Erik And The Dragon ( Book 4) (22 page)

“I’m Gerald,” the bowman said.

“Are you the mayor?” Aparen asked.

Gerald laughed and shook his head. “We don’t have a mayor,” he replied. “There are only a few families here in the village.
” The other laborers put their swords away and slowly made their ways back to the fields.

“So, where can I find him?” Aparen asked.

“You look a bit young to be hunting vampires,” Gerald said. “You sure you are up to this?”

Aparen forced a confident smile and nodded. “There is more to me than what meets the eye, I assure you.”

Gerald nodded and chuckled softly. “I suppose we will find out soon enough.” He motioned for Aparen to follow him and then turned to lead him to the nearest farmhouse. Aparen noted the three rocking chairs on the old, gray porch. It appeared that Gerald had a wife and at least one child. As the man opened the door to the farmhouse and walked in, Aparen could smell soup over the fire pit in the center of the house. As he stepped inside he saw a small bed on one side of the room and a larger bed on the opposite side. A round, wooden table was situated near the back wall and a couple of rugged wardrobes lined the front wall.

The man caught Aparen scanning the house and pointed to the small bed. “My son was only six when the vampire came. He was one of the first to disappear in the night.”

Aparen looked to the bed and noticed that it was perfectly made up, as if Gerald still expected the boy to come home at any moment. “When was that?” Aparen asked.

“About seven years ago now,” Gerald said. “It drove my wife mad. When I gave up searching for the creature, my wife left me. She took the axe we used to chop wood and left into the night. I tried to stop her, but she was beyond reason, and I was the last person she would have listened to anyhow.” Gerald paused and a tear welled up in his left eye. “I never saw her again. I assume the vampire got her too.”

“You didn’t go after her?” Aparen asked.

Gerald shrugged. “By that time there were many other families that had fallen prey to the vampire. News spread that other villages
had been attacked also. There wasn’t much use in going after the vampire anymore. Anyone who did disappeared.”

Aparen shook his head. He could almost understand Gerald’s reasons, but he couldn’t get past the fact that the man had allowed his wife to go after a vampire. “Where can I find him?”

Gerald went and sat on a wooden chair near the round table. “No one knows,” he said. “Some say there is a cave or a castle out in the forest, but if that is true no one has ever found it and lived to tell the tale.” Gerald bent down and pulled his boots off, wiggling his toes underneath threadbare socks that looked as though they were about to unravel entirely. “If I were you, I would go northwest. There is an old, dry stream bed that leads up to a gray mountain that is riddled with caves. If I were a vampire that is where I would go.”

“Would that give him easy access to all of the nearby villages?” Aparen asked.

Gerald shrugged. “I suppose it is easy enough as any other place.”

A thought came to Aparen then. Perhaps everyone had been looking in the wrong places. “Are there any clearings close to the center between all of the villages?”

Gerald arched an eyebrow and folded his arms as he leaned back. “If you take the main road north, you will find a large field about half a day from here. There’s nothing there though, absolutely nothing but a few wild flowers.”

Aparen nodded. “I’ll start there. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“How old are you?” Gerald asked.

Aparen smiled and exited the farmhouse without answering. He walked quickly through the village. He waved when he passed the burly men sitting atop their wagon and drinking from flasks. They waved in kind and continued talking between themselves.

If Dremathor had positioned himself in the middle of a valley, then perhaps the vampire had done the same. It seemed a good tactic. All of the villages would send their men to the caves and deep into the forests, all while the vampire would be smack in the middle, within easy reach of the womenfolk whenever the fancy struck to hunt. No one would ever suspect it. If he was wrong, it would only cost him a little bit of time, and he could simply move on to the next village and ask for more information. On the other hand, if he was right, then he might be able to return and free Silvi before the moon rose in the sky.

