The Dragon Hunters (35 page)

The Calm Before the Storm

Grelic lay among the dead branches and scrub brush. His eyes shifted over the ruinous buildings and hovels three hundred meters away. Mordrun Bal was desolate at best, nightmarish at worst. The perfect place for Goblins and other foul creatures to breed in the dark. Every instinct Grelic had warned him to turn and head back to Thrae. Hundreds of Goblins could be seen shuffling through the twisting streets, moving in and out of the buildings. He couldn’t see any way they’d be able to sneak past so many. The situation seemed hopeless.

He lay there for most of the day. It felt good not moving, though he knew he was going to be sore when he finally did get up. Two days of forced march through the Deadlands and a night of disturbed dozing had left them all weary. Grelic wanted one good night’s sleep before tackling Druem. He and Dakeb agreed to recover some of their strength during the day and sneak in under the cover of darkness. The only problem with that was the vast amount of Goblins between them and the volcano.

Grelic’s eyes drooped. The afternoon sun was scorching, promising to worsen before dusk. Sleep enticed him like some nameless woman from his dark past. He fought the urge with all his might yet his eyes continued to betray him. He wasn’t sure how long he spent struggling through the netherworld of waking dreams. The crisp sound of a whip striking flesh snapped him out of it. Formations of Goblins were marching out of Mordrun Bal amidst the snarl and curse of the whip masters. Grelic tensed, fearing they’d been discovered. Then common sense took over. There was no call for so many to be deployed just to capture a handful. No. These forces were already moving out. Something had stirred them up. Grelic dared to rise up and get a better look.

They were marching towards Deldin Grim. Faeldrin had done it!

“Good news,” Grelic said in a confident whisper. He waited for the others to come closer. “Most of the Goblin army is marching south. By dawn they’ll be too far away to make a difference. We shouldn’t have much trouble getting inside the volcano now.”

“Faeldrin was more successful than we hoped,” Kialla said.

Cron wasn’t convinced, though he didn’t want to ignore the importance of the development. “They must have left a garrison. Goblins are vicious beasts, keen in the arts of killing. If the dark Mage is half as quick, he’ll have left a garrison big enough to beat us.”

“What about those things that attacked us in Eline?” Pregen asked. He hated to admit it, and never would aloud, but the thought of facing the evil creatures again terrified him.

Dakeb laid a reassuring hand on Pregen’s wrist. “Leave them to me. Creatures born of magic die of magic easily. They won’t pose a problem.”

“The advantage is ours,” Grelic said and wiped his forehead of sweat. “Though we still have the small issues of the dragon and Mage.”

“Let the Elves worry about the wyrm,” Dakeb said. “I have a feeling the battle in the pass is going to be more than enough to draw the dragon’s attention away. Plan on getting inside the catacombs and focus on finding the shard while I face the Silver Mage. He is the worst threat.” His voice tapered off with the sorrowful tone reserved for battlefield commanders anticipating great losses.

“What happens if he already has the crystal?” Fitch piped in. He was no military man by any means, but even he understood the dangers of what they were getting into. Nightmares of Gend haunted him relentlessly the closer he got to Druem. All of Father Seldis’s work was unraveling. Fitch wasn’t sure if he’d be able to overcome his resurging fears.

The old Mage’s smile surprised Grelic most of all. “In that case, we happen to have a thief in our midst.”

Pregen froze. “No. If you think I’m going anywhere near another Mage you’re insane.”

“You are a thief,” Kialla said.

“Yeah, and a damned good one. I break into women’s homes, aristocrats. A good thief tends not to be caught robbing people when they are home. I appreciate my head attached to my neck. Find someone else to do it.”

Dakeb’s voice remained steady. “Relax, Pregen. Do not concern yourself with the what-ifs of the situation. When the time comes we will all know what to do.”

Pregen shot Fitch a foul look but said no more.

Up until now, the young Minotaur sat quietly listening to the men complain to one another. He had no taste for talk. Minotaurs were warriors by nature and wasted little time in pointless discussion. Wars and battles were won by sword and axe, not fancy words. He yawned and stretched.

“All right then, we rest up until dark and strike when the moon rises,” Grelic told them all. “We move light and fast. Since none of us are familiar with Mordrun Bal, it’s going to take time to find the entrance into the volcano. Kill only the Goblins that are in our way. We can’t afford to fight the entire garrison. In and out. I want to be riding away by dawn. Who’s taking first watch?”

“I got it,” Cron volunteered.

“Everyone else get some rest. It’s going to be a busy night.”

Krek smiled impatiently. Finally, they were getting somewhere.

“You should be sleeping,” Cron whispered when he heard Kialla creeping towards his position.

