The Dragon Hunters (26 page)

The Road to Deldin Grim

Qail Werd was much less ominous now that they fully understood the source of the myths and legends. While there were no demons or manifestations of the netherworld roaming beneath the trees, Grelic and the others certainly maintained wary respect for the Minotaur kingdom. Thorsus and his folk had earned the giant’s trust and confidence. No doubt that was why Krek had been sent along. The Mage could have easily led them out of the Werd and to the pass of Deldin Grim.

They set up camp when dusk came much sooner than they anticipated. Soon a roaring fire warmed them and the smell of roasting meat filled the air. Krek chewed so loudly he almost drowned out the subtle crackling of the fire. Only Pregen paid it any attention. He scowled with disgust as he watched pieces of partially chewed meat fly from Krek’s mouth. Ragged strips of almost raw meat dangled between the Minotaur’s entirely too large teeth. Pregen turned away before he threw up.

It was almost laughable. Pregen knew the bull was never going to get invited to a formal ball in any civilized kingdom. Surprisingly enough, Pregen missed the glitz and glamour of royal banquets and fetes. He’d spend the majority of those nights chasing and seducing young maidens to the bedroom for his own satisfaction and the chance of fattening his purse. Royalty seemed the best for that. Besides, most were rich beyond measure and wouldn’t miss a few gems and baubles here and there.

The one thing Pregen found no satisfaction in was bedding common folk. He’d been born to a poor family with the typical sad drama of poverty. His mother drank herself to death while his father was a simple street thug who preyed on young men and women for money and various degrees of carnal pleasures. Fortunately he died while Pregen and his sister Reinna were still young.

Pregen accepted the burden of responsibility of raising his sister without having a clue how to do it. He learned how to work the streets early out of sheer necessity. He made a fairly good time of being a pickpocket and two-bit hustler. Reinna plied her meager household skills as a maid and assistant in different kitchens. Neither of them made enough to get by. Pregen was fairly confident life couldn’t get any worse when he came home after an unsuccessful day of petty thievery to find Reinna gone.

He searched frantically but found nothing. The house was in ruins, if theirs could be considered a house. It was more akin to a rundown shack than living quarters. Pregen ran out into the streets shouting her name at the top of his lungs. Cold winter rain stung him. The mournful wail of street dogs echoed his plea. For the first time in his life, Pregen Chur was alone. Though he never stopped looking for her, he never learned so much as a clue. It wasn’t until years later when she walked back into his life.

He hardly recognized her. Reinna was dressed prim and proper, so unlike the poor, parentless waif she’d been. The reunion was tearful. She cautiously explained how she’d been kidnapped and sold to a minor nobleman who treated her decently, even allowing her to sleep in a real bed. The story broke Pregen’s heart, not because her life took an upswing, but because she had no intention of returning home. She was moving south to Averon and would not be coming back. Reinna kissed his cheek and held him lovingly one final time. Then she was gone.

Pregen gave up trying to make a semi-honest living after that. He devoted himself to learning how to become a proper gentlemen. That’s when he learned where the real money was. Jewels were easy picking and, as he later discovered, the women enjoyed his heady street-like quality. For a time, life was good. Word reached him some years later that Reinna was dead. She’d been killed by her aristocrat husband during a drunken rage. Pregen flew into his own rage. He cursed everyone from himself to his worthless parents and even the gods. Long nights he delved into sorry and self-inflicted misery. His hatred steamed, threatening to consume him. Then he stumbled upon a plan. Seeking out the cheapest smith, Pregen contracted a handful of weapons and struck out in search of Reinna’s murderer.

It took awhile and the road was fraught with inescapable peril, but Pregen finally tracked the beast to his lair. Consumed in a cloak of violence, Pregen had the good sense to wait his victim out. He watched everything. Who came, who went. How many guards the men had. Which servants were loyal and which were decidedly less scrupulous. Through it all, his hatred kept him going and when the time was right, he entered the manor.

Looking back, he probably shouldn’t have killed the guards. They seemed decent enough but Pregen was fairly confident they had a part in getting rid of Reinna’s body. He watched ruefully as they gurgled their last breaths in a mouthful of blood. When at last he reached the main chamber, he noticed the strangest thing. His heart began to beat too hard. His palms were dry and his mouth still wet. It was almost as if killing was the most natural thing.

Delighted and repulsed by this newfound freedom, Pregen stole into the chambers with death in his heart. He found the man in bed with a beautiful blonde. Rage whispered and Pregen struck. He fell on both with unsuppressed fury. The man died almost instantly from a slice across the throat but the woman’s pain was long and drawn out. Pregen saw in her the love and stolen grace from Reinna. For that, she paid dearly. Her death was pure revenge.

Pregen stumbled away from the carnage covered in blood. Too many thoughts and sensations assaulted him at once. Darkness claimed him. When he awoke, Pregen knew what his calling in life was. He went on to become one of the premier assassins in northern Malweir. Visions of that fateful night haunted him to this day. He gave Krek one last look before shuddering and going to sleep.

* * * * *

Fitch found it increasingly difficult to take his eyes away from the young bull. He guessed they were about the same age, or at least comparable, given the long lives of that race. The Minotaur strode through the forest with uncanny ease and an almost haughty attitude. His gait was swift and confident, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Fitch was immediately impressed and started to like the bull. He doubted he’d be able to leave his own people so easily to travel off into untold dangers, perhaps even death, with a handful of complete strangers.

“Why you stare?” Krek snarled from across the fire.

Fitch recoiled, embarrassed at getting caught. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, it’s just that until the other day I’d never heard of a Minotaur.”

Krek snorted and tossed another log on the fire.

Fitch pressed, “How long have you been a warrior?”

Now it was the Minotaur’s turn to blush. He stared intently at the flames, at the way heat burned down the wood and turned almost white. “No questions.”

Fitch refused to back down. “I’m not even a warrior, if that helps. Up until a few months ago I’d never seen a battle.”

This grabbed Krek’s attention. “Why you here?”

Lowering his gaze, Fitch struggled to keep the old sorrow from resurfacing. Then an idea struck. Maybe he needed to talk about it. Seldis and Dakeb both told him so repeatedly in the past. He’d hurt too much to understand at the time. But now, with Krek sitting across from him and just about everyone else asleep, he felt the need to get it all out. “My village was destroyed. That’s what started this whole mess.”

He went on to explain in detail the events of that day and what he knew of events leading up to their capture by the Minotaurs. Krek listened intently. He refused to admit it, but the bull warmed slightly to the young human. He wasn’t sure why, because humans were generally pathetic genetic specimens. They had thin hides and were ill equipped for long periods of hardship. They were weak compared to the older, more rugged races on Malweir. Krek had been ingrained with the belief of their inferiority. Why then, he often questioned, were there so many of them? One of the shamans once explained the reason as being they needed numbers to make up for their lack of durability. At the time it made sense. Looking at the small hu across from him, Krek wasn’t entirely sure.

He spat at the fire. “Garg! Bah! Filth needs cleansing.”

Fitch winced at the Minotaur’s word for “Goblins” but couldn’t agree more.

“Sleep now. I guard,” Krek told him.

Fitch found sleep easily that night. Something he hadn’t done since leaving the Order of Harr’s monastery.

The first signs of Goblins came at midday. Krek halted them as soon as he caught the scent. Scowling, the Minotaur readied his tulwar. Grelic and the others immediately prepared for battle. They’d been hoping to exit the Werd and link up with the Aeldruin before having to fight again. That dream tumbled around them in a heap of disappointment. Swords drawn and arrows nocked, they formed a loose half circle.

Krek knelt down and touched a Goblin footprint. The ground was still soft. He scanned the area around him. His scowl deepened. Signs of their passing were all about. Broken branches. Piles of waste. The foul “Garg” were despoilers of the land and made no such constraints in the once mighty Qail Werd.

“Many Garg,” he growled in hushed tones.

Grelic used his own experience to examine the signs. “Many is right. Close to a full company I’d guess. Heading east. They look to be moving in a hurry.”

