The Dragon Hunters (8 page)

Kialla went back to her room with a smile. She hadn’t seen Grelic in months and was glad to know he wasn’t dead yet. Despite all of her protests and casual disregard she realized she really did care what happened to Thrae. Not that she ever had many friends. She cared more about what happened to Grelic and why he felt so obligated to do this.

Of Dragons and Mages

Cool spring breeze danced across the peaks and towers of Kelis Dur. The half moon lurked directly overhead, offering shafts of haunting light through the thin layer of intermittent clouds. The rains had stopped hours ago, leaving Thrae waterlogged. Thick clay-like soil prevented the water from draining properly, even with the major river running through the city. The air held a semi-permanent chill slight enough to keep most men inside.

Codel Mres wasn’t most men. He wasn’t imposing. Wasn’t even brave or particularly strong. He was cunning and manipulative and he was tired of standing in Rentor’s shadow. Tired of the endless jests on his character. Tired of perpetual embarrassment in front of lords and nobles. There was a time when Codel aimed to please his childhood friend. He’d dedicated much of his life to the kingdom and had nothing substantial to show for it. Codel had better, bigger designs for his world and those didn’t include the current monarchy. That’s when they came to him, promising riches and power unimaginable until it blossomed in his mind.

He cursed as he stepped in a puddle. Even from atop his private tower he found it impossible to escape the near perpetual deluge. Codel had been promised Thrae for his subversive efforts. At this moment he doubted very much he wanted it. A raven cawed from the small cage resting on a stone table. Beads of water frosted the purple-black feathers.

“You don’t like the rain either, eh?” Codel chuckled.

Reaching inside, Codel made a quick chirping sound. The raven hopped down from its perch and onto Codel’s arm. The prime minister removed his one true friend and stroked the wet feathers. The bird watched him with curiously dark eyes. Codel fumbled slightly as he attached the small leather case to the raven’s leg.

“Fly true and fast, my friend. The world is against us,” he whispered for no reason.

The depths of his treachery were only eclipsed by his own desires. He launched the bird and watched as it headed north. Paranoia always gripped him for those first few moments. Would an alert guard notice and shoot it down? Or would hawks be sent to hunt the raven? His head would be on a pike should Rentor ever discover the truth. Drawing his cloak tighter to keep out the chill, Codel carefully avoided the puddles on the way back inside. Thunder rumbled in the distance, promising more rain.

* * * * *

Less than one hundred leagues separated the Darkwall Mountains, the far northern border of Thrae, and the Great Northern Sea. Early spring was no different from late winter. Weather seldom improved until midsummer and then only for a handful of weeks. There were few settlements in this part of Malweir. Jagged cliffs filled with caves reached forever down the coasts.

A day’s ride from everywhere, right in the middle of nowhere, stood the mountain Druem. Ancient legend whispered of a war between gods being fought here, forever ruining this part of the world. They spoke of a curse placed here by the dark gods. Any man brave, or foolish, enough to enter Druem returned changed. Malweir was full of stranger creatures and mystic places. Druem was recognized as the most powerful. Hatred dwelled within the heart of the mountain.

Skies laden grey and black from perpetual storms wreathed the mountaintop. Small foothills spread out for miles around the base, turning the land into a massive lesion. Blackened forests ringed Druem, though from a distance. Only scrub brush grew nearby. Smoke was often seen weeping from cracks in the mountain. No one knew for sure what evil dwelled within and none felt the need to know so badly as to risk their lives.

Druem stood in the center of the kingdom known only as the Deadlands. Abandoned by Dwarf, Elf, and man, the Deadlands became home for Goblins. The foul race burrowed into the mountains and spread their brand of filth until the kingdom had become so corrupted no life thrived. They built their city, Mordrun Bal, at the base of the mountain. Mud and rock huts half buried in the rotting ground held thousands of Goblins, Gnomes, and other foul creatures. Most had already left, marching south for the great war against the other races of Malweir. Darkness crept back into the world. It was only a matter of time before the storm broke. The dark gods wanted to return and would stop at nothing to reclaim Malweir and plunge everyone into eternal torment.

Scourd watched a column of Goblin soldiers march through the spiked gates of Mordrun Bal and snarled. They’d taken losses. Ramulus would not be pleased. The Goblin commander left his balcony and headed back inside Druem. Worming his way through dimly lit corridors, the Goblin dreaded the coming conversation. He hated living underground. The air was too thin for torches to burn. The only light came from bored-out shafts made by Dwarf slaves. The sound of hammers and picks reverberated sharply off the bleak rock face. Slaves of every race toiled endlessly in the mountain for reasons they died without ever knowing.

