“Silence!” the Lord of the East shouted, and the walls shook with his voice. “Andragos, did you not instruct them in the etiquette of my court?”
“I did, Your Majesty,” Andragos said with a quick bow.
“Clearly, they do not listen very well,” the Lord of the East said.
“Please, Your Majesty …” Wrothgard began to say, but this time, the women on either side of the Lord of the East held up their right hands. Wrothgard’s voice stopped, and his face turned red, and then blue, as he struggled to breathe.
“Do you mean to explain to me what I already know?” the Lord of the East said. “Do you wish to explain to me that you lost that which you were commissioned to find? That a traitor among your ranks stole it and gave it to that defector Patûk Al’Banan? Or do you mean to tell me that you, by losing the Dragon Scroll and allowing Patûk Al’Banan to read from it, have brought a dragon down upon my city? Do you mean to tell me that the total destruction of South Gate and the lost lives of both my citizens and my soldiers are your fault?”
“I saved your city,” Erik said.
The Lord of the East’s women released his magical grip on Wrothgard. The man crumpled to the ground as the Lord of the East’s glare bored into Erik. He felt a sharp pain in the back of his head and couldn’t help feeling as if someone else was inside his mind. He felt heat burn through his body but stood resolute nonetheless.
The Lord of the East looked to Wrothgard.
“Stand!” he yelled.
Wrothgard stood quickly, even though his legs were still shaky, and he was having trouble breathing. The Lord of the East stepped halfway down the stairs that led to the platform on which his throne sat and fixed his eyes on Erik’s
“If you had done your job,” the Lord of the East said, “then you wouldn’t have needed to save my city.”
Erik just stood there and waited. Would the Lord of the East strike him down with magic, or would some guard run him through?
The Lord of the East softened his gaze and folded his hands behind his back.
“How is it you were able to read what was on the scroll?” the Lord of the East asked.
“When I opened it,” Erik replied, “the ink began to move on the parchment until it was letters I could read and pronounce.”
“Interesting,” the Lord of the East said, looking down at Erik over his nose. “And what was this weapon you wielded to injure the creature? I only know of one blade that can harm a dragon.”
Erik thought for a moment, but not too hard. He once again felt someone else inside his head, and then he couldn’t help seeing the eyes of the two women who had stood next to the Lord of the East. They glowed, ever so faintly. They were trying to read his thoughts, but he wanted to protect—to save—his dagger.
“An elvish blade, Your Majesty,” Erik lied, hoping Bryon would forgive him.
“An elvish blade?” questioned the Lord of the East. “Andragos, have you ever heard of an elvish blade being able to harm a dragon?”
Erik looked to Andragos. The Black Mage’s face was unmoving.
“If it is a weapon from the Elvish Wars, then perhaps,” the Messenger said. “The elves constructed many mighty weapons during those times.”
The Lord of the East stared at Erik.
“Where would you have gotten such a mighty weapon, just a farmer turned porter?” the Lord of the East asked.
“My … I found it,” Erik replied, “on another mercenary that we killed.”
“And how did you know it was an elvish blade?” the Lord of the East asked.
Erik didn’t answer at first, and when he opened his mouth, the Lord of the East stopped him.
“Thorakest,” he said, a mirthless smile on his face. “King Skella and his dwarves told you, didn’t they?”
Erik nodded.
“And this is the blade you used to stave off the dragon?” he asked.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Erik replied.
The Lord of the East looked beyond the mercenaries and nodded. A guard approached the dais, both of Erik’s swords in hand. He bowed and offered them to the Lord of the East. The emperor took them, first unsheathing Bryon’s elvish sword. Erik noticed that, as the Lord of the East held the weapon, the blade seemed to dim and barely gave the slightest hint of purple glow.
“This doesn’t seem that special,” the Lord of the East said, “although I can feel its magic. This is the weapon you used against the dragon?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Do not lie to me,” he added.
“I’m not,” Erik replied, desperately trying to think of what he said as the truth.
