Stone Dragon (The First Realm) (11 page)

“Yes, that gave me a shock. Then I realized you sound different. Also, you’re shorter.”

“I’m average height!” I said. “Anyway, I’ve never heard of a group that wears fox masks.”

Heronimo leaned closer and whispered. “This dragon in your head—is it dangerous? Can it hear us?”

“It sees and hears everything. So far it’s suggested I enlist you as my minion and burn down the inn. But I’ve got it under control.”

“Like you had that air blast under control?”

I was about to speak, but I shut my mouth. That had been an old spell of mine, and I shouldn’t have confused it with another spell, let alone a spell I’d never used before. The mental gymnastics involved in turning a blast of air into a fiery attack were like the ones I used when I was a fire-breathing dragon.

Shit.

“What’s your plan, man?”

I buried my face in my hands.
I had no idea
. And I’d been blissfully unaware until Heronimo asked. My thoughts came sluggishly. I did long division in my head and kept misplacing numbers. I wasn’t operating at full capacity—and I thought I knew why.

Feeling around in the back of my head, I found Cruix. He was there, a definite presence. I could imagine him atop my brain, blanketing the gray matter with his wings and digging into the folds with his claws. He had his tail wrapped around my hindbrain.

Suddenly I knew what a dragon hoard felt. And I knew beyond doubt that I was doomed.

“I shouldn’t have criticized your plan,” I told Heronimo. “I only want is to see my home one last time.”

“Must be nice, to have a home to return to.”

“Why don’t you come with me? My best friend is the best double-sworder in Corinthe. He probably knows your man.”

“Will it be easy to get there?”

“It’s on the other end of the continent, and we’ll have to avoid the main roads for the entire journey. We’ll need horses, supplies, and above all money. I can’t go to the bank because I’m a wanted man—my account is sure to be frozen.”

“With frost magic?”

“Worse. With accountants.”

“Excuse me,” the barmaid said, “but I couldn’t help overhearing.”

“Weren’t you way over there?” I asked. “How much did you eavesdrop?”

“You’re not the first adventurer with a terrible secret. Keep your dark side on a leash and we’ll be okay. You need traveling money?”

“Let me guess, you’re a princess in disguise.”

She stuck out her tongue. “No, but there
is
a dwarven prince in one of the rooms. He’s looking to go on an adventure and needs a native guide.”

“I’m as native as they come. And Heronimo can be our porter.”

“Hey!”

* * *

We crashed in one of the basic rooms for a few hours. The barmaid promised to wake us at breakfast so we could meet this prince. She needn’t have bothered.

Heronimo and I were snoring in our beds when the door shattered inward and a bearded creature thundered in.

“ARE
THESE
THE STALWART ADVENTURERS?”

I backflipped out of bed and drew my sticks. Heronimo snarled and threw off his blanket, confirming that humans do indeed sleep with their weapons. We stood poised to defend ourselves, with every nerve and muscle tensed.

“Impressive!” the dwarf said. “The barmaid told me about you, but she neglected to mention what fine-looking fellows you were. I am Minos Magnusson, and I crave
advenchar!
”

Heronimo and I glanced at each other. Dwarves were often boisterous, but there was something strange about this one. He was smaller and younger than usual. Those rosy cheeks hadn’t seen their hundredth year, and even in armor he was more cute than fearsome.

Hah, a cute dwarf. So there
was
such a thing.

“I seek a quest to test my mettle,” he said. “For that I need companions stout and true.”

“Off to see the world, eh?” I said. “Wouldn’t you rather stand in a nice garden?”

“What?”

I coughed. “In truth, we are already on a mission. I am Angrod and
this
man-mountain is Heronimo. He is the mightiest warrior in the Northlands, and completely without fear.”

My human friend rolled with the bluff. He lowered his sword and flexed. You could almost hear his skin creaking.

“Heronimo has journeyed from distant lands in search of sweet, sweet
justice
. An elven wizard turned his parents to stone. Even now this cruel wizard evades our grasp!”

“I will rescue my parents, no matter the cost,” Heronimo said. “If I must vanquish one hundred foes at once, so be it! For such a battle I have trained twenty years.”

