With no sense of how long he had laid there, he finally pushed himself up and stood. The ground underneath his feet shook, and the sky overhead flashed. As the rain intensified, another cloaked figure appeared in front of him, but this one’s robes were tattered and torn. He turned and spoke with another man who appeared at his side, this one armored from head to toe in plate mail. The steel of his armor was as black as the mountains and his helm in the shape of a gaping dragon mouth, the teeth replacing the visor crossbars.
They both turned to face Erik. Erik pulled his shield from his back and drew his sword. He heard laughter. The armored man extended his right hand and a long sword, the blade flamberged and burning with white flame, appeared in it. He extended his left hand and a flail appeared there, three iron balls in the shape of skulls at the end of three chains. The cloaked man lifted his hands, their skin pale and sickly looking, his fingers long and bony, and the earth rumbled even more. Fire and molten rock erupted from the mountains on either side of Erik and ran down its steep slope.
Another figure appeared in between the two men, a man on his knees, shackles around his wrists, ankles, and neck. When he looked up, he had piercing blue eyes, long blond hair, and long, pointed ears.
“An elf?” Erik muttered in disbelief.
Both the cloaked man and the armored man laughed. Erik knew he had to fight them.
“Carefully now,” a dwarvish voice said.
He looked to his right, and there was King Fire Beard, the ruler of Orvencrest when the fabled dwarvish city fell. Most had believed it was lost to time, perhaps even a myth, but Erik had found it and discovered the true reason for the city’s demise: the dwomanni—fallen, evil dwarves—and the dragon. They had only found the skeletal remains of Fire Beard, his son, his queen, and his daughters, but Erik saw the dwarf in a vision, he knew what he had looked like. And this was him, standing next to him with his fiery red hair and beard.
“They will try to lure you in,” the dwarvish king said. “That is how evil works. It plays on your emotions. It makes you feel weaker or more powerful than you really are. It will make you act out of fear.”
Erik nodded.
The way the elf looked up at him, his eyes sad and defeated. There was recognition in those eyes. The elf knew him, but Erik couldn’t guess from where. He felt like he needed to free the elf, break his chains.
The cloaked man lifted a hand, and the chains around the elf’s neck, wrists, and ankles burst into flames. The elf screamed out, and Erik rushed in.
The cloaked man threw several balls of fire at him, but he blocked them with his shield. He rolled underneath a heavy swing from the burning flamberge of the black knight. Standing and turning, Erik gave his own strike, but the armored man blocked the attack sending flames into Erik’s face.
Erik smelled burning hair, felt his skin burning, but he fought on. The wizard shouted something in what Erik knew to be the Shadow Tongue, and a green fog rose from the ground. Erik coughed and wretched, and the armored man took the opportunity to attack. The sword slammed into Erik’s shield, and he flew backward. He rolled away as the tip of the flamberge jammed into the ground and kicked out, his heel slamming into the knight’s knee. There was an audible crunch, but it didn’t seem to faze the knight. All the while, the elf’s screams rose, and his pain seemed to urge Erik’s opponents on.
The wizard shouted again, and the clouds overhead swirled about and brightened with purple lightning, the bolts of energy striking the ground all around Erik. He continued to fight on, blocking strikes from the flaming sword while dodging magical fireball attacks from the black wizard. Then, Erik heard more laughter, laughter he recognized.
Erik turned around and saw her looming over him. Her golden-green scales shimmered with a sickening glow under the reddish sky and the purple lightning. Then, as if her shadow came alive, another dragon appeared next to her, its scales black with streaks of red, and Erik knew it was her mate, father to the young dragon that had injured Bryon so badly. The she-dragon hissed, her scales rattling as she shook her head. Her mate roared and blew fire into the sky, the clouds opening up in burning rain as a response.
I have no time left.
No! Think!
Erik turned to look at the elf, his skin turning black and cracking under the fire, and he understood the purpose of the elf’s presence, his place in Erik’s battle to avoid being taken by the Shadow. Erik lifted his sword and struck at the shackles that bound the elf. They fell away and disappeared as they hit the ground and the elf stood, his burns gone. He was an imposing figure, slender at the waist, but his chest and shoulders showed his strength. He was as tall as Erik and the muscles in his arms knotted as he lifted them and flexed. His blue eyes glowed, and the elf spoke in a language Erik was unfamiliar with, but the words caused the ground to shake even more.
Erik heard the sucking of air, and all sound disappeared as the ground opened up and consumed both the black wizard and the black knight. And then the fire came.
Wind washed over him and Erik opened his eyes. The mountain range was gone. The hill was still gone. The dragons, the dark knight, the black wizard, and the elf—all gone. The sky was a pallid gray.
“Was that the test?” Erik asked himself, looking around. He looked down at himself and his body was intact.
“Yes, it was,” a voice said.
Erik turned to see another figure, cloaked in black, cowl pulled over his face. He had seen this figure here before, the last time he dreamed.
“You passed,” the figure croaked, “the first man in a thousand years to be given a clan.”
The figure cackled an evil laugh.
“Are you the Shadow?” Erik asked.
The laughter intensified.
