life. They stole the only person I have ever loved and laughed as they walked away. No, I’ve never seen a god but I have seen what the lack of faith rewards. Will others suffer equal fates?”

Drawing a deep breath, Seldis replied, “I’m afraid men and women go through such dilemmas every day. Malweir is full of creatures and certain powers we know almost nothing about. I have seen many in my time. I’ve been to where bad gods lurk and fields where gods go to die. Marvelous and dangerous. Darkness is falling on us, as you have guessed. King Rentor tries to stop it though I suspect it may already be too late. More villages will suffer Gend’s fate. War is coming, Fitch.”

Fitch seemed horrified. “Is Thrae really going to war? With demons?”

“Difficult to answer. I suspect the king feels the need to defend his lands and people. I would do the same if I were king.”

“Your words scare me, Father, more than seeing the demons. Are there no good men to step forward? As a child I always listened to the tales of Mages and heroic quests. Now should be such a time for brave men to take the sword and save us all.”

“I agree, Fitch, but there will be plenty of time to ponder the course of the future. Let us find something to eat and drink. It will be a joy watching you feed yourself for a change,” laughed Seldis.

Fitch happily agreed and took his first unsteady steps out of bed. To his surprise it wasn’t as painful as he’d expecting. In fact, it was almost as if he’d never been stuck in bed for three weeks. Seldis kept his mind busy through the meal with simple stories and lackluster tales of the Order of Harr. They both liked to think of themselves as simple men trying to make the best out of life. Fitch agreed the monastery was a peaceful place that seemed to have an individual feel of serenity for each of them. He went on to comment how, while he’d never had use for gods or prayers, he’d always respected priests for answering the calling. Just as he believed he was meant to be a farmer and take care of his family.

Tears flowed freely at the thought. Images of Shar’s soft face mocked him from death. The pain was still too near. Seldis managed to convince him all had happened for a greater purpose. He too had a calling to answer. When Fitch asked what, Seldis simply placed a hand on his forearm and told him all would be revealed when he finally opened his eyes. Fitch had no idea what that meant. His eyes started to droop. He needed sleep, real sleep, not the troubled manifestations of what had happened.

Seldis noticed his slowing pace. “I can see my conversation is boring you. Perhaps some rest will do you good.”

Fitch moved to protest, sputtering how Seldis was anything but boring, but he was tired. The nightmares left him perpetually drained. “Perhaps you’re right, Father. I can barely keep my eyes open, though no fault of yours. It’s just…” He left the sentence unfinished.

“I know, my boy. I know. Come, let’s get you some rest so you can tackle the coming challenges full of vigor and renewed.”

The weight of knowing Fitch’s fate was nearly unbearable. Seldis wanted to tell him. Wanted him to know he’d been told in a dream what role Fitch was meant to play in shaping events. He wanted him to know he was going to die. But if Seldis so much as hinted at it there was the possibility Fitch might turn his back on the people who needed him the most. Ruin would wash the world. With heavy heart, Seldis helped the drowsy young man back to bed. He blew out the candles and retired to his private study.

Fitch Iane dreamed of glory and battle.

* * * * *

Across the monastery in the simple monk quarters, Brother Ibram struggled with his own troubled dreams. Not nightmares. His visions were of quests and heroes. In the dream he wore the royal blue of Thrae. He fought for the kingdom, for every man, woman, and child incapable of defending themselves. Ibram saw himself swinging his sword against great and terrible enemies. Against a wave of violence so strong it threatened the foundations of the world. He was a hero. Just like Phledian and Mour, the ancient warriors who defended the Order of Harr against the dark creations of the Mages. Men would learn of his deeds and sing praise.

Despite the pleasing nature of his dreams, Ibram found them a curse. They haunted his waking moments in ways no nightmare possibly could. Monks were peaceful, having washed their hands of armed conflicts long ago. He’d been selected as a youth to heed the calling and take the robes. Violence of any sort was frowned upon. Infractions often resulted in expulsion. Ibram felt his vows were constraining him more and more, keeping him from achieving his true potential. Just once he wanted to feel the grip of leather tongs wrapped around a sword hilt. He doubted he could take a life. The thought proved disturbing.

The Order of Harr maintained that all men were inherently good natured. When Ibram argued how that could be, especially after the devastation of the Mage War, he was met with disdainful looks and muttered prayers. The old gods still had a strong presence despite most people having stopped believing. Light or dark, the gods still clung to hope. Ibram was no fool. While he didn’t want to offend any deity, he knew there had to be more than what the monks taught. The wisdom of Harr wasn’t enough.

Ibram awoke sometime in the middle of the night. The now familiar gleam hungered through his dark brown eyes. He’d had the dream again. There was an ancient myth about a sword made from a fallen star by Elven smiths. No one ever knew what happened with the Elves, only that they kept to themselves whenever possible. The thought that Phaelor, the Star Silver sword, might come to rest in Ibram’s hand enthused him to great ends.

An unseen force guided his thoughts, desires. Ibram wasn’t tired of the robes or the daily toil in the monastery. He found it peaceful and solitary. There was tranquility that he could only find here. The monks were his friends, his family. They were the one group of people he could trust without worry. But Ibram knew his heart. There was only one way to make the dreams stop. He dressed and headed for Father Seldis’s private chambers.

The dust-covered tome was remarkably thick and well written considering how old it was. Seldis carefully thumbed the pages like a loving father. Most of the pages were worn and cracked. Time and age slowly wore the book down. He sighed. Even treasures such as this book succumbed to age. Seldis carefully rewrote every single letter once a decade. The process took nearly a year to complete, but as far as he was concerned, this book was the single most valuable possession in all of Malweir.

He leaned back in his favorite, worn chair and rubbed his tired eyes. The candle in the middle of the desk was already burning low. It was time for bed. Seldis wasn’t as young or spry as he used to be, a reluctant admittance that took far too long to accept. Now time was against him. He took another look at the image in the book before moving his chair near a window. An almost pale-gold light came down from the half moon. Seldis swirled the spiced wine before drinking. It was a weakness from a previous life, but every man had weaknesses. Besides, he never drank in excess and Antheneon made the best wine on the continent. He savored the warm sensation as it passed down his throat.

He had been expecting the light knocks on his door and glided almost effortlessly across the room to present his sincerest smile upon opening the door. Brother Ibram bowed politely and entered with a flurry of apologies.

“Awfully late for a random stroll about the monastery,” Seldis said once they were both seated.

Ibram couldn’t look him in the eyes. “I’ve had trouble sleeping of late.”

“Bad dreams?”

“My dreams make me question myself.”

Seldis narrowed his eyes. “You doubt your faith?”

“I doubt my ability to follow it through. Father Seldis, I dream of wars and battle. Glory and honor. These are not our ways. Why do I dream such?” Ibram’s voice bordered on frantic. His eyes held a cagey look.

“Who knows what lurks in our hearts, my son?” Seldis asked. “Long have I been in this position and even longer have I lived as a monk. Harr teaches us that everyone has a place in this world. A purpose. Perhaps we are not so fortunate as to decide for ourselves.”

“That would mean my life has been a sham thus far,” Ibram protested.

Seldis leaned closer and said in a deep voice, “Tell me your heart, Ibram.”

Ibram exhaled a deep breath. “I want to know what it’s like to swing a sword. I want to be that man riding out on grand quests and saving the helpless. I want to feel the camaraderie only brothers in arms can feel.”

He nearly smiled. Saying it wasn’t half as bad as he feared. The long days spent contemplating how best to approach the subject seemed for naught. Endless hours of torment shattered like glass once he said the words. He realized there was hope. Harr might damn him for his decisions, but Ibram knew he couldn’t go back. Not now. He trembled as he waited for Seldis to react.

Seldis eased back into the cushions of his chair, folding his hands in a well-rehearsed move. “Brother Ibram, I may have just the tool to test your desires. What do you know of Thrae?”

Kialla

The light drizzle felt good on Grelic’s head. He turned his face up to the clouds and let the rain wash the fatigue from his face. A crisp wind blew just hard enough to feel good, almost refreshing. He’d never enjoyed the stench of civilization. Kelis Dur wasn’t as bad as some of the other cities but it was enough to keep the wind out. Grelic hated the confinement of the walls. Organized society wasn’t for him. He didn’t enjoy crowds or seeing your neighbor as soon as you stepped out the front door.

He needed forests and streams. The smell of grass after early morning dew. He needed the thrill of the hunt. The sight of a stag bounding away. No city offered that. Perhaps that’s what made him so different. He’d never felt the need to huddle next to his fellow man for comfort or security. Never needed constant companionship to justify his existence. He was a child of the world, born and bred for the ultimate freedom.

Grelic lowered his face and stared thoughtfully at the open world. The urge was growing. Part of him, that wild, untamable part, wanted to turn his back on humanity and run off. Primal and seething, the wild side whispered to him. He often wondered how easy it would be to abandon the kingdom of Thrae and his promise to the king. Forget the troubles and hardships. Certainly better men who actually cared were willing and available to fill his place. Let them save the world. Grelic wondered, but not for long.

“Damnation,” he cursed and headed back towards Kelis Dur.

Loyalty and honor were his strongest principles. He’d been raised to believe a man was nothing without his word. Too often that mantra became a bane. A curse for him to battle through while lesser men turned and fled from their responsibilities. Grelic wandered aimlessly for a time, uncertain in which direction to go. He knew she was here, or at least she had been the last he heard. If he had any chance of success he was going to need her help. Finding her was going to be the problem.

Grelic wound up on the main avenue in the center of the town. Kelis Dur wasn’t overly spectacular for a capital city. The Sibit River ran in a long loop through the old city. Most of the palaces and gardens had been rebuilt once the rulers decided to clear out that part of town. The buildings were all the same lonely grey or rustic brown. Occasionally he spied a green or blue to break the monotony. Grelic suspected the drabness was due to the true mountain and stone traditions of the founders. Early settlers of Thrae were as hard as the environment they chose to live in.

Thrae was a land of constant storms and bad weather. There was so much rock in the soil it was almost untamable. Farmers had the worst of it. The land had broken too many men. Not even their iron toughness was enough to keep many alive during the hard times. Grelic knew he’d make a miserable farmer. He was too headstrong. Too set in his ways. Farmers required patience and his barely lasted the duration of a battle.

Sickly clouds began rolling in, promising a nasty storm. Grelic had nowhere to go and no real idea where to begin looking. Out of the thousands of faces in Kelis Dur he could think of only one capable of helping. Whistling an old childhood tune, the giant shoved his hands in his pockets and ambled off in search of Phaes.

“Are you out of your mind? Rentor’s entire cabinet wants you dead and you’re going to help them?” Phaes shouted with disbelief. “This is madness!”

Grelic smiled in response. “What choice do I have?”

“Do what you first wanted. Head south and find a new place to get into trouble,” Phaes told him. A look of utter disgust crossed his face.

“They’ll just hunt me down and never stop until too many are dead. How hard would it be for one of those weasels to hire another assassin team? I’m not going through that again.” He paused to pass the violent memory. “This is my chance to finally be free.”

“How long have we known each other, Grelic? Twenty years? Thirty? The men opposed to Rentor won’t stop until you and he are both gone. You do realize you’re not just a random target?”

The giant held up his hands. “I don’t blend well in a crowd either, Phaes.”

The old sergeant grumbled something incoherent and stormed off to the other room. Grelic stood patiently in front of the fire, drying off from the heavy rain he’d been caught in. Despite a powerful thirst, he wisely passed up the proffered flagon of wine Phaes offered. He already dreaded his initial confrontation with her and getting drunk now would only make it worse. Phaes eventually returned with a pot of cold stew and a loaf of fresh, dark bread. He placed the pot on the iron hook and swung it into the fireplace. Being cold and wet was bad enough. Cold food was downright insufferable.

“Damned miserable day,” he said gruffly. “Tell me again why we don’t already live down south?”

“Who’d take us? I’m not changing my mind, Phaes. I’m tired of constantly being on the defensive. Now is the time to put pressure on the ones responsible for putting me in chains. This is the best chance I’m going to have. Maybe the only one.”

“If you’d just…” he dropped it, realizing there wasn’t much point in arguing with a headstrong man almost as wild as the mountains themselves. “What makes you think she’ll join you?”

Grelic tested the stew. It was starting to bubble.

“Not sure she will,” he replied. “But Kialla does like a fight. Sometimes I think she’s too much like me.”

“That spells trouble for all of us. The last thing Thrae needs is another you drunk and fighting. Too damned much trouble,” Phaes grumbled. “My head still hurts from the last time you hit me.”

“I apologized for that, and I was drunk,” Grelic protested.

“Still doesn’t take away the pain.”

Grelic scowled. “Will you help me or not?”

Phaes served them both healthy portions of stew and bread. The food was hot but bland. Spices and seasonings were always rare this time of year and Phaes was a horrible cook. “Let me do some checking. Last I heard she was over working the room at the Ram. Looking for a hire no doubt.”

“Been a long time since I was last there,” Grelic said between mouthfuls.

Phaes struggled to hold back the snort. “Been a long time since you last busted the place up. Do you have any idea how much you’ve cost the innkeepers here?”

“About as much as I am tired of hearing about it,” he replied angrily. “How soon can you find her?”

“Give me until sundown. Oh and try not to smash anything while I’m gone. If trouble does show up please take it outside.”

Grelic grinned. “Would I let anyone destroy your house?”

Phaes didn’t want to answer.

* * * * *

Kialla sat up and ran her fingers through her shoulder-length, auburn hair. A sheen of sweat covered her naked body and she was still breathing hard. Her dark brown eyes held the gleam of lust, a rare look enhancing her natural beauty. She was lithe and very athletic. In her late twenties, she was childless and never married. Not for lack of suitors. Kialla was the object of several men’s affections. She ran her hand down her lover’s stomach, finally resting on his hardening member. There was a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

“Looks to me like someone wants more,” she said with a sultry voice.

His hand gently curled around her neck and pulled her down.

“The things you do to me,” he whispered right before her lips touched his.

Kialla sat at her usual corner table in the Battering Ram’s common room, nursing a pint of bitter ale. Her chair was tipped back enough to allow her long legs to prop up on the table. Faded brown boots went up to her knees. Her blouse and trousers were different shades of green and brown, in stark contrast to the vibrant city folk colors. Her clothing suggested she was a hunter. Few were so foolish as to ask what. Her steeled gaze kept most people at bay. She was anything but the tender kitten she appeared.

Staring through the clouds of smoke and heavy crowd, she searched for potential employers and assassins alike. Kialla had never been the drinking sort. She generally had one before getting bored and finding either a job or entertainment. Truthfully she didn’t know why she still hung around Kelis Dur. There wasn’t anything special about the city or the kingdom. Her adventures had run her across the vast northern kingdoms and beyond. She’d seen things no living soul should ever witness and walked away to tell of it. Kialla was a survivor.

Today’s heavy storm left half the common room empty. She failed to understand how bad weather could dampen spirits so. After all, Thrae only had bad weather. Most people chose to stay warm and dry in the boredom of their homes than come out and enjoy good food and halfway decent company. Considering she had a reserved room upstairs, she failed to see the problem. So Kialla sat and quietly sipped her drink, trusting something was bound to turn up.