The Lord of the East sheathed the elvish sword and then drew Ilken’s Blade, inspecting it in the light the windows of the hall allowed in.
“Dwarf’s Iron,” the Lord of the East said. “Did you claim this off of a dead adversary as well. Or are you such a friend of the dwarves that they made this for you?”
“It was made for me, Your Majesty,” Erik replied.
“Ilken Copper Head,” the Lord of the East said, looking at the runes on the blade. “A fine craftsman.”
Sheathing Ilken’s Blade, the Lord of the East nodded to the same guard. The soldier retrieved the blades from his master and promptly offered them to Erik.
“You obviously know that this scroll,” the Lord of the East said, opening his hand and conjuring the scroll case to appear in his palm, “is no family heirloom or script of lineage. It is known as the Dragon Scroll. It is a powerful weapon. My first inclination when I discovered the scroll had been read was to have you all flayed alive if you ever dared return it to me … but you stole it back, risked and lost lives, and did return it to me. For this, I am grateful. Your disobedience should award you death, but your loyalty, I think, has offset that.”
“Thank you …” Wrothgard began to say, but a hard look from the Lord of the East quieted him.
“Do not thank me yet,” the Lord of the East said. “In order to clear your name, I have another task for you.”
“Your Majesty,” Turk said.
“This is not a request,” the Lord of the East said, stepping down several more steps. “This is a command. And I care not whether you come from Golgolithul, the free lands of Western Háthgolthane, or the realm of Drüum Balmdüukr. Refusal will result in a painful, slow death.”
All four mercenaries bowed. What choice did they have? The hands of the Lord of the East could reach them wherever they went. And if they could escape his grip, what of their families?
The Lord of the East walked back up to the top of the platform and conferred with the two women. As he did, Erik couldn’t help noticing a look of irritation cross Andragos’ face.
“Part of this scroll is an incantation,” the Lord of the East explained, “and part of it is a map.”
A small space parted in the purple curtain that hung down on the dais, and an old man with tanned skin, scraggly, white wisps for a beard, almond shaped eyes, and a crooked back emerged. He wore a heavy black robe that covered both his hands and feet, but Erik could hear shuffling as he walked to the Lord of the East.
Andragos’ eyes widened, and the look of irritation on his face grew to one of anger. He glared at the old man with contempt.
“Your Majesty,” Andragos said.
The Lord of the East shot the Messenger a hard look and the Black Mage backed up a step.
“I know what I am doing,” the Lord of the East said.
Some internal quarrel between the two most powerful men of Golgolithul? Erik thought.
“Melanius here has studied the map,” the Lord of the East said. “There is a second and a third piece to this puzzle that is the Dragon Scroll. As you saw, Erik Eleodum, the incantation on the scroll has enough power by itself to subdue the dragon—any dragon—for a time, but eventually the spell wears off. To truly harm the dragon, one must wield the Dragon Sword and to completely subjugate the dragon and control it, one must wear the Dragon Crown. It seems
that the ancient dwarves separated these pieces. To what end, I do not know. Can you imagine, the ability to control a dragon?”
The Lord of the East seemed to trail off in his own thoughts for a moment, staring into nothing, thinking of all the possibilities a ruler could think of if they controlled a dragon. As he did, Erik remembered his dagger. That, so far, had been the only thing that could harm this dragon. And then, the Lord of the East looked back at the mercenaries.
“The empires of this world encroach onto Háthgolthane, and no one is willing to stand against them. Enemies from Wüsten Sahil, Nothgolthane, Antolika, even farther east and to the south, see the treasure that is Háthgolthane,” the Lord of the East said. “Not Gol-Durathna or Gol-Nornor, not Drüum Balmdüukr or Thrak Baldüukr, not Hámon or Nordeth or Southland. Only I am willing to spill my countrymen’s blood to stem the tide of invaders. To wield such a weapon would stop these invasions.”
