“Simone, did you hear me?” Erik said, his tone stern. “Simone?”
“Yes,” she replied, nodding, weeping, and falling into Erik. “Promise me you’ll come back. Please. Promise me.”
He didn’t want to make a promise he couldn’t keep, but those eyes, the smell of lavender and mint, her soft skin, her tears.
“I promise,” Erik finally said, as his stomach knotted even tighter.
Bryon Eleodum, Erik’s cousin, and Erik loaded supplies onto their horses. Erik’s father had offered them several of his packhorses so that they might carry more, but Erik declined. They were heading into the Gray Mountains, and there would come a time when they would have to let their animals go. They packed bows and spears so they could hunt and extra water skins, as snow would be plentiful the higher they climbed into the mountains, especially with winter on the horizon. Erik frowned as he stuffed bag after bag of dried fruit and meat into the saddlebags. That had been his main source of subsistence for almost two years, after having left his family the first time and traveling with mercenaries and dwarves, and having real food for every meal of every day had spoiled him. Now he would have to get used to jerked meat and dehydrated fruit all over again.
Erik stared at the mountains, looking intently at the two peaks that disappeared into the clouds. The Fangs. He heard the dwarves refer to them as Hora Tesak and his father once, when Erik was young, referred to them as the Voiceless Spires, for all the people who had attempted to travel through them and never come home. Nevertheless, as they rose into the sky, scratching the underbellies of clouds, they looked imposing, even though he really knew nothing about them. He had a general idea about where they were going. The instructions the Lord of the East had given him spoke of the Fangs, traveling north of them and then east. He knew they were looking for an ancient keep named Fealmynster and the instructions mentioned Eldmanor, a small town north of the Eleodum farmstead, standing at the foot of the Gray Mountains. But none of that helped him know what to expect.
“Are you ready, cousin?” Bryon Eleodum asked as he finished loading the supplies onto his horse.
“No,” Erik said with a simple shake of his head.
“I suppose I’m not either,” Bryon replied.
“Where are the dwarves?” Erik asked.
Four dwarves had been staying with them and their families. They were more than just companions and adventuring partners. They were friends. Brothers even. Their own brethren had died for Erik and Bryon. Demik Iron Thorn came to Erik’s mind. He was a ferocious fighter, stubborn dwarf, and a good friend. He had always been suspicious of men, according to the other dwarves with whom Erik had traveled, but Erik had broken down barriers and gave Demik cause to trust, so much so that he taught him Dwarvish and eventually gave his life for Erik.
These dwarves had traveled with Erik and Bryon to the lost dwarvish city of Orvencrest. Despite the Lord of the East being a sworn enemy of the dwarves, they had helped Erik and Bryon recover a powerful weapon for the Ruler of Golgolithul. They bled with them and cried with them and defeated trolls and wolves and a dragon with them. Despite an offer from King Skella, the King of Drüum Balmdüukr—the dwarvish kingdom of the Southern Mountains—to protect them from the Lord of the East and his assassins, the loyalty of these dwarves—Turk, Nafer, Beldar, and Bofim—to Erik and Bryon was so strong, they refused. They denied their own people to walk alongside these men and continue a task commanded by the Emperor of the East.
“I don’t know,” Bryon replied. “They seem to wander off quite a bit. They are rather taken by our farmlands, you know.”
“It makes a difference,” Erik said.
“What does?” Bryon asked.
“Being able to grow your crops in the sun,” Erik replied.
Dwarves built their vast cities underground, in great mountain caverns. One of the greatest dwarvish innovations, and one of the inventions Erik found the most fascinating, were giant mirrors strategically placed throughout tunnels and caverns to reflect the sun’s light onto a dwarvish city, mimicking the sun. It allowed them to grow crops and livestock as if they were on the surface, almost.
“Being from the south, I don’t know if they have ever seen soil this fertile,” Erik said.
“Are we truly leaving without Wrothgard?” Bryon asked for perhaps the fourth time in as many days while their final planning and preparations had taken place.
“He’s not coming, Bryon,” Erik replied, showing no sign of any irritation about his cousin’s persistence. “He’s probably not even in Háthgolthane anymore.”
“Smart man,” Bryon muttered.
“Perhaps,” Erik said.
Erik stared at his parents’ home. His mother stood on the front porch, his sisters—Tia and Beth—clinging to her. Tears streamed down her face. She spoke with his wife, Simone, who held his mother by her elbows and, even though he couldn’t hear her, knew she tried to comfort her. His father was in front of their barn, tending to some of the animals. He had gone about his daily business as if nothing was happening, but when Erik greeted him that morning, his father had red-rimmed eyes. He had been crying.
“We have to go, Erik,” Bryon said. “The longer we wait, the harder it will get.”
“I know,” Erik replied, but he didn’t move.
“Erik,” Bryon said.
Erik nodded.
“Very well.”
“Or do you want to run away?” Bryon asked and his voice was serious. “We could go live in Thorakest, with the dwarves.”
Erik shook his head, although he had thought of the alternative multiple times.
“No. We have to do this. For them, for our families.”
4
Erik didn’t look back. He knew his wife, parents, and sisters were there, behind him, watching and waving, but looking back at them would only make his departure harder. His Uncle Brent was there too, along with his aunt and cousins, all waving and bidding farewell to Bryon. Other people came to see them off, some gathering in front of the Eleodum household and some just gathering along the road leading out of the free farmlands of Northwestern Háthgolthane and to the north. As stoic as Erik tried to seem, he couldn’t help but smile and wave at a few of the people cheering for them, throwing white flowers in their path.
“You would think we were heroes,” Erik said.
“We are,” Turk Skull Crusher replied, “at least, you are.”
“No, I’m not,” Erik said.
“Did you save thousands of people in Golgolithul?” Turk asked.
“Yes,” Erik said.
“And did you return home with more money than the whole of these lands has seen in two hundred years?” Turk asked.
“Yes,” Erik replied.
“And did you give much of your money away,” Turk asked, “to other farmers who were struggling? Even to Farmer Jovek, who I heard you complain about more times than I can count on our travels.”
“Yes,” Erik said with a quick shrug of his shoulders.
“Then, you are a hero,” Turk said, and when Erik began shaking his head, he added, “at least, in their eyes.”
The recent weather had been fairly temperate—warm during the day and cool at night—but as soon as they passed the last farm and a final grove of trees at the edge of the fields, the air carried with it an uncommon chill. It was as if the farms held in all the land’s warmth, and there was none to share in the north. It was windier, and the looming Gray Mountains cast longer shadows. The first night was cold enough for a thin layer of frost to form on the grass, and Bryon built a suitably sized campfire, but despite the flames, the air still had an uncomfortable chilly bite to it.
“Your people are kind,” Nafer said.
On their previous travels, Erik had soon taken the time to learn the Dwarvish language. Bryon, in his stubbornness, refused, but after suffering an injury—a poisonous wound from a dragonling in Orvencrest—he found himself living amongst the dwarves for a time and was forced to also learn their la
nguage. So, now, when they were just around one another, they normally spoke in Dwarvish.
“Normally,” Erik replied.
“At least they don’t harbor any ill will against dwarves,” Beldar said.
“No,” Erik agreed. “Dwarves are not so uncommon in our lands, although those of you I met in Finlo were the first I ever spoke to.”
“That would include Demik,” Nafer said, sadness in his eyes as he spoke the name of one of their fallen friends, Demik Iron Thorn.
Nafer touched the handle of a thick broad sword hanging from his hip, the scabbard covered in ornately worked iron, formed to look like thorny vines scrawling up the leather. It was his friend’s sword, once. The dwarf had given his life for Erik. A lump caught in Erik’s throat as he thought of the dwarvish warrior, stubborn and cantankerous and kind all at once. He didn’t trust men and would watch all the ones they traveled with suspiciously, but he eventually warmed to Erik and Bryon and Befel. And when he recognized they were friends, his true nature showed, a warmed-hearted, kind soul, willing to give his life for a brother in arms, taken by the forked spear of a froksman—a frog-like humanoid.