Mountain Trolls in slightly rusted chain mail stood guard over the massive stone doors built deep in the heart of Druem. Scourd ignored them, intent on getting this task finished and coming out alive. No easy task. Already his legs quivered from the waves of fear pulsating up the corridors. He didn’t understand how the Trolls managed to withstand such raw power. Their skin was thicker than any other race and they appeared to know no fear.

Dressed only in knee-length leather kilts and their armor, the Trolls were armed with tulwars the size of a grown man. They stared down at Scourd impassively. One of the reasons they guarded the chamber was for their lack of individualism. Trolls were community creatures. They needed to be told what to do. Only once in all of history had a Troll army been defeated. Their king fell, run through with pikes, and the army crumbled. Scourd didn’t particularly care about Trolls so long as he found they were on the same side. Otherwise…

He halted a safe distance away. “Open the gate. I must see Ramulus.”

“Ramulus no bother,” grunted the Troll on the right. It was the sound of crushing boulders.

The tulwar rose menacingly. Scourd held his ground, knowing it was all for show and honor. The heat down here was the worst part. He felt like he was trapped in a furnace. Scourd stared up at the dim-witted Troll. They knew him, in fact they’d seen him nearly every day since being brought in, and still they gave him problems. He suspected it stemmed from being conquered and used as either slaves or heavy assault troops. Unspoken contempt sat on the air between them.

“Open now,” Scourd growled in reply. “I have work to do.”

The Troll took a step closer. The ground trembled. “One day not need you,” he threatened before turning back to his partner. “Open door.”

The massive door opened with a groan, trails of dust and pebbles running down the walls. Scourd brushed past the Trolls, careful to not touch one. That was instant death and he was no fool. The door closed behind him, trapping him in the mighty cavern where Ramulus slept. The cavern was easily larger than Mordrun Bal. Fires burned hotly at random spots. The walls were stained black and sanded smooth. A fetid odor clung to the rock outcroppings littering the cavern. It reeked of pure death.

“Why have you come now?” asked a voice so deep it shook the foundations of the world. “I have not sent for you.”

Scourd swallowed hard. His eyes searched the quasi darkness for Ramulus but it was a wasted effort. He’d only seen Ramulus once. The great wyrm was among the last of his kind in Malweir. Every other time he was left with fleeting shadows and imagined glimpses. But always there were the eyes. Pale globes of frozen blue glared menacingly from the dark. Scourd recoiled from the intense hatred of the glare.

“There is word from Thrae.” He tried hard not to stammer.

Gouts of flame licked up from a nearby pit.

“Thrae is of no concern to me.” A scathing hiss echoed throughout the cavern.

“Rentor suspects us, Ramulus. Soldiers will come,” Scourd continued.

He caught the brief flicker of a spiked tail.

“Rentor’s soldiers are your problem. You and your kind serve me for that one purpose. Deal with them when the time comes.”

“And the traitor?”

The sound of tons of flesh moving assaulted his ears. The devilish eyes disappeared briefly before opening much closer. Scourd knew Ramulus would devour him in a single bite if he said the wrong thing, but he needed to voice his concerns.

“Leave him to me. Examples must be made if we are to maintain order. Ready your armies should Rentor prove too inquisitive. Do not let this distract our operations. Proceed with attack on Thim. The men of Thrae need to be reminded of their place,” Ramulus grated in a strained, serpentine hiss.

Scourd’s flesh tingled with every word. A steady chill ran through the shadows of his soul when the dragon spoke. It whispered dread and the death of the future. Scourd blinked rapidly.
Was that a man I saw walking off
? He wanted to caution against attacking Thrae. Rentor was already deploying his elite forces and Scourd already had so many forces moving south he feared Mordrun Bal would be indefensible.

“You question me, Goblin? I, who roamed the skies when your kind first crawled from the mud? I’ve toppled mountains with the flap of my wings and ruined nations with my songs of flame. Worm! I am this world. I’m immortal. An eternal reminder of your casual frailty. Leave me before I rethink your importance,” Ramulus roared.

Each word threatened to split the ground, rattling Scourd’s bones. The Goblin commander bowed curtly and spun on his heels. A single thought ran through his mind.
No one is immortal. Not even dragons
.

The blue-bellied song bird landed just out of reach, watching the approaching man with fading curiosity. It was about to fly away when the sudden high-pitched shrill caught its attention. Cocking its head, the bird returned the call. The old man smiled. Satisfied, the bird stayed in place and watched the man amble past.