“You will find the Dragon Sword,” the Lord of the East continued, “and return it to me. As payment, I will not only let you live, but I will make you heroes of the east.”
“And what about the Dragon Crown?” Erik asked.
“You will let me worry about that piece,” the Lord of the East said, “but it is a more complicated task. The sword is hidden away in the Keep of Fealmynster, north of the Gray Mountains. It is guarded by a powerful wizard, once a citizen of Gol-Durathna, now since exiled for his dabbling in the darkest of magic. As we have discovered through exhaustive research, you need a key to enter Fealmynster. The map leads to Fealmynster, but without the key, the map is useless.”
“How do we find the key?” Erik asked.
“You will meet one of my agents in a town called Eldmanor in two months,” the Lord of the East said. “Are you familiar with it?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Erik replied.
“By that time, we should know where to find this key,” the Lord of the East said. “Once you find the key, travel to Fealmynster, and you will retrieve the sword and bring it to me. Should you fail … well …”
The Lord of the East just stared at the mercenaries.
“We understand,” Erik said.
“It is the middle of summer,” the Lord of the East said. “You have until the end of the next summer to return with the Dragon Sword before I assume you have all died, and I send soldiers to kill your families … even in the confines of Thorakest. I have assassins everywhere. My agent will travel with you, as well. Should you deviate on your journey, my agent will kill you and then torture your family.”
“How will we know who your agent is?” Erik asked.
“You’ll know when you see him,” the Lord of the East said.
The Lord of the East looked to the two women and the old man who had joined him on the dais, and they turned to the great purple curtain that hung from the ceiling. Two men—at least, Erik assumed they were men—clad in heavy black robes from hood to foot, appeared from behind the curtain and pulled it aside, just enough so that the Lord of the East and the other three with him could pass through. As the curtain opened, it seemed that darkness spilled out, as light might spill through an opening when the door of a brightly lit inn was opened. Erik tried to peer into the darkness, to see what was on the other side of the curtain, but it was so dark, the shadows looked to swallow up the Ruler of Golgolithul.
“Come, follow me,” Andragos said, and the mercenaries did as they were told.
As they followed the Messenger of the East out of the keep, Erik heard a voice in his head. It was the Lord of the East’s, clear and succinct.
Do not fail me, Erik, for if you do, I will be waiting for you … even in the deepest, darkest places.
Chapter 49
“They wouldn’t even let me bury his body,” Turk said, his eyes red-rimmed as they followed the Messenger of the East and his Soldiers of the Eye through the city of Fen-Stévock.
Nafer put his arm around Turk as they walked at a brisk pace, everyone moving out of the way for the entourage of soldiers. Fen-Stévock was so expansive, this part of the city—along its northern edges—looked as if nothing had happened just a day before, and everyone had almost forgotten that Demik was gone, dead by the spear of a froksman.
“He’s still out there, Nafer,” Turk said, “lying on the ground, thrown to the side like trash. How many people—how many of our people—has this country thrown away like trash.”
“Careful with your words, dwarf,” the Messenger said, understanding them even though they spoke in their native language. “You are still in that country … and that country has ears everywhere.”
Turk didn’t care. His friend was gone having given his life for Erik, and Turk turned to look at the man he now called a friend. Erik looked worn but hard, certainly not the same young man he had met in Dûrn Tor. It wasn’t that his beard or hair was longer, or that his muscles were bigger. No. He wore a look of resolution and determination. He had seen so much death, like all of them, killed so many men, lost so much. They were all different. And for a moment, Turk didn’t think of Demik and thought of their new journey.
He could steal away to Thorakest, and King Skella would protect him. He could live the rest of his life in safety, comfort, and as a hero to his people. He and Nafer. But then, what honor would that bring? How would he serve the memory of his father that way? And what of the dwomanni, or Fréden Fréwin? Was he so cowardly that he would live out his life in safety—if that were even possible anymore in this world—only to leave his children to suffer the evils that had started to spread?