“I would be honored to help!” Minos said, and puffed out his chest. “I have been waiting for such a quest all my life. Have you really been training for twenty years?”

“That’s how I got these scars.”

I looked at Heronimo. Whoa. I hadn’t noticed the previous night, but his entire upper body was a tapestry of wounds. There were long scars, deep scars, straight scars, and jagged scars. There were scars on top of scars
on top of scars
. They covered his arms, shoulders, and chest. I’d never seen anything manlier.

“Humans heal quickly, but in my eagerness to gain mastery of the sword I traded safety for realism. We practiced with red-hot swords.”

That was
insane
.

“That is
fantastic
,” Minos said. “When do we leave?”

A fat elf barged into the room. “What’s all this? Who’s going to pay for this door?” Minos took one look at him and tossed him a gold coin. The innkeeper caught it and waved a hand over it to test its purity. “Yippee! A gold yippee!”

“Indeed,” Minos said. “That should more than pay for our bill.”

* * *

“I’m not sure about Minos,” Heronimo said. “I mean, he talks a good talk, but he’s also a complete novice.”

“We need him,” I said. “Without him we wouldn’t have all this stuff.”

I was referring to our fine new traveling clothes, our palfreys and pack mules, and our supplies. Everything was the best in town.

Minos was across the street, haggling over camping lanterns. Dwarves always seem to get the best bargains, partly because they have the ability to identify magic items, and also because they’re heavily into commerce. If they aren’t merchants, they’re suppliers. Either way, a dwarf gets a discount.

“He’s enthusiastic, but not battle-tested,” Heronimo said.

I dug into my pocket for the walking-around money our companion had given us. I came up with a handful of silver rupees and one gold yippee. The last was a solid metal oval—it was practically a small ingot.

“A family could live on this for a year,” I said. “And he’s got more in that bottomless pouch. Never underestimate the power of money.”

“Won’t that make him a target? I know
I
wouldn’t hesitate to waylay him.”

“You might be in for a shock,” I said. “I took a peek at his gear. Most of it’s magical.”

“So? Dwarves always have enchanted items.”

“Yes, but the average dwarf only carries one or two. His Highness has over a dozen, and they all shine brightly in my Sight.”

Chapter 13

“How wonderful it is, to be out on the open road!” Minos said.

I groaned and shifted in the saddle, trying to take the weight off the sores. It was an excellent saddle on a well-behaved horse, but the problem was with the rider. As a city elf I knew practically nothing about horses. I’d ridden often enough, back home, but that was a long time ago and it hadn’t prepared me for cross-country riding.

For one thing, the schedule was running me ragged: Get up an hour before dawn and feed the horses. Have breakfast, break camp, and walk the animals. Mount up when their stomachs had settled. March for five hours, feeding the damnable beasts every hour. Break for lunch. Rest until two in the afternoon, then ride three hours to the next camp. Straight to bed and sleep like the dead.

We managed twenty-five to forty miles a day, five days a week. Distance-wise, it was better than going on foot. Comfort-wise, I’d rather have walked.

To make things worse, I was suffering alone. Heronimo proved to be an experienced tracker and horseman. He was also a good forager and our meals never lacked for fresh ingredients. (He found so many eggs we fed them to the mules.)

Minos was about as outdoorsy as I was, but made up for it in enthusiasm. He had a Belt of Strength and a Ring of Regeneration, which meant he was unaffected by saddle sores or fatigue. The little dwarf was constantly gushing about the fresh air, the wide-open skies, and the unspoiled wilderness. Personally I could have done without the bugs.

Do you shake out your boots before you put them on?
I do now.

Minos also had a crossbow that allowed him to hit anything. You just needed to point it in the general direction and it would shoot at the perfect moment. Thanks to that, we didn’t lack for fresh meat either—we fed it to the horses. These were capran horses, and more than a little carnivorous.

We made good time through the Green Plains, but I wasn’t in a cheerful mood when we sighted Mount Rasmus, an extinct volcano with a perfect cone and a caldera lake. For all my aches and pains I had to admit it was quite a view.

I remembered there was a small halfling village just past the mountain. Besides catering to tourists, it also raised all manner of fruit in the rich volcanic soil.

“Are we there yet?” I asked.