“You defeated the Shadow,” the figure said.
Erik cocked an eyebrow. Defeating the Shadow wasn’t, couldn’t have been, shouldn’t have been that easy.
“You fear the Shadow?” the figure asked.
Erik wanted to say no, but he nodded.
“Your fear is misplaced,” the figure said. “There is one you should fear more.”
Erik looked to the east and the west, the north and the south, and saw giant shadowy figures on the horizon. He looked up and black wings spread across the sky. His first thought went to the dragons, but then he remembered the dream of his farm, and the ghostly thing in that dream. This reminded him of that creature, whatever it was.
“Who are you?” Erik asked.
“All in due time,” the figure laughed, and then he was gone and the world around him faded as Erik’s consciousness came back.
31
Erik lay in his bed. As soon as the fever had set in, Captain Khâmuth had given him his own room, which was sparse in the outpost. It was like no fever Erik had ever experienced before. His body ached, his skin burned, and his hands and feet were freezing, no matter how many blankets he lay under. His head felt like someone had repeatedly slammed a hammer into it. And the dwarves would give him nothing—no dream milk, no sweet wine, no food, only water; he couldn’t even keep that down.
“Did you see …” Erik began to say as he woke up from his dream.
“Everyone’s vision is different,” Turk replied, “and it is yours, yours to remember, yours to keep until your final day.”
That was the last time Erik spoke of the dream that played over and over in his head. Always the same, but he only remembered how it ended when he slipped back into unconsciousness. It meant something important. That much he had gathered, but he could not fathom what it meant beyond his normal dreams. And each night since—how many he couldn’t remember—the scene and outcome were the same, some mysterious, hooded man and a vast shadow that seemed to consume the world, but wasn’t the Shadow.
Erik closed his eyes and traced his fingers over the brand on his left breast. It was healing but still painful. Erik didn’t care. He continued to trace the circle—symbol of the Creator and eternity—and then the runes in the middle of the circ
le—Dragon Fire. The small outline of a sword sat above the circle, and the outline of a dragon’s head sat below it. Each brand was made specifically to the one being baptized. This was Erik’s brand. No one else in the world would ever have one like it. It made those dwarves who mutilated their brands that much more nefarious.
Erik closed his eyes, welcoming and dreading sleep all at the same time. He heard the door open and guessed it would be Bryon who had come to see him multiple times every day. He was worried, and Erik appreciated it, but he just wanted to rest now. If the fever took him, so be it, but he just wanted to sleep through the rest of it and wake up renewed and well.
“Bryon, please, I’m tired,” Erik said, rubbing his temples with his thumb and forefinger.
His cousin didn’t reply.
“Bryon,” Erik said.
Still no reply.
“Bryon?”
Erik opened his eyes and turned his head. A dwarf stood in the doorway, and he looked like Hragram who had been holding Erik’s shield at his baptism. Behind him in the doorway was what looked like one of Lieutenant Güthrik’s personal guards. A helm hid all of his face save for a bit of beard that escaped through the bottom.
“Hragram isn’t it?” Erik asked, lifting his head and looking at the dwarf with a cocked eyebrow. “What do you want?”
As the guard closed the door and Erik heard the lock click, Hragram stepped forward.
“Lord Fréden Fréwin sends his regards,” Hragram said with a malicious smile on his face.
Erik’s face paled, and his heart quickened as the dwarf produced a long-bladed knife that glimmered in the candlelight of the room.
32
Bryon walked towards Erik’s room. He knew his cousin didn’t want any visitors or company, but he was by Bryon’s bedside almost the whole time he was infirmed. How would it look if he didn’t do the same?
Bryon stood in front of Erik’s door when he heard a loud crash coming from within the room. He grabbed the handle and tried to turn it, but it was locked. There was another crash and a quick shout. Bryon couldn’t understand the voice, and it wasn’t Erik’s. He tried the handle again, but it wouldn’t move. He shouldered the door, but it was too sturdy.
“Damn dwarvish construction,” Bryon said, withdrawing his sword.
Bryon stabbed the door handle with his elvish blade. The magic flared to life, increasingly brightening as the iron of the door warped and drooped. As the molten metal pooled on the floor in front of the door, Bryon kicked it open and stepped into the room to see Hragram and another dwarf standing over his cousin. The mattress from Erik’s bed lay halfway off the frame, and Erik, his face red and sweaty, crouched between the bed and the wall. He was reaching for his own sword as Hragram held a long-bladed knife in his hand.
“Hragram, what’s going on?” Bryon asked.
He looked from the dwarf to his cousin. He was familiar with the look on Erik’s face. It was a look that used to irritate him, one his younger cousin used to give all the time, one of fear and worry. It was a look Erik rarely wore anymore.
Bryon lunged at Hragram. The dwarf backed away, just in time, grabbing a pillow and throwing it at Bryon. Little feathers floated through the air as Bryon backhanded the bedding away, a tear in its cover already present from where, apparently, Hragram tried to murder Erik.
“Bryon, watch out!” Erik shouted.