He would not leave Erik, and he would honor Demik. His friend gave his life for this man, so he would follow him, even to the northernmost reaches of the world, past the Gray Mountains. Then, as they passed through the Gate House of North Gate, Turk saw something out of the corner of his eye. It was a familiar face, but one he hadn’t seen in months. It must have been his imagination. There was word he had joined the traitor mayor Fréden Fréwin, but there was no way Belvengar Long Spear would find himself back in Golgolithul.
With Soldiers of the Eye marching intently in two lines on either side of them, they passed through Green Glen, Small Hill, and Meadowburg, all suburbs of Fen-Stévock and cities in their own right.
“That is North Hills,” Wrothgard said, pointing to another town situated around a land of rolling hillocks and grasslands. “I used to live there.”
As they passed by North Hills, Turk saw him again—Belvengar. It wasn’t a mirage or his imagination. He was there, behind a building, staring from the shadows. He watched them and must have seen Turk staring back as he slunk deeper into the shadows.
“Are you all right?” Nafer asked, putting his hand on Turk’s shoulder.
“I saw Long Spear,” Turk said.
“What?” Nafer said, exasperated.
“Belvengar,” Turk said. “He was watching us, from behind a building.”
“Long Spear?” Nafer asked. “What is he doing here? He hates the lands of men.”
“I don’t know,” Turk replied. “Keep an eye out for him. As much as he might side with Fréwin, it is not like him to slink in the shadows like some thief.”
Nafer nodded.
“I am glad to be leaving these lands,” Nafer said. “After having been home, I miss it.”
“Aye,” Turk agreed.
“We could go back, you know,” Nafer suggested. “We could ask King Skella to protect us and live the rest of our lives in dwarvish lands.”
“As much as I like the sound of that right now,” Turk said, “I couldn’t with a clear conscience.”
“How do you mean?” Nafer asked.
“I couldn’t leave Erik,” Turk said. “He has become a good friend, and he needs us.”
“I agree,” Nafer said and then, after a pause, added, “I think we need him.”
****
They had passed all of the suburbs of Fen-Stévock, and then the vast farmlands, worked by serfs and peasants destined to a life of servitude,
when the sun started to set. The Messenger stopped his company of men and they stood at attention, waiting for his next command. Erik, Wrothgard, Turk, and Nafer stopped as well, waiting.
“Gods be with you,” the Messenger said.
“An be with you,” Turk replied, his face flat and emotionless.
“I will wait eagerly for your return,” the Messenger said.
“As unlikely as that might be,” Wrothgard muttered.
“You have as good a chance as any,” the Messenger said. “Truth be told, other than sending my five or ten finest soldiers, I believe you four are best suited to the task. I do believe you can be successful.”
“Well, thank you for that, my lord,” Wrothgard said with a bow.
“These lands are well patrolled,” the Messenger said, “so if you choose to camp for the night, you should be relatively safe. If you choose to keep moving, the next village with any sort of semblance of an inn is only a day away.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Wrothgard replied.
“Erik, a word,” the Messenger said as the companions began turning their horses to ride away.
“My lord,” Erik said as the Messenger rode his large, black destrier up to Erik’s horse.
“I wanted to speak with you a bit more,” the Messenger said. “I wanted to speak with you when you first entered Fen-Stévock, but there are times when one must watch who is around him when he speaks.”
Erik scrunched his eyebrows and tilted his head.
“For so many years, Erik,” Andragos explained, “I have been known as the Messenger, the Herald, the Black Mage, the Steward of Golgolithul, that I sometimes forget that my name was … is Andragos. Did you know that before standing in front of the Lord of the East?”
Erik nodded. “King Skella told me … us.”
“King Skella,” Andragos replied, “he is a good ruler.”
“I agree,” Erik said.
“This is a dangerous task before you,” Andragos said. He shook his head, almost a look of disbelief on his face.
“I know,” Erik replied.
“I don’t think you do,” Andragos said.
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