She pulled even with him and watched the dwindling activity in the Goblin town. “How can I possibly sleep?”

“A soldier learns to take sleep where he can get it. There’s no point worrying over what may or may not happen. You do what you can with the circumstances you’re given.”

Kialla whispered, “You’re not scared?”

“What would be the point? We live and we die. Some of us are fortunate enough to choose the manner of our demise. I chose to come on this journey. I may not be looking forward to dying here, but if I must, what choice have I?”

She took hold of his hand and squeezed. “Please don’t get killed.”

“I’ll try not to, love.”

Kialla let out a slow breath and watched with him.

Fitch couldn’t sleep either. He tossed and turned in the arid environment. More than anything he wanted to escape. To run away and never look back. It wasn’t hard. He’d abandoned people before. The shame of that moment weighed heavily on his soul. He wasn’t sure what would happen when the sun went down, but Fitch spent the rest of the day trying to find the measure of his courage.

Krek, Grelic, and Dakeb were fast asleep. The young bull snored lightly. Pregen lay on his back staring up blankly. Ibram meditated off to the side. All of his doubts and deepest desires clashed together in a bitter struggle for domination. He secretly wondered which man was going to show up tonight. He’d been found wanting before and was more than determined not to let that happen again. Ibram wasn’t a monk, nor was he a warrior or a shade of a Mage. He was confused and afraid. So much had happened since Father Seldis took him to the king’s gardens and had him join the quest. Grelic showed him how to fight. He’d killed. Dakeb taught him the beginnings of magic yet he remained untested. The enemy facing them was filled with battle-hardened murderers who wouldn’t give a thought to killing him. Ibram searched the depths of his inner conscience for peace.

“Don’t worry yourself, young Ibram,” Dakeb soothed once Ibram opened his eyes.

Ibram stared off into the withered stalks of brown-yellow grass. “That’s easy for you to say. You’ve been using your magic for hundreds of years. I didn’t even know I was like you until a few weeks ago.”

“You’re very glum for one so young. I suppose I might have been so when I was your age, but times were definitely better. If only you had seen the world then, Ibram. Still, be happy for what you have. Rejoice in the gift of magic, for it is a thing so few of us have.”

Ibram shot the prone Mage a mistrusting look. “More like a curse.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Look at what the world has become since the war,” Ibram answered, instantly regretting the venom in his voice. “I…I didn’t mean…”

Dakeb ignored the comment, knowing Ibram was merely venting frustration. “This is true, but think on this. Magic was largely responsible for the creation of the crystal. Men were responsible for corruption and greed that went into it. How much better have the rulers in Malweir tried making this world? War. Famine. Plague. Alliances shift as easily as the winds in this age. The Mage War may have started it, but we have been in decline ever since.”

“If you could, would you return the world to the golden age?” Ibram asked.

“With degrees of modification. Those were glorious days when all races felt at ease with each other. You could travel from one coast to the next and not suffer assault. We, as a civilization, have digressed into a near barbaric state. I would see Malweir regain its lost prosperity, if only for a while.”

Ibram shook his head in doubt. “I don’t understand. What assurance is there that any new order won’t recreate the same horrible mistakes? The crystal is the root of evil, Dakeb. What can a new order of Mages accomplish in the face of that?”

“There you are wrong, my young friend. The crystal in itself is far from evil, but it is the manifestation of the malice and cruelty in the hearts of men. We cannot change who we fundamentally are or what lies within us.”

“You make it sound as if there is no hope either direction we seek,” he replied sadly.

“Hope is often what we make of it. Imagine what I have gone through, all of the grief and misery of losing my friends. My world. Seeing everything I knew dissolve down the paths of war. All I cherished is naught but fading memory and has been for centuries. Look into my soul and learn the definition of what it means to truly be alone.”

Ibram thought on that for a moment. The sun was just past late afternoon and starting to set. “Is there any hope?”

Dakeb smiled warmly. “There is always hope. No matter how dark the night gets, there is always hope.”

* * * * *

Faeldrin stood atop the highest tower looking down over the ruined expanse of the Deadlands. He’d never seen such a waste and secretly hoped he never had to again. Elves and the Pell Darga were busy turning the Goblin fortress into a defensive bastion from the coming assault. He already noticed vast improvement. That was good, because time was running out. The cloud of dust first spied by scouts near midday drew steadily onward. The Goblins would be here soon.

The sun was already setting and would soon be hidden behind the twisted Darkwall Mountains. Faeldrin enjoyed what little warmth remained. He had no illusions as to what the dawn offered, supposing the Goblin host continued to march throughout the night. His thoughts turned towards Grelic and the ragtag group of men pushing deeper into this nightmare. It suddenly occurred to him that he taken the better end of the spear.