Gilifan pulled his cloak tighter around himself. A cold, biting wind tore in from the north, swiping at the goose bumps on his skin. Nerekar hardly seemed to notice. He just walked on, letting his over cloak flap wildly behind him. The necromancer hated these lands. No matter what time of year he arrived, it was always cold as a witch’s heart. Sheets of ice and snow piled high in the winter followed by deceptively bright, sunny summers chilled by northern winds that brought the arctic cold with it. It was not as bad further inland, but here on the coast, it was eternally cold and bitter.

“Do you know the way?” Nerekar asked, pulling Gilifan from his thoughts.

Gilifan nodded. He looked back to the ship they had disembarked from only ten minutes before. The crew was busy casting off from the lonely, long abandoned dock. They were obviously not eager to stay and wait for Gilifan to finish his business.

“I know the way,” the necromancer replied evenly. “We go to Och’Duun, a port city perhaps an hour’s walk from here.”

“If it has a port, then why did we dock here?” Nerekar asked.

“
Because the orcs of Och’Duun would sink a human ship on sight.”

“But they will not attack us on foot?” Nerekar countered.

“You will not enter the city with me,” Gilifan replied. “I expect you to find your own way in. As for me, they will not attack me. Their chief owes me a favor.”

“An orc owes you a favor?” Nerekar smirked.

“Don’t belittle the orcs,” Gilifan snapped. “A favor promised by an orc is worth more than a king’s alliance with other men.” Gilifan reached down deep into his pocket and pulled out a round coin made of hematite. “Do you know what this is?” the necromancer asked.

Nerekar shook his head. “Child’s money?” he guessed sarcastically.

“It is a token of debt.” Gilifan held it up in the light to show it off. “On this side you see the face of the first ruler of Hammenfein and the creator of the orcs.” He flipped the coin over. “On this side you see the symbol of the Tiger Clan, the strongest orc tribe in these lands. No orc would dare lay a finger on me so long as I carry this.”

“Why do you have it?” Nerekar asked.

“Never mind about that,” Gilifan said. “You just remember what I told you.”

Nerekar nodded grimly. “If a white scarf hangs from the third window in the longhouse, then I am released from our contract. If a red scarf hangs, then I am to strike before the sun rises.”

“See to it that you do not fail,” Gilifan warned.

“I have never failed,” Nerekar growled.

“Neither have you ever tested your mettle against an orc.” A howling wind tore through the air then, bending the brown, brittle grass down to the earth and forcing Gilifan to tuck his face into the crook of his elbow. “I hate this wind,” he grumbled.

The pair travelled over rolling hills next to the sea as the road wound around some and over others. The beach in this part of the realm was very rocky, and smelled of salt and rotting flesh. They passed by an old oak tree worn smooth by drifting onto the beach and sun bleached so that it might easily have been mistaken for a great bone if not for the still intact branches that now gave roost to a flock of seagulls. The birds squawked loudly, some of them fighting over a couple of small crabs unluc
ky enough to have ventured into the open and been caught by the vigilant birds.

Gilifan and Nerekar walked on the rocky road for about half an hour before Gilifan pointed out a large, black tree. “In the hollow of that tree you will find a map of Och’Duun.”

Nerekar nodded and went toward it. “I will look for the scarf tonight,” the assassin promised.

Gilifan continued walking without slowing his pace or even waving to his hired thug. He pulled his cloak in again, warding off the harsh wind as it kicked up for the third time This wind brought with it small, stinging drops of rain that bit his cheek and drove the cold into his bones despite his best efforts to shield himself with his cloak. The necromancer cursed the rain. He thought for a moment to use his magic and dispel the horrid weather, but he knew better. He was in orc country now, and they did not take kindly to magic. Should he use it, some orc patrolman might order an attack without bothering to come close enough for the necromancer to display his token. Better to face sharp drops of ice water than to try and deflect an orc’s arrow.

As he suspected, a patrol was only a few minutes away. There were four of them, that he could see, and they saw him from afar and started galloping toward him. Being familiar with the orcs, he knew that seeing four meant there were likely ten more orcs nearby that he hadn’t yet spotted. Fortunately, he knew how to react so as to not draw their ire. The necromancer stopped walking and held his left hand out to the side as far as possible, empty palm facing out. He extended his right hand out in front of him, displaying the token prominently in his palm for the orcs to see. In all other respects, he stood still and quiet, waiting for them to get to him.

The sharp point of a spear prodded into his back, deep enough to jar him forward, but not so hard
as to break the skin.

“On your knees,” the orc said in Common Tongue.

Gilifan obliged the orc while keeping his eyes on the four riders galloping toward him. “I have come to see your chief,” he said. “I have his token in my hand.

“Quiet,” the orc instructed. “Maernok will decide your fate.”

Gilifan nodded and closed his mouth. He had hoped for someone else to be the first to find him, but there was nothing he could do about that now.

The four riders pulled their horses to a stop only a few yards away. Gilifan looked up, squinting at the dust the horses had kicked up. The first rider swung his leg over the horse and jumped down to the ground. The many plates of his steel armor jingled together. The necromancer noted how each small plate was attached so that the entire set of armor resembled a skin of scales. Tufts of fur protruded out around the wrists, knees, elbows, shoulders, and around the neck. A pair of sleek scimitars hung from the orc’s belt. A bow of wood and bone was slung across the warrior’s back, and the feathered shafts of arrows stood out above the orc’s shoulders.

The orc’s face was a dark green, lined with a scar on his left cheek that ran down under his jawbone. A pair of sharp tusk-like teeth jutted out from his lower jaw, stopping about half an inch below the prominent cheekbones. Blue, cold eyes stared out from under a lock of black hair that had escaped the conical, leather helmet. The orc emitted a throaty growl as it eyed Gilifan from head to toe.

The orc walked with ease
, his armor shimmering in the bright sun. “The wizard who plays with the dead,” the orc said. “I had hoped not to see you again before we had both crossed over into Hammenfein.”

“Maernok, I have many years yet before I will depart from the mortal realm,” Gilifan said with a slight nod of his head.

“Why wait?” Maernok asked. He drew his scimitars and flashed them before Gilifan’s nose. “I could shorten the time considerably and offer you as homage to my master.”

“I carry your chief’s token,” Gilifan said sternly. “I would remind you that to slay one who bears a token of debt would be considered a great affront to your master. Your promised place in Hammenfein would be stripped from you and you would be discarded to the lower levels of hell.”

Maernok stepped in close so that his fetid, hot breath washed over Gilifan’s face. “It would almost be worth it, meddler,” he growled.

“I have come to speak with your chief. Now that you have seen the token I bear, you are obligated to take me to him.”

Maernok scoffed and turned to the other orcs around him. He shouted something in orcish that Gilifan did not understand. The others laughed. The necromancer grew weary of the power struggle. He held the token up in the air and bellowed “Hacht ten mag’nul berak!” The others shrank away.

“Do not recite the command to me, meddler,” Maernok s
narled. “We will take you to Och’Duun. You will speak with our chief, and then, when you no longer carry the token of debt I will flay you alive, use your skin as a leather cloak and then march up to the dog who gave you life and make her choke upon your flesh.”

Gilifan smirked and cocked his head to the side. “My mother has long been dead, by my own hand in fact,” he said. “But I appreciate your pathetic attempt to frighten me. Now, move along
, cur, and take me to your chief.”

Maernok stepped back, jerking his neck to the side sharply, cracking his bones and grunting as he did so. “Let’s go,” he said to the others. He whirled his scimitars back into their sheaths and jumped up to land in his saddle. The orc riders led the way, and a pair of orc footmen emerged from the nearby grasses to join the other already behind Gilifan.

The first one poked his spear forward, “You heard Maernok, time to move.”