Bryon jumped out of the way as the other dwarf swung his double-handed, broad sword. Hragram attacked, knife held over his head, blade pointing downward. Bryon swung with his off hand—soft knuckles as Wrothgard had taught him. His fist thudded against Hragram’s jaw, and an audible crunch echoed through the room. The dwarf dropped the dagger, bounced off the wall, and fell to his knees, spitting out a broken tooth as he tried to regain his wits.
The other dwarf came fast. His swings with his broad sword put Bryon on his heels, but he eventually blocked one strike, his magical blade notching a melted nick in the sword, and cut a neat line of burned steel and blood along the dwarf’s arm. A scream erupted from underneath the dwarf’s helmet.
“By the Creator, you stink,” Bryon said, wrinkling his nose.
Bryon recognized that smell, even if he had a hard time putting his finger on it. He had smelled it in Orvencrest, in the darkness of that lost city. It was the smell of death, but not rot or decaying flesh. It was almost like a body odor, pungent, and stinging to the nose.
Bryon kicked the inside of the armored dwarf’s knee. The warrior grunted and went down, but before Bryon could deliver a killing blow, he lurched forward when a body rammed into the middle of his back. He landed, face down, his sword sliding away along the floor. Bryon turned quickly as Hragram’s rescued knife thunked against the floor where his head was just moments before. The tip of the blade broke off, but the dwarf slashed again at Bryon.
“Bryon!” Erik shouted again, and when he looked over, his cousin had his sheathed sword in hand. He threw it to him and, just as Hragram jabbed with his broken knife, Bryon caught the weapon, unsheathed Ilken’s Blade, and blocked the attack.
Holding Ilken’s Blade in his left hand, he swiped up with the sword, and the tip of the blade caught Hragram’s wrist, drawing blood and causing the dwarf to drop his knife again. He retrieved his axe from his belt, and Bryon crouched, reaching for his elvish blade.
The blade of the axe came down, Hragram swinging it with both hands, so Bryon crossed the steel of his elvish sword with Ilken’s Blade, blocking the attack and catching the axe’s wooden handle between the two blades. The axe handle began to smoke, a black, charred line forming where the elvish magic burned. Hragram cursed in Dwarvish, retracted his weapon, and swung it again. Bryon swung upwards with the elvish sword, the blade flaring and burning, slicing through the wood of the axe easily. The half-moon blade bounced away harmlessly, and Hragram cursed again, swinging at Bryon with gauntleted fists.
Bryon looked beyond Hragram and saw the other dwarf glaring at Erik. Dragging his injured leg, he moved towards his cousin, but Erik pushed out against his bed and that knocked the warrior off balance. As Hragram came at Bryon again, he kicked the dwarf in the chest, launching him into the stumbling armored dwarf. They crashed into each other, falling in a heap. Bryon closed the distance on the two dwarves as they struggled to get up.
Hragram looked surprised and tried to swing at Bryon with a sloppy fist, but Bryon kicked the outside of his leg then punched his elvish blade into the dwarf’s belly, hilt deep. Hragram looked at him with wide, angry eyes, blood pouring from his mouth. The smell of burning flesh hit Bryon’s nose and, even though it normally made him gag a little, he breathed it in unfazed.
“Give my regards to the Shadow,” Bryon hissed, spitting in the dwarf’s face and retrieving his sword.
As Hragram dropped, face-down on the floor, the other dwarf rose, his helmet crooked, and staggered to his feet again. He tried to grab his sword, but Bryon easily hooked his foot around the back of the dwarf’s uninjured leg, and the warrior crashed into the wall. As his head smacked against the stone, his helmet flew off, and Bryon gasped.
White eyes stared at him. The dwarf’s skin was pale and sickly, paper-thin. His hair hung in clumps from a mostly bald scalp. Scabs oozed with pus and blood, all over the dwarf’s face.
“By the Creator,” Bryon said, backing up, putting an arm to his nose, and giving the dwarf space.
“Dwomanni,” Erik gasped.
The dwomanni swung on Bryon, and it was all he could do just to keep his footing. As the sickly-looking dwarf attacked, he spoke in a language Bryon didn’t understand, but as he did, the candles in the room flickered.
“What magic is this?” Bryon muttered as he found his back almost against a wall.
“The strongest,” the dwarf hissed, revealing yellow teeth that had been filed to sharp points.
As the dwomanni spoke, Bryon’s sword dimmed, and he felt less heat from the blade. Struggling at keeping the dwarf at bay, he saw Erik crawl over his bed to sta
nd behind the attacker. He stood, his legs shaky, his eyes half-closed, and sweat beading down his face. He was in no condition to fight, but he might have been Bryon’s only chance. Bryon kicked out at the dwomanni’s injured knee, tossing Ilken’s Blade to Erik at the same time. Erik caught the sword gingerly, almost dropping it before he gripped it with both hands and brought the Dwarf’s Iron across the dwomanni’s back. He was so weak with fever that his attack probably didn’t even cause a scratch on their assailant’s armor, but it distracted the dwarf enough. As he barely turned to look at Erik over his shoulder, Bryon drove his sword through his ribs.
The blade caught, at first, but then the dwarf gasped, sucking in as much air as he could, