Dragon Sword: Demon's Fire Book 1

by Christopher Patterson

  “The greater good,” Belisarius said. “A small evil for the greater good.”

  Spoken like a true politician. Darius glared at the former soldier, hard and cold, a moment of hatred in his eyes. But he knew his words were the truth. There was no other way.

  “He must be stopped,” King Agempi said. “This man from Western Háthgolthane. And Golgolithul. And this King Bu. You know what must be done, Darius.”

  “The Atrimus are on their way to Hámon and the farmlands of Western Háthgolthane,” the General Lord Marshall said with a bow and began to turn to leave.

  “Let me know if you hear anything else from our informant in Fen-Stévock,” King Agempi said.

  Darius stopped and gave a half-turn to face the king again.

  “I don’t think I will, Your Majesty,” Darius replied. “We haven’t heard from him in a while. I believe he has been discovered.”

  “The gods be merciful to him,” King Agempi said. “His death will not be quick.”

  “And to his family,” Darius added. “His last message to us told us Golgolithul is mobilizing troops to their northern borders.”

  “When did things get so complicated?” King Agempi asked. “I mean, a dragon? Mobilization of troops? We have had relative peace for more than two hundred years. And now what?”

  “I don’t know, Your Majesty,” Darius said. “Shall I garrison our southern borders as well?”

  King Agempi waited for a while before looking at Darius with hard eyes, giving the General Lord Marshall a quick nod.

  “Make it so.”

  Andragos—the Messenger of the East, the Black Mage, the Steward of Golgolithul, the Harbinger of Death—stood next to the Lord of the East, shadowed by the darkness of the dungeons under the main keep of Fen-Stévock, barely illuminated by floating red balls of magical light. The thick smell of stale blood, sweat, piss, and feces hung in the air, and a film of vaporous fungus covered much of the dungeon’s stone, its spores the descendants of poisonous mold hundreds of years old. There were twenty cells in this dungeon, and the only way to get in and out was a magical portal. There were two such portals, one in the Lord of the East’s quarters and the other in a hidden room in the keep of Fen-Aztûk, the sister city to Golgolithul’s capitol. Magical rods of an ancient metal barred each of the cells without a door. One simply needed to know the magical word to get in and out of a cell, the bars simply disappearing and then reappearing again. Only the worst criminals—traitors, politicians inciting unrest against the Lord of the East, and people who needed to stay quiet—called this place home.

  One such man hung naked from the ceiling of a cell by his hands, his feet just off the ground. Melanius, the Lord of the East’s new mage and advisor, stood just inside the cell, playing the role of inquisitor. Kimber and Krista, the Lord of the East’s two witches, stood just behind Melanius. Blood dripped from the prisoner’s mouth as his chin dipped to his chest. This man was strong, with knotted, lean muscle … once. Now, he was beaten and bruised, little more than an animal, his skin torn and scarred and burned. Before his physical torture, the Lord of the East would have put him through magical torture. He would have crushed organs, only to heal them just to crush them again. Magical heat would have seared the man’s brain, skin, blood even. The Lord of the East, or Melanius, or the witches would have put images in the man’s head, images of his wife dying, being raped, cheating on him, slitting her own throat, murdering their children, anything that would drive someone insane. Andragos knew this was what the man had endured before coming here … because he used to be the one doing it.

  The Lord of the East nodded to Melanius, who, in turn, nodded to the torturer. A large man, his upper torso as bare as his shaved head, took a curved knife to the prisoner’s chest. The naked man lifted his head and screamed, jerking sideways violently as the torturer removed another piece of skin from his body. When the torturer threw the skin to the ground, the prisoner dropped his head again and wept, a low, moaning cry.

  “Speak,” Melanius said, his voice a croaking hiss, “or your wife and children will meet the same fate.”

  Andragos looked over at the smiling Lord of the East. He then looked down at the cell floor and saw a dozen squares of flayed skin; one of them bore ten scarred lines. It was the first piece of skin removed from the man’s body, a symbol of his service to Golgolithul’s army. The second piece of skin to be removed was a tattoo on his chest, one of a black gauntlet gripping a red fletched arrow, a symbol of his service as the Lord of the East’s personal guard. Andragos frowned.

  “You don’t approve,” the Lord of the East said.

  Andragos steeled his resolve and met the Lord of the East gaze for gaze.

  “He is a traitor,” Andragos replied. “He deserves this and more.”

  Andragos tried to believe his own words, but something in his chest tightened. He had seen such punishment hundreds of times over hundreds of years. He had directed such punishments. And he had no room for traitors and liars, but something about this time, this torture, this man made him frown. It felt wrong.

  Am I growing soft?

  “Very well,” the Lord of the East said with a smile. “But you do understand I must use him as an example. His family. His friends. His acquaintances. Anyone he did business with. They will all meet a similar fate. And then we will see who dares to challenge me. Who dares to spy for lesser men? This man must pay in full for his sins.”

  “Please … no more,” the man whispered through sobs of pain.

  “Perhaps you should have thought of that before making a pact with that incestuous cockroach in the north,” Melanius hissed, a hint of glee in his voice.

  The man cried and screamed as the torturer removed another piece of skin.

  Andragos closed his eyes for a moment. It would take much of his energy, but he wanted to make sure the other four wizards in the room—Melanius, those two bitch witches, and the Lord of the East—couldn’t read his thoughts as he passed a message to the unfortunate prisoner.

  Your family will be safe. I cannot do anything about you or most of your friends, but your family will live.

  The man looked up. His eyes met Andragos’. They were swollen and bruised, barely visible through the tears and blood that covered his face. But at that moment, he smiled. As the executioner removed another piece of skin, he groaned and gritted his teeth, but he did not scream out again. He steeled his resolve and just stared on as the Lord of the East had him executed, piece by piece.

  “I have things to do,” Andragos said.

  “You don’t want to stay and watch this man break?” the Lord of the East asked.

  “He won’t break,” Andragos replied, “and you have tasked me with the rebuilding of South Gate. It has proven an arduous task. Besides, I have seen such things more times than I can count. They all end the same.”

  “Very well, then,” the Lord of the East said.

  Andragos snapped his finger and appeared in the main hall of the Fen-Stévock’s keep. Raktas and Terradyn, his two personal guards for the last hundred years, were there to meet him, and they followed him as he left the keep and met his own elite soldiers—the Soldiers of the Eye—in the courtyard. After a few words, Andragos and his guards stepped into a dark carriage that was quiet as it rolled away.

  “Find Ja Sin’s family,” Andragos commanded, “and escort them to safety. The Lord of the East means to flay his wife and his little daughters and sons for his iniquities. I shouldn’t care, but I cannot let that happen.”

  “Where should we take them?” Terradyn asked. “Surely, the Lord of the East will be coming for them soon.”

  “Take them to my cottage,” Andragos said, his voice hard and his face dark. “They will stay there for a while, and then I will find a suitable place for them to live. Did Ja Sin have close friends?”

  For the last two years, Ja Sin had been a high-ranking officer in the Lord of the East’s personal guard. He was a powerful warrior, a dynamic leader, and a spy fo
r Gol-Durathna. The Lord of the East couldn’t prove it, but they knew he was. And he was willing to face his punishment with head held high. But to punish his family … Andragos shook his head. A hundred years ago, he wouldn’t have cared, but the increasing cruelty of the Lord of the East began to weigh on him. He grew tired as much as the Lord’s actions became pointless.

  “Yes, my lord,” Raktas replied.

  “We cannot save them all,” Andragos said, “but we can save some.”

  “What is happening, my lord?” Terradyn asked.

  Andragos didn’t answer. Then he looked at his two guards, confidants, friends … if they could be called that.

  “Are you with me?” Andragos asked.

  “To the death,” they replied in unison.

  “Just be ready,” Andragos said.

  “My lord,” Raktas said.

  “Yes.”

  “We have found our own spy,” Raktas continued. “A man who has infiltrated the Soldiers of the Eye.”

  “Truly?” Andragos asked.

  “Yes, my lord,” Raktas replied.

  “Another spy for Gol-Durathna?” Andragos asked.

  “No, my lord,” Raktas replied. “For the late Patûk Al’Banan.”

  “Does he now spy for this Bu Al’Banan?” Andragos asked.

  “I don’t know, my lord,” Raktas replied.

  “Bring him to me,” Andragos said, “unscathed. And hurry with Ja Sin’s family.”

  Both men bowed.

  2

  Towards the end of the summer, early mornings on the Eleodum farm were cool. The new sunlight glistened off the dew that collected nightly on the grass and wheat and corn stalks of the farm. A rooster’s crow signified the beginning of the day and, as if in response to the rooster’s morning call, the low moaning of cows echoed through the farm.

  Erik Eleodum smiled as he put his left hand on his hip, breathing heavily. The rising sun, so slow at first, barely a sliver of light peeking over the eastern horizon, dared to rise more and more, its light causing the wheat of his farm to glow as if he had planted golden thread. Life … this was what life looked like. The world around him celebrated the bounty of the land, the perfection of the Creator’s work in nature stood better than all the treasures of the lost dwarvish city of Orvencrest, greater than the work of the most skilled artisans.

  As he twisted it in his hand, the rising sun glimmered off Ilken’s Blade, his sword, a gift from a dwarf named Ilken Copper Head, one of the most renowned blacksmiths from the dwarvish city and capitol of Drüum Balmdüukr, Thorakest. He smiled again. He trained every morning and, occasionally, in the evening. As he did so—sometimes alone and sometimes with his cousin, Bryon, or his dwarvish friend, Turk—his movements felt fluid and precise. They were a part of him, second nature now buried deep in his subconscious. As he walked or used his arms without real conscious thought, his blade was simply an extension of the movements, his body a weapon in itself.

  “Thank you, Wrothgard,” Erik said, pretending his friend was still right next to him. Once a soldier of Golgolithul, an Eastern Guardsman, who had become a mercenary, Wrothgard had trained Erik, but he was gone, having run away from further duty to the east and Golgolithul’s ruler, the Lord of the East. Erik hoped he was safe, wherever he was.

  Erik walked over to a towel that hung on a wooden fence and used it to wipe the sweat from his face and the ever-growing muscles of his chest and arms. Each day he trained, he grew stronger and his muscles bigger. Growing up on a farm, he was always stronger than most, but now, when he did work on his farm, he could do the work of two men. He didn’t grow up to be a soldier, or a warrior, or a wielder of any weapon for that matter; he thought he was going to be a farmer. He grew up wanting to be a farmer … and part of him still did. He never wanted fame, notoriety, fortune, or anything like that. But now, they were all his. People called him Erik Friend of Dwarves, Erik Troll Hammer, Erik Wolf’s Bane, Erik Champion of the East … but mostly, they called him Erik Dragon Slayer.

  He didn’t really slay a dragon; she was still out there, licking her wounds and biding her time. He simply fended her off as she laid waste to the southern portion of Fen-Stévock—simply called South Gate. He dispelled her with an ancient scroll containing an even more ancient spell he had found in the lost city of Orvencrest. He saw her—the dragon—often, in his dreams. She was there, as were the dead … always the dead. They could hurt him in his dreams, but he could hurt them as well—destroy them. He could hear her at times, too. She cursed him in his mind. He sensed her, somewhere, out there. Gooseflesh rose on his arms as he thought of a question that plagued his mind every day: If he could feel and sense her, could she sense him? Most likely. She was as powerful as the greatest wizard and wielded magic more potent than Andragos could conjure up.

  Putting his towel back on the fence post and pulling his shirt over his head, Erik watched the sun rise, knowing she was out there in the east, beyond the Giant’s Vein that separated the continents of Háthgolthane and Antolika. She was even further, beyond the Jagged Coast and past the Sea of Knives. Even past the Isutan Isles.

  He slowly turned his head and looked south. They had waited an extra month—he and his cousin and the dwarves. The Lord of the East, ruler of the Eastern Empire—Golgolithul—had commanded them to retrieve the fabled Dragon Sword—described on the same scroll that contained the spell that helped him defeat the dragon—and he gave them a year to do it. That command came two months and some weeks ago. They had agreed to meet at the Eleodum farmstead after a month of rest. When Wrothgard didn’t show after a month, they agreed to wait another month. He still hadn’t shown. Erik knew he wouldn’t, and his heart sank a little even though he smiled at the thought of the eastern soldier. He was a good man, a good warrior, and an even better friend. But he was tired of fighting. He told Erik as much. He needed more than a month to rest. He needed a lifetime.

  Wrothgard had told Erik he probably wouldn’t meet them. It would mean his death because failure in service to the Lord of the East meant death. But Wrothgard didn’t care. He was going to take his chances. In the coastal city of Finlo, the desert continent of Wüsten Sahil maybe, or maybe even further. If the Lord of the East sent assassins after him, and they did find him, at least he would die a free man.

  With the thought of the Dragon Sword, Erik looked to the north and the looming Gray Mountains, gigantic along the northern horizon even though they were a long way away. He had grown up in the shadow of those mountains, always wondering what they truly looked like, never thinking he would get to find out. On bright, sunny days such as this, they didn’t look so formidable, serene almost, painting a pleasant backdrop to the northern horizon. But on cloudy or stormy days, when the mist hung low, those mountains were the stuff of shadows … of the Shadow.

  In his youth’s mind’s eye, the worst kind of monsters lived in those mountains, which seemed to be huge, evil creatures in themselves, especially the two tall peaks simply referred to since his childhood as The Fangs. Erik gave a mirthless smile. The honesty … the truth of youth. Now it was time. He would leave his parents again, his home, his wife—Simone—for some fool’s journey he didn’t care about. Erik sighed. It would be a long day. He had a lot of work to do.

  Erik pushed on through the darkness, feeling the crunch of twigs and pine needles beneath his feet. The sound broke the silence of the night as the cold numbed his face, but he kept moving, pushed branches out of his way that sought to peck at his face like hungry birds. He could barely see in front of him, the moon hidden by black clouds, and what he could see appeared as ghostly silhouettes. He shivered. He rubbed his palm on the pommel of Ilken’s Blade. Knowing his sword was there gave him a little comfort … but not much. Not in this place.

  Erik finally pushed past the last tree and edged slowly into a small clearing. He remembered this place; it was a long time ago. This place was from a dream he once had—now he was dreaming again. His dreams were always so vivid, so real it was hard
to differentiate this Dream World from reality, but he spent so much time here—every night for long periods—and he could tell the difference now. Normally, the undead were there, waiting. They hadn’t been, in a while, though, not since he had destroyed Fox. Fox was a fiery haired slaver he had killed. The man’s master, a slaver named Kehl and hailing from Saman—northern most city in Wüsten Sahil—had tried to enslave Erik, his brother, and his cousin, but they failed and many of them died, along with Fox.

  For some reason, the dead had elected Fox as their leader. He was anything but in life. And no matter how many times Erik killed the man in his dreams, he would always come back … except for the last time. Now he was gone forever, his deathly form dispatched into oblivion when Erik struck him with Ilken’s Blade. Since then, his dreams had been of a vast grassland and a single hill topped by a large, weeping willow. A man sat under that tree, a man Erik knew but could never remember from where or what his name was. And in his dreams, he would sit and talk with the man and wake refreshed, next to his wife, Simone.

  That had been his dreams since he came home, but now, on the eve of his departure once again, things had changed. He was in a dark place he had only been to once before. Before, in stark contrast to the darkness of the surrounding forest, there had been a fire blazing in the center of the clearing, and a cloaked man had stood warming his hands. He was a mysterious and powerful man, and just the one time, Erik had peered into the man’s hood and he had seen every face he had come across in his life, one after the other like the flicked pages of a book. Erik knew he was more than a man, something otherworldly.

  In dreams past, the hooded man had led the dead to a golden carriage that would carry them away to heaven, or so Erik presumed. The man had also denied men access to the carriage, those such as Fox and the other slavers. The man had made Erik feel powerful, like he had control in this dream world. It was because of that man that he was able to walk in his dreams unafraid.