“Angrod, my friend, you do not enjoy life on the road?” Minos asked.

“I prefer proper beds and indoor plumbing.”

Heronimo turned to me. “What is this thing you call
plumbing?
”

“Seriously? What did you use, snow?”

“Actually…”

“Snowball fights must’ve been something else, huh?”

“Fellows, the village is burning.”

We’d rounded a bend in the trail, and we could see black smoke rising from the village below. Even from that distance we could see bodies.

Heronimo squinted. “There’s just one building on fire. No signs of life, but I could be wrong.”

“I vote we circle around it,” I said. “Give it plenty of room. There are other towns on the way.”

“And what if there are survivors?” Minos said. “Surely as heroes we cannot ignore our duty?”

“I can ignore it just fine, but...” Heronimo gave me a look.

We rode into the village, into the aftermath of a massacre. Dead halflings were everywhere. Most had been literally cut down, as in with large blades, but a few had that exploded look that comes from fireballs.

“This looks familiar,” Heronimo said, and drew his sword.

“We do a quick sweep and then we’re gone,” I said. “Five-yard spread. No sound.”

“Hello, the village! Is anyone alive?”
Minos said, bellowing like a bull.

I winced. “Nevermind.”

We rode around the village. I kept a glyph on, looking for heartbeats, while Heronimo used his naturally keen senses.

“We’re here to help!” Minos said. “Is anyone alive?”

“Like the dead would answer you,” I said. Most of the bodies were too mutilated to live.

Halflings have always been a sad race. They were clumsier than elves, not much bigger or stronger, and terribly short-lived. Few were lucky enough to live a hundred years. Worst of all, they had no magic whatsoever. To see so many cut down, in what passed for the prime of their lives… What could do this?

“I’m not getting anything,” Heronimo said.

“Me neither,” I said.

The burning hut collapsed. We started at the sound, but then we heard the weeping.

“Over there!” I said, pointing at a stone cottage. We rode up and dismounted. Heronimo was the first one in, stepping over a corpse to get through the door.

Huddled in a corner was a halfling boy no more than ten years old. He stared at us, then hissed.

“It’s all right,” Heronimo said, in the same voice he used with horses. “We’re not here to hurt you. What’s your name? Where are your parents?”

The boy just stared. He hadn’t blinked since making eye contact. “My parents are dead. They’re all dead. I’m the last one. I’m Conrad.”

“When did this happen?” Minos asked.

“Yesterday. Haven’t slept.”

“Well, you can relax,” I said. “You’re safe now.”

“No, I’m not,” the boy said. “I’m
not
. And neither are you.”

“Rrraargh.”

The body at the door stood up. It couldn’t have been alive, it was drained of blood—and yet it moved. Moaning, it raised its arms and lurched toward us.

“That was my father.”

Minos drew his axe and buckler. I drew my sticks. Everyone looked at me. The boy snickered. “Sticks? These are the undead, not the undrummed.”

“If you’ve got anything better I’d be glad to take it off your hands.”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Minos said. He tossed me a flanged mace. “The Mace of Shock.”

I caught it by the business end. “Ow!”

The zombie hobbled toward us. Heronimo frowned, told the boy to close his eyes, and stepped forward. The zombie hit the floor in two pieces.

“Awesome!” the boy said.

“I told you not to look!”

“Boys?” Minos said. “There are more of them.”

We glanced out the windows—all the dead bodies were on their feet. The men carried farm tools and the women had kitchen knives. Tarlike fluid oozed from every wound. Our horses had already bolted, of course.

“You ever feel you’re in the wrong story?” I said.

“AAAAARGH!” Minos said, and charged. He slashed and punched the air.

“After him!” I said, and waded into the fight. I clubbed a zombie with the mace, then pointed with the stick and triggered a concussive blast. It blew another zombie to flaming bits.

“Wow!” the boy said. He picked up a rock and threw it.

Heronimo walked up to a zombie, cut it in half, walked up to another zombie, and did the same thing. He carelessly parried a zombie with a rake, then ran it through. The zombie walked down the blade and rapped him on the head. Heronimo tore his sword loose and chopped it in two.

I glanced at the zombie I’d bashed in the head. It was down. “Go for the head or chop it to bits!”