Nafer later explained this froksman originated from the Shadow Marshes, driven from their lands by both goblins and Golgolithul. Erik hated himself for delighting in the froksman’s later death, consumed by dragon fire. He was, after all, following orders just as they were, trying to retrieve the Dragon Scroll they meant to give to the Lord of the East and bring it to Gol-Durathna. To what end, Erik didn’t know, but perhaps to simply keep such a weapon out of the hands of the Ruler of Golgolithul.
“A toast,” Erik said, and he lifted a cup of water, “to Demik. I know we don’t have wine or ale to give a proper salute, but we miss our friend dearly.”
“Yes,” Nafer said, “a toast to our fallen comrade. May he wait for us and save us a seat in the halls of heaven as he basks in the glory of An.”
They drank, and then they sang, Erik joining in by playing his simple wooden flute, a gift from an old gypsy friend, and the instrument always seemed to give him comfort whenever he needed it. As they played and sang, the bitterness of the cold night faded away and the warmth of the campfire spread. It felt like old times … good times.
When Erik first left his farmstead with his brother and cousin, everything was different and frightening. Most days, thoughts of home consumed his mind and visions of dead parents and imprisoned sisters plagued his dreams, but there were nights, in the company of mercenaries and dwarves, when Erik felt normal, as if he was sitting at his mother’s kitchen table drinking hot tea or fresh-squeezed orange juice. For all the fighting and death and fear and anger and sadness that filled a two year journey from a farm, to a dirty, seaport bar, to a dwarvish city, to the east, and back to the farm, those nights around a campfire, singing and playing the flute and drinking apple rum were good.
Now back on the road, they traveled for three days past the free farmlands of Háthgolthane, each night much the same, singing and playing and remembering before they came to the small town that sat at the foot of the Gray Mountains. They might encounter other outposts and small villages along the way, clusters of homes built and settled by people shying away from the business of cities, but Eldmanor would most likely be the last sign of real civilization before they reached the Keep of Fealmynster. The fabled resting place of the Dragon Sword, and the residence of an old and mad wizard, long ago banished from Gol-Durathna for practicing his dark magic on people, was said to be far away from any other habitation.
Eldmanor was a simple town with little more than a wooden fence for a wall. The streets were dirt, and the homes and buildings were mostly made of timber and turf. A manor house stood off to the east of most of the town, a two-story structure made of stone and surrounded by a stone wall, and a chapel to some local deity stood off to the west, also made of stone and surrounded by a complex of wooden and stone buildings. A tall mill stood next to a small stream running through the town, and several long houses sat towards the center marketplace.
“This place reminds me of Stone’s Throw,” Bryon said.
Erik remembered the little village in which they stayed. It was a place of escape for many of the people who survived a troll attack on the mining camp of Aga Kona, full of superstitious, simple people. Erik and the others had helped the sick and injured while they were there, where he had met a woman, Mari, and her son, Willy. Remembering them put a smile on his face.
I hope you are well, little Willy.
“Yes, I suppose it does,” Erik replied, “maybe a larger version of it. I wonder if this is what it would look like if we returned to Stone’s Throw ten years from now.”
Also as with the town of Waterton, which sat in the center of the Abresi Straits just as Háthgolthane gave way to the wilds of the west and the continent of Nothgolthane, the people of Eldmanor were used to adventurers and travelers, including dwarves, and didn’t even bother to glance at Erik and his companions as they rode down what they presumed to be the main street of the town. An alehouse, a home that had been converted to an inn and tavern, stood between two long houses. Erik looked to Turk, and the dwarf nodded.
The instructions the Lord of the East had given them said they would go to Eldmanor. There was someone in this place who would help direct them to the key that would then lead them to the hidden keep of Fealmynster; supposedly, they would know this messenger when they saw him. But that was it apart from a piece of parchment that appeared to show Fealmynster being north of the Gray Mountains, in a plain of frozen tundra.
The dwarves were much more travel-worn and battle hardy than Erik, but in his short time as an adventurer, he had come to learn that alehouses, taverns, and inns were excellent places to discover mysteries and find out much-coveted information. They tied their horses to a hitching post in front of the building, which looked as if, in a good wind, it might fall down. The smell of animals hit Erik’s nose as soon as they opened the door, and when they looked around, they saw the alehouse shared space with a small stable, two mules eating lazily from buckets hanging from a wooden fence that separated the animals’ space from the eating and sitting area.
“How can anyone eat or drink when all you can smell is chicken manure,” Bryon said, covering his nose and groaning.
Chickens ran about between the legs of the two mules, pecking at the floor and chasing after one another, squawking loudly and a rooster—a large breasted fellow with almost black feathers save for a brown spot on his chest and a large, red topnotch on his head—found a perch atop one of the stable’s fence posts, eyeing Erik and his companions warily. The familiar sounds of pigs oinking filled the air as well, bringing Erik back to a time when his job was to clean pigsties in Venton. Four sows and a hog lounged about in hay that covered the floor, three piglets playing and bugging the adults until the hog grunted and snapped at them, causing them to retreat to a corner of the stable until they regained the courage to harass their elders once again.
Despite sharing space with animals, the sitting area was quite large, with long tables and benches for seats. Only two other people sat on the benches. Two men, looking like typical villagers who may have stopped in for a quick bite to eat or decided to get a drink at the end of a hard and early workday, talked loudly and joked, slapping the table at an especially funny jape. A fireplace sat in the wall opposite the stables, two chairs in front of it, one occupied by another man haphazardly plunking notes on a lyre. The minstrel wore a feathered burette and a red blouse with billowing sleeves. His bright blue tights clung to well-muscled legs, leading into soft, ankle-high calfskin boots, curled at the toes. He started by playing a jig with which Erik was familiar, although he didn’t even know if the tune had a name, but then he stopped, trying his fingers at another song, seemingly struggling to find the right notes.
A barrel with a spout sat on a table next to the musician, and a short bar stood on the other side of the barrel. Two more men stood in front of the bar, talking quietly
and drinking from large mugs. One of them had a large, black, bushy beard that spread out like a broom that had been used for too long. The hair crawled up his cheeks almost to his eyes. The robe he wore hung from his large belly that poked out obtrusively like a pregnant woman, and his eyes were small and piggy.
The other man wore a heavier, cloth hauberk studded with iron discs and a conical helm. His face showed a lean figure, and as he spoke with the bushy-bearded man, he rested a hand on the pommel of a long sword. The swordsman drained the contents of his cup, went to the barrel, and filled it back up with whatever drink the wooden cask contained.
“Do you think he’s a guard of some sort?” Erik asked.
“Do you know of any dung heaps like this that need guards?” Bryon asked.
“A militiaman, perhaps,” Turk offered, “stopping in to get his drink.”
Erik nodded and shrugged.
“Sit wherever you like,” a younger woman said, passing by Erik. She carried a plate with bread in one hand and a pitcher in the other.
Her blue dress was dirty and stray strands of her red hair stuck out all around her face, otherwise contained within a bun, loosely pulled at the top of her head. She was tall and broad-shouldered and, when she went to deliver the plate and pitcher to the two men sitting at the bench, rather than taking their order, they ignored her and continued to talk. She practically slammed the plate and pitcher on the table and rushed back to a door, presumably the kitchen.
“I don’t normally prefer fiery-haired women,” Bryon said with a smile, “but her spirit matches her hair. She might be fun.”
“Bryon,” Erik hissed, “compose yourself. Remember why we’re here.”
“Of course, fearless leader,” Bryon replied, and, even though there was a hint of mirth in his cousin’s voice, Erik was still irritated by his cousin.
“Either sit or leave,” she said, walking past Erik when she quickly reappeared again. “Don’t just stand there.”
“Will you sit with me if I sit down?” Bryon asked, trying his best to flash a boyish smile in her direction.
Dragon Sword: Demon's Fire Book 1 Page 4