Regret and Tribulation

The moon rose orange, haunting the rooftops of Kelis Dur. Dusty clouds turned the sky into a vision of despair. Those with faint hearts locked their doors and bolted the shutters. Many prayed for the night to pass. It was the day after the assassination attempt on the king and rumors ran wild. Guards and soldiers patrolled the streets, but even they held fear in their eyes.

Inns closed early for fear of dark assassins regrouping to finish their task. People whispered of a renegade army camped outside the walls. These were ill days if men tried to murder kings. A few of the seedier taverns remained open. Their doors seldom closed and rarely had patrons of quality. There was healthy profit to be made under the blanket of gripping fear. People needed an outlet. Rich and poor alike crowded the taverns on what many referred to as the Demon’s Night.

King Rentor lacked the desire to drink. He watched the darkness of his city from the balcony to his private chambers. Sorrow crossed his features. His eyes were red, puffy. His beard still smelled of dried blood and bile. Worried creases aged his face far more than his sixty odd years. He’d never felt so alone but took a measure of comfort with his wife being far away to the south. What he needed was advisors. The loss of Father Seldis had been severe and left him with a hollow place in his psyche. So much ill had been done he feared it would never be undone.

It was a ridiculous notion. He had little control of tomorrow; much less the present, no matter how well developed he schemed. Even a king still fell prey to the vagaries of Fate. Surviving the assassination was bittersweet. He’d beaten Codel’s plans but now lacked a true confidant capable of steering him in the proper direction. Worse, he now lacked insight into the enemy’s camp. To make matters worse, Codel had disappeared. He closed his eyes and recalled the last conversation he’d had with his wife before sending her south.

“We can’t control what happens to us. All we have is our lives to lead as well as possible. Evil will always be around, waiting for a misstep. Good is in our hearts, love. For that we need to be grateful. So long as purity beats within us there will always be a chance,” Melena said as she ran her hand gently down his back.

He sniffed back on the mucus clogging his nose. “Your words would lend me courage were it not for the horrors reaching my ears. Never before have such nightmares walked our kingdom.”

She offered her husband a hand towel to blow his nose and kissed his cheek. “Those things we can’t control. I would do anything to help you get through this, Rentor, but you must remain strong. For all of us. Gossip chokes our people. The maids whisper of leaving for the south and people speak of ill creatures stalking the land.”

“Aye dearest. The vilest creatures one could conceive. I should have listened to Father Seldis more closely. Perhaps we wouldn’t be mired in such a mess.”

Rentor closed his eyes, trying to recall a time before the hardship. He saw only bad things barreling towards him. The world seemed full of promise when he was a boy, leading him to wonder what went wrong. His father was well liked and as good a monarch as lean times permitted. Rentor all but emulated the man. Yearly festivals in his honor brightened the population. A statue of the late king riding a horse decorated the central fountain square. It had cost a small fortune and no bit of convincing to get the Dwarven craftsmen to come up from their mountain haunts to build it.

All of that was behind him now. If anything, Rentor ruled a shadow kingdom. Devoid of mirth, Thrae had fallen under evil’s sway. He felt desperate to stop the rot from spreading further. All was not lost. Somewhere in the wild were two groups of his most trusted people. Grelic and his small band of heroes moved closer to the heart of darkness. Rentor could hardly believe it when the Elven mercenary rode into his city and told their strange tale of Mages, dragons, and Elves. Word came at last that Cron still lived and was about to battle alongside Grelic. The king couldn’t believe his good fortune. His best captain lived, but until the insurrection ended Rentor couldn’t let anyone know. Could the tale grow any stranger? Rentor wished them the best and offered prayers to Harr, there being little else he could do.

His heavy brow furrowed at the conflicting thoughts playing havoc in his mind. The notion of an army of traitors awaiting on the edge of the surrounding forest irritated him to great ends. Codel Mres, once his staunchest friend, had turned rogue and now disappeared. Thousands of soldiers were with General Huor. The portly general had never been an overly brave man, making his actions irrational. Rentor spent hours trying to discern some purpose behind this insurrection. Neither man seemed the rebellious sort. Someone or something was fueling their aggressions. But who? He had no answers.

Not wanting to spent useless hours trying to grasp his dilemma, Rentor went to bed. Sleep was long in coming and did not last long. He was awoken shortly after dawn by hurried pounding on the door. Groaning, he opened one eye. The bright light seemed unnatural, as if it held personal vendetta. He wondered if this was an omen. There was an almost unknown quality of warmth in the air. Surely doom would not come upon them on such a glorious morning? The pounding grew more insistent. Rentor reluctantly swung from the comforts of his bed and stalked to the door. The look on his face was one of his meanest.

“This had best be good, Sergeant,” he growled.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, the sergeant replied, “Sire, a rider approaches the main gates. He carries the white flag of surrender.”

* * * * *

“Report,” Maen said. It was all he could do to keep the apprehension from his voice. This was the most dangerous time. He’d bested the rebellion and taken the rogue General Huor into custody. There was no way the king or any of his advisors could know that yet. Maen was faced with a most dangerous proposition. If Rentor suspected a trap, any messenger sent to Kelis Dur would be run down without a word spoken. The same would be true if he rode back in force. He hated waiting and such decisions were often above him. For the thousandth time he wished his brother was here. Cron would know exactly what to do.

Notam fought back a ragged smile born from a decided lack of sleep. “The gates are open. King Rentor will come meet you outside the portcullis. Once he’s satisfied that we are who we say he’ll order his archers to stand down.”

“I don’t like this. We’re taking a horrible risk. Too much can go wrong,” Maen replied dejectedly.

“Like it or not, we’re at war. This may be the only opportunity we have to save Thrae,” Notam said. He’d been through too much to worry over discrepancies of conviction. What troubled him was Cron’s disappearance. He had an ill feeling about his friend.

Field Commander Whorl watched the camp for a moment, casually scratching his scar. “Notam speaks the truth. We cannot fault the king for any misgivings towards the enemy. This is the only way.”

Maen slammed a fist on the frail wooden table. “Damnation. He sent us on this quest. Why should he not trust us now? I wish Father Seldis were around.”

“Rentor can’t afford to trust us for the same reasons he needed to doubt Huor or the minister. Face it, this is the only way,” Notam urged with a scowl.

Maen was much like his brother but lacked the same decisiveness Cron bore.

“Fine. This is what we’ll do. Have Huor bound and thrown on a horse. He rides right behind the command group. Bring one hundred men along as escorts. When the way is clear we’ll send a message back to the others to bring in the prisoners. It is for the king to decide what to do with them. Tie them tightly and make sure they feel the full effect of their shame.”

“Do you really think this will work?” he asked in a more subtle voice.

Notam snorted. “We’ll soon find out.”

Maen nodded. That would have to do. “Ready the men. We leave in one hour.”

The midday sun over Kelis Dur was bright and hot. Citizens emerged from the relative security of their homes to stare in amazement. Weeks of heavy clouds full of disease were suddenly washed away. Archers and king’s guards rushed to the walls and took up firing positions. Despite being warned away by constables, the people thronged to the gates and walls to catch a glimpse of the traitor general. Rentor didn’t bother suppressing rumors from sweeping the city. The people needed something to feel good about. The blanket of oppression was too heavy, pushing many to the breaking point.

He took his place at the front of a small column and waited. Rentor had trouble believing it was actually Notam who’d delivered the message. After losing one of his dearest friends and higher ranking officers, he was uneasy trusting anyone. The sword dangling from his hip was comforting. It reminded him of days gone by when he was strong. Ruefully, he marched with final purpose.

“Sire, the delegation is formed up and waiting outside of the city,” the Sergeant of the Watch reported with a crisp salute.

Rentor nodded. “How far do they stand?”

“Still within arrow range.”

“Open the gates,” Rentor ordered.

“Aye, sire. Open the gates! Come on lads, put your backs into it.”

The iron portcullis ground open. Crafted centuries before to protect the people from the ravaging bands of marauders, the gates were a proud representation of what men could achieve when times grew dire. Rentor never dreamed they would someday protect them from his own army. He signaled the party forward with a nod.

Banners shuffled in the light breeze, funneling tensions across the open plain. Six riders calmly sat atop their horses waiting for the king’s party. Rentor halted a handful of paces and forced his gaze away from the bound and gagged figure of Huor. Every instinct he had wanted to run the man through with as many swords as he could grab. Instead he focused on Maen and Notam.

The young Major saluted and made his formal report. “Sire, the enemy army has been neutralized. Thrae is free to return to normal affairs. All of Huor’s senior leadership is either dead or captured and we present Huor to you.”

“Major, you have done your kingdom a great service,” Rentor said tersely. The measure of mistrust hardly tainted his voice. He turned to Huor. “You will be tried and executed publicly, Huor. Should the judge deem you guilty, of course. Sergeant, take this filth to the dungeons.”

Huor glared menacingly and struggled against his bonds. Maen went on to describe the battle and Field Commander Whorl brought forth maps and troop dispositions for the both armies. None of it made sense to the beleaguered king. Whatever foul designs Codel and his underlings had in mind for Thrae seemed effectively dealt with. Now all rested on Grelic and a handful of the oddest assortment of companions he could imagine.

By nightfall Huor swung from the gibbet. It wasn’t long before the crows came.