Gilifan wheeled around and dissolved the spear with a single touch of his left index finger. “Prod me again and I shall remake your spear and dissolve you instead.” The orc’s eyes grew wide and he took half a step back as he glanced to his empty hands. Gilifan winked evilly and then turned to follow Maernok.

Maernok shouted something in orcish over his shoulder. A warning to the others, no doubt, but Gilifan honestly couldn’t care less what Maernok said just as long as they stayed out of his way.

They walked along the coast for about twenty minutes through the biting rain and harsh wind. The orcs seemed almost to grow stronger in the unforgiving weather. The riders sat tall in the saddle, letting the rain sting their faces as the wind howled about them. Gilifan, on the other hand, drew his cloak in as tightly as he could. He also put up an invisible ward to at least shelter himself from the rain.

A heavy fog crept in from the sea, despite the bright sun’s attempts to banish it from above. Golden rays mingled with the silvery mist and cast rainbows all around them. Och’Duun seemed to emerge from the fog, as if it slid closer to them along the coast. The stark, black bricks of the wall shone slick from the rain. The heavy, iron gate was open, revealing a thick portcullis guarded by a trio of large orcs holding pikes. Towers rose above the wall within the city, looking down upon the foggy land around Och’Duun like massive sentries of stone and wood. The architecture was not so different from that of humans, and yet it was entirely its own. Each tower was capped with rounded cupolas while the actual tower itself was made with five even sides with precise angles. The orcs’ inclination to use pentagons as the basic shape of buildings was a testament to how they lived their lives.

Five sides allows for one more field of vision, one more sentry to sound the warning bells, and one more balcony from which to let loose the arrows of death, or so the old orcish adage says. At the
very least, it did make for fewer blind spots, and easier defense whilst besieged.

“Come with me, wizard of death,” Maernok said harshly. The others stopped and pulled off to the side before the portcullis. Gilifan
followed the large warrior through as the portcullis was raised from inside the walls. The guards all watched Gilifan warily, studying his every move until he passed through the gate and into the city proper.

Then, instead of three sets of eyes staring at him, there were scores.

The orcs walking to and fro upon the wet, slick cobblestone street seemed to freeze in time. Maernok pressed on as if nothing was out of the ordinary, but no one else moved as Gilifan walked behind the orc warrior. Occasionally a small orc child would whisper to its mother, but even then the mother would barely respond.

“Haven’t had any visitors since I left eh?” Gilifan remarked.

“It isn’t that,” Maernok replied. “They are wondering how it is that you are still alive.”

Gilifan chuckled softly to himself. “Magic has its advantages,” he said.

Maernok stopped and dropped down to the road. The orcs around stiffened even more.

The necromancer looked to the warrior questioningly. “Something else I should know?” he asked.

Maernok drew a curved dagger from his belt and held it up against his armor, indicating to his heart. “I took an oath to slay you, meddler.” Maernok slid the back of the blade across his chest, mimicking a slice. “The others are watching you, waiting for me to fulfill my blood oath.”

“That was a foolish thing to do,” Gilifan said. “I hold a token of debt, and you knew that before you met me.”

Maernok stepped in close and placed the tip of his dagger onto Gilifan’s chest. “You, meddler, shall die by my hand. I have sworn it before Khullan himself. You will pay for your treachery.”

“It is not my fault your father was too weak to rule,” Gilifan said. The tip of the dagger pressed into his skin, poking through his cloak. The necromancer looked down a
nd smiled, undaunted. “Go on, Maernok,” Gilifan taunted. “Push it in and collect your reward.”

Ma
ernok glared down at his dagger, obviously weighing the decision out in his mind. “No,” he said at last as he pulled the dagger back. “One day you will no longer carry the token of debt. Then, I will be free to fulfill my blood oath and end your meddling ways.”

“Your father squealed like a stuck pig,” Gilifan said. “Your mother put up a better fight, but she also begged for mercy at the end.”