A bird cawed from the unseen distance.

“How long ago?” Cron asked.

“Less than a day,” Grelic cautioned. “They are heavily armed.”

“A war party,” Cron said.

“Aye. But heading where?”

Eyes fell to Krek. To his credit, he stared back unflinchingly. “Malg.”

There was a faraway look in his eyes, as if he longed to return to his underground kingdom to stand beside his brothers when the attack came. A low growl escaped his lips. Because of these wayward hum he would not be there to share in the victory.

Cron looked back at the trail they’d been following. “There’s nothing for it. A hundred Goblins won’t make it very far.”

“Let’s hope the dragon isn’t with them,” Kialla said.

She regretted it the moment the words left her lips. She wasn’t the sort to believe in luck or other such nonsense, but she also didn’t want to be the one responsible for bringing down the wrath of the gods. She may not believe in luck, but Kialla was very superstitious.

“Ever the optimist,” Pregen said, rolling his eyes. He braced for the wrath of a sharp tongue. Or two.

Instead all he got was a “be quiet” out of Grelic.

The early summer heat was stifling, especially under the thick canopy. The day was still young and sweat already trickled down Grelic’s arms and back. His sharp eyes scanned the forest fervently. Krek sensed his unease and was already searching for prey. Qail Werd had become hostile territory. A stag elk crossed the trail ahead of them and froze. His soft brown eyes locked with Grelic and for a moment knew courage. So many others meant nothing but certain demise. Unable to suppress the overwhelming urge for self-preservation, the stag bolted back into the safety of the trees. Cron almost laughed. The Minotaur shook his head at their strange ways and pushed on. The sooner he guided them to Deldin Grim, the sooner he could return to the battle at Malg. Grelic and the others fell in line behind.

Night fell on them quickly. They hadn’t seen any further signs of Goblins during the rest of the day, but Grelic remained cautious. If the enemy was moving unopposed this deep in the Werd, they could easily spring a trap at any given moment. Any delays now would surely make them miss the rendezvous with Faeldrin. They’d barely managed to recover from the first half of their journey and had need of strength and energy before reaching the Deadlands.

They dined on what remained of the elk and a pot full of wild vegetables and mushrooms found nearby. No one had any idea how much longer the quest was going to last and Grelic insisted on living off of the land for as long as possible. Krek stalked off shortly after eating. He gave no reasons and none were asked. Grelic knew what he was mad about and quietly let him go. It never hurt to have an extra set of eyes watching the night. Cron took the opportunity to pull Grelic aside.

“What was that between you and Thorsus? I had the feeling we were about to meet an untimely demise.”

Anger flashed behind Grelic’s eyes, then he smiled tightly. “Two old bulls used to being in charge. That’s what happens when two people like that lock horns. So to speak.”

“You should calm down more,” Cron advised. “We could have been killed.”

“I have news for you: we would have been killed long before that if we didn’t have Dakeb. That crazy old Mage is the only thing keeping us alive.”

“That bothers you, doesn’t it?” Cron asked.

“Worries me is more like it. What happens if he gets killed? That doesn’t bode well for the rest of us,” Grelic said. “Thorsus could have killed us at will, but didn’t because of Dakeb. The dark wolves almost had us, but again Dakeb stepped in. Ibram’s misadventure with the Dwim in Eline. Need I go on?”

“No, but what of poor Ibram? Imagine the nightmare he’s gone through since he was told he’s a Mage. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

They looked across the small campsite to where Ibram and Dakeb sat in hushed conversation.

“I still don’t understand,” Ibram told him. “How was I chosen for this? I never wanted to be a Mage. Magic doesn’t interest me.”

Dakeb rubbed his hands together thoughtfully. “It’s not so simple as picking and choosing. You see, magic is very powerful and has a mind of its own. Those of us gifted never asked for it. Not even during our strongest hour could we determine why this is so. But we did learn how to recognize the signs. It usually begins during late childhood. The temple at Ipn Shal had trained teams scouring Malweir in search of gifted boys and girls of every race with the potential to make the world a better place.”