The corner was the safest, most naturally defensible position in the room. She had a clear view of everyone coming and going out both the front and kitchen doors. Most of her weapons were locked in her room, but she never went anywhere without Lady Killer. The slender dagger had one jewel encrusted in the pommel: an amethyst. She’d never seen a jewel that shade of purple before. Kialla won the dagger from a drunk in a card game years ago. He’d tried to reclaim it later that night. She left him lying face down in an alley drowning in his own blood. Lady Killer never left her side.

Her eyes flashed as they paused on a familiar face. Kialla forced herself to remain calm as the giant seemed to pick her out of the crowd deliberately.

“I was wondering how long it was going to take you to show up,” she said with a tight, utterly false smile.

Grelic took a seat opposite of her and motioned for the barmaid.

“Oh no you don’t,” Kialla warned. “I’m not going down with you when Rentor’s men come to take you away.”

He groaned. “You too? Can’t a man enjoy one drink in peace without the rest of the world coming down on his head? One drink! Damnation!”

“The way you drink? Doubtful,” Kialla said and couldn’t help but giggle. Grelic still had a way of making her laugh, even after all their years knowing each other. She was young enough to be his daughter and just as nasty. “Why are you here? Last I heard you were going to be hanged.”

“That was the plan. They let me go on good behavior.”

She braced for the hammer strike.

“I need your help, Kialla.”

Bam! There it was.

Slowly, she swung her legs down off of the table and sat up. “Why don’t you just stop by to say hello?”

“Too many words. By the time we finish with pleasantries I’d already know your answer. My way gets to the point quicker.”

She shook her head in mock disbelief. “Flattery, Grelic. One day you’ll learn how to talk to a lady.”

He smiled. There’d been plenty of women in his life but the thought of having a committed relationship was too restrictive. Confining. He revolted at the thought of abandoning his freedoms for anyone. Men like him weren’t meant to sire children and live ordinary lives. Born while his father was away at war, Grelic was meant to die with sword in hand.

Grelic waggled an accusatory finger. “Don’t sweet talk me, lass. I’ve seen you use your tongue as sharp as a blade. It may work on most men but not this one. Bat your eyes or flick your hair, it won’t work on me.”

They both laughed a little. Grelic gave the barmaid a playful slap on her rump after she set his drink down. She offered a sly, knowing look and sauntered off. He never would have done it if he didn’t already know her.

“What do you need me for?” Kialla asked. Odd, but she found herself almost jealous.

He spent the next fifteen minutes explaining his deal with Rentor and what it might potentially mean to the future of all involved. She was skeptical towards anything dealing with the king. Rentor wasn’t a bad man but he didn’t seem the sort to forgive grudges. Still, his people loved him, which was more than could be said about people like her and Grelic. Warriors without a war. They were of the sort most folk frowned down on when peace reigned.

“It doesn’t exactly sound like much fun,” she said when he finished. “Personally I’d rather sit here and enjoy the view. Who are we trying not to fight again?”

“I’m sure we’ll find a willing opponent,” he replied. “We always do.”

“What happens if we take on more than we can handle?”

“When has that ever happened?”

Her smile was brief. “More times than I care to remember. If I do this, and I’m not saying I will, what difference will it make to the future? Wars are one thing. I don’t feel the need to be a hero and I don’t want to be one. All I want is to make my way through the world unnoticed until death comes to claim me. Can you offer me that?”

“Sometimes we don’t get the choice. Fate decides what we’re meant to be. You and I are fighters, Kialla. From the day we were born. No amount of wishing or hoping can change that.”

She stood, smoothing the wrinkles from her blouse in such a way he had to notice the supple curves beneath. “I’ll let you know.”

“By dawn. I’m staying with Phaes.”

Her hand gently stroked his stubble-covered cheek. It was soft, lingering. Grelic watched her leave, admiring her shape and sway. Only when the door closed behind her did he frown.
This might be harder than I thought
. Grelic downed the rest of his ale and motioned for another.