Dakeb laughed quietly to himself. Long, grey hair framed his face, concealing thin cheekbones and a pointed chin. His smile was warm and kind. Nature was a much better friend than any man. He’d spent his long life protecting the innocent and preserving wildlife. Malweir was a better place when left untouched, he believed. Too often did an ignorance lead to the wanton destruction of life. Too few men realized the importance of their deeds.

He sighed. Perhaps that’s what happened to the Mages. Their foundations went back thousands of years to a wilder, less civilized time. They worked for hundreds of years in the quest to better Malweir. Then, as in all things, corruption set in. Greed overtook members of the council and the orders were plunged into turmoil. The great war that followed consumed the Mages and nearly ended all life on Malweir. The races of the world picked sides and met on the lush fields of Averon.

A secret coven of dark Mages left the battle and returned to Ipn Shal, their ancient palace and source of knowledge. Led by Sidian, the Silver Mage, they attempted to turn the crystal of Tol Shere into a weapon to destroy their enemies and free the dark gods from their eternal imprisonment in the process. The world nearly died that day. A handful of Mages, Dakeb included, realized something wasn’t right and followed the coven back to Ipn Shal. They ended the threat and destroyed the crystal.
Only it wasn’t destroyed, was it? No. We killed our wicked brothers and broke the crystal into four shards. We should have destroyed it entirely back then.
The battle in Averon was won, if barely, and the Mages passed into obscurity.

Dakeb remembered those days jadedly. He remembered nightmares and how the sun never shined. He’d seen and done horrible things no living thing should ever experience. Life lost its luster then. The Mage War ended with the destruction of the crystal and the deaths of nearly all of the Mages. For Dakeb it was a personal failure. He’d been there in Ipn Shal when the dark Mages lost the war. He was there when the world stopped caring.

The old man sighed and passed a final, carefree glance at the blue bird. The bird chirped merrily to him as if to say it was all going to be fine. Only it wasn’t. Dakeb was no fool. Old wounds lingered in his heart. His thoughts reverted to his lost brothers and sisters and the handful still alive. It was hard not to ask the precious few for help, but he knew this was a task best done alone.

How many are going to pay for our hubris this time
?
For as surely as the sun sets there will be war. It’s happening all over again
. This time, however, he recognized the signs in advance. Spring may have come to Thrae, but darkness rode the evening tide. Hope for tomorrow quietly began to fade.

Dakeb the Mage walked on.

Doubts

The crisp sound of clashing swords echoed across the training ground. Cron ducked a blow aimed at his head and rolled. His attacker cried out and stabbed down. Cron barely managed to parry as he rose to one knee. A roar went up through the assembled spectators. Frustration flashed across his attacker’s face. Cron struggled to his feet and tried to catch his breath before the next assault. There wasn’t time.

Sparks danced as their blades met three times. Both men spun. The attacker swung a backhanded riposte towards Cron’s ribs. Still in mid turn, Cron dropped the sword behind his back to block the blow. He was drenched in sweat, face flushed from exertion. Cron wasn’t sure he could win. Then it happened. His attacker parried a glancing blow and lunged. His boot caught on a half-buried rock and he pitched forward. Off balance, Cron took advantage. A string of quick upper body blows drove his opponent to his knees. Cron continued to strike, hitting so hard he knocked the other’s sword away. Exhausted, the beaten man slumped forward.

“Winner!” declared Sergeant Notam as he stumped across the training field.

Cron stabbed his sword down into the ground and offered his hand. “You’re getting better, Prial.”

“Not good enough to best you.”

“Between you and I, you nearly had me,” Cron said and smiled.

Prial suspected as much. “Damned rock.”

“That’s war, lad. You can be the fanciest swordsman in the kingdom and lose to a rock,” Notam said.

Prial didn’t know how to take that. The trouble with Notam was no one was really sure whether he was praising or condemning them. Not even Cron had figured it out.

Slapping Prial on the shoulder, Cron said, “Go on, Prial. Towel off and watch the next duel. Maybe you’ll find the right move to beat me.”

He watched the lad move off, silently appraising him. They were going to need more men like him before the end.

“Something’s troubling you. Holding it in doesn’t help anyone,” Notam noticed, handing Cron his sword.

Cron looked at his sergeant, his friend. He wanted to tell him to butt out and forget about it. That this was his problem. He’d taken a week’s leave to personally inform Ele and Reben’s families. Their fathers understood while the mothers collapsed in tears, unwilling to believe their sons were stolen from them during peace. It broke Cron’s heart to see them kneeling with tear-stained faces. It hurt worse knowing he couldn’t warn them that worse was approaching.

“We did everything we could. Thinking about it won’t bring them back. Put it to rest and drive on. Worse came from our mission than their deaths,” Notam said.

“Such as?”

“I want to know who put those heads on display. That’s not the work of bandits or raiders. We’ve fought them and it was a damned, dirty business but not their style. Worse, what burned Gend? The men are already whispering about dragons.”

Notam never ceased to surprise him. Every time he figured the grizzled old man for just another hardcore sergeant with no heart, Notam cleared his throat and forced him to change his mind.

“There hasn’t been a dragon spotted east of the Jebel Desert in generations. Not since the Mage War. I can’t believe one would be hounding us,” Cron replied.

“Believe it or not, something very large destroyed that village and murdered the villagers,” Notam said, stern-faced and dour.

Cron kept his mouth shut. Speculating didn’t help when Rentor was trying to plan a war against a faceless enemy.

Notam scowled. “I know that look.”

Cron offered a false smile. “I have a lot of thinking to do.”

“Will you be staying to watch the final rounds?”

Cron shook his head. “I have too much work. Make Prial the winner in my place and let him continue fighting. The extra practice will do him good. Besides, I wouldn’t want a rock to be the cause of a grudge between us. Oh and Notam, the winner gets a four-day pass beginning tomorrow morning. Give them something worth competing for.”

Notam knew their men didn’t require bribes through prizes. A combat soldier is one of the simplest creatures. He eats, sleeps, trains, and drinks. When it is time to go to war he goes without complaint. When it came to competition, every last one wants to be the best, if for no other reason than to brag to his comrades. Notam suspected it was the same in every army across Malweir. The gods knew he’d run into enough of them. He grimly watched Cron stalk off. Tensions surrounded the captain. Notam saw it in the way he walked. How stiff his conversation had grown.
One day I’m going to have a talk with that lad.

“All right, boys,” he growled at the hundred-odd men still assembled. “Who’s next?”

Two men eagerly stepped forward. The air sang with clashing steel.

* * * * *

“Come back to bed, husband. I’m getting lonely,” the queen purred.

Rentor stood looking at his reflection in the mirror. His image almost laughed back, mocking him with disdain. Taunting him for his failures and misgivings. Rentor watched the image laugh every time he thought of the future. What future, it cried.
Your complacency has damned this world! Had you bothered paying a little more attention the enemy wouldn’t be moving against us
. Rentor studied his reflection and cursed.

“I feel old, Melena,” he finally admitted. “Tired. My bones ache though the winter chill is long faded. What’s happening to us?”

Concern flushed her features. “What’s wrong? I’ve never heard you speak like this.”

He gave a halfhearted laugh. “I never have had to. Do you remember when we first took the throne? Those were grand times! We were unstoppable. Malweir stood in awe of what we were meant to achieve.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“Love, I scare myself. What happens if I’ve made the wrong decision by sending Grelic on his task? All of Thrae will be doomed and it will be my fault.”

Melena slid from bed and into a light robe. Rentor watched, that familiar stirring in his loins from seeing her shapely naked form. Even after decades of getting to know every inch of her body, she still managed to arouse him. Melena wrapped her arms around his massive waist and rested her head on his shoulder.

“I remember long nights under the stars with your arms around me. I remember the look in your eyes when our son was born. I’ve never seen you more proud. I love you, Rentor. I am beside you the entire way, no matter what awaits us at the end.”

He gently kissed her forehead.

* * * * *

Father Seldis bent to smell the first bloom of the year. The white jasmine was always his favorite. The sweet smell was fragrant and reminded him of gentle times with his long deceased wife. Hypnotic as it was, the smell always managed to make him cry.
If only the rest of the world understood the simplicity of beauty. Would there be wars
? Seldis doubted it. More leaders needed to stop and smell the grass after a light spring rain. He sighed. “If only” was a haunting epitaph. A blue and purple butterfly landed on the back of his hand a moment before Rentor entered the royal gardens.

“I hadn’t expected to find you here, Father,” Rentor announced. “Welcome, as it should be, my home is yours.” His eyes flicked over to the monk standing in the corner, beside Fitch Iane. “I see you’ve brought a guest.”

“Master Iane practically insisted,” Seldis replied.

Rentor doubted that. “He seems much improved. A month has made quite the difference. Perhaps I could use a short stay at the monastery.”

“Time heals, King,” Seldis said.

Time and a little magic, no doubt
.

“The mountain jasmine is beautiful. My own garden is ripe with it, though not to this magnitude,” Seldis said and gestured across the enormity of the gardens. Draping vines of white climbed trees for as far as the eye could see. “It is good to be king at times like this.”

“At times,” Rentor agreed. “Tell me, Father, what do the monks of Harr have for me this fine morning? Can’t a king enjoy a quiet stroll in his solitude?”

Seldis leaned closer and said, “With no guards? Alone? A king asks for death that way. Any king, no matter how well liked.”

“I don’t care for your tone, Father. You make the future sound bleaker than I care to dream.”

“A king should be afraid. Treason is never far away. ‘Ware the long knives in the dark,’ as they used to say.”

Rentor raised an eyebrow. “Surely you didn’t come here for subtle warnings? I’ve known you long enough. Why are you here?”

“The Order of Harr is offering you our assistance,” Seldis said simply.

“Assistance for what?”

Seldis chuckled. “Come now, King Rentor, I may be old but my mind is as sharp as it has ever been. Grelic is a strong man. A proud warrior but he is headstrong and rarely listens. He needs balance.”

For a moment only Rentor was surprised. Then he remembered Seldis knew things impossible for normal men to know. He suspected the elder monk dabbled in magic or, at a stretch, was one of the last remaining Mages in Malweir. “You’re getting a little too old for adventures, don’t you think?”

“My questing days are long behind me. All I require is a good fire, mulled wine, and a book. But young Fitch here, his task is yet to be undertaken. I believe he is destined to go on this quest,” Seldis replied.

The king stepped away. Fitch Iane was half a man at best, more liability than help. “You ask me to entrust the lives of every man, woman, and child in this kingdom to the will of a broken man? A difficult proposition, Father.”

Rentor knew Seldis had reasons he wasn’t going to give. That was the monk’s way. Give just enough information to entice, leave you wanting.

“Normally I’d caution against such a move, but here I can only ask, what does your heart say?” he finally said. A queer look crossed his face, as if he already knew the answer.

“Grelic’s not going to like this. I hope he doesn’t kill the boy before they leave the gardens.”

Seldis grinned. “I doubt anything so drastic. In fact, I believe Fitch and Grelic will get along just fine.”

Rentor had his doubts. He’d seen plenty of wonders in the world, but evidence of Grelic’s kindness wasn’t one. The giant was a warrior through and through with little use for men like Fitch. Rentor wanted to laugh, knowing he had no use for broken men either.
If only I weren’t king and twenty years younger
.

“One day you’re going to tell me how it is you can remain so optimistic when darkness falls around us,” he told Seldis. “More around here need your attitude.”

Shadows crept into his memories like dust on forgotten bones. A time of reckoning was approaching.

“It’s not difficult, once you figure life out.”

They stood in silence for a time, staring at the tiger-patterned orchids coming into bloom. Rentor had much to think on.

“What are they talking about?” Fitch asked quietly.

He didn’t know, but Brother Ibram felt just as nervous, if not more, than Fitch was. Memories were slurred. Fitch barely recalled being visited by the king. In fact, he barely remembered anything of his time with the monks. How he got to the mountains was a mystery equal to why he now stood in the royal gardens of Kelis Dur.

“I don’t know, but Father Seldis is a wise man. If anyone knows what he is doing, it’s him,” Ibram replied, hoping to instill confidence in them both.

Fitch had already stopped paying attention and allowed his mind to wander off in the sheer amount of rare plants and trees surrounding them. Flowers of every color came into bloom, filling the gardens with almost intoxicating scents. The wonder and beauty trapped within the stone walls brightened his heart.

“I never imagined such a place could exist this far north,” he breathed.

Ibram agreed. “Father Seldis says there is equal beauty in all things. For myself I seldom see it.”

He was about to say more, revealing a darker part of his character, when a giant of a man strode past. Ibram’s mouth dropped. The man was unmistakable. Everything suggested confidence and strength. Ibram stood in awe as Grelic presented himself to the king. An old fear crept back into Fitch. Flashes of demons and nightmares stabbed at him. He feared he wasn’t ready to accept the task Seldis seemed so sure of.

“Who is he?”

Ibram balked. “One of the greatest warriors to have ever lived.”

Rentor appraised his guests. He hadn’t expected a young woman when Grelic demanded the right to choose his own people. She was quite attractive, though he doubted he’d want to cross blades with her. That same intensity lingered in her eyes. Grelic wouldn’t have brought her if she wasn’t dangerous.

“I see today holds many surprises,” Rentor said. “There are a lot of people who think you’ve already fled south.”

“I don’t run from a fight.” Grelic barred his teeth.

“The true mark of a man,” Seldis said with just enough sarcasm to rouse Grelic’s ire.

“You are?”

“Of no concern for the moment,” Rentor stepped in. The last thing he needed was a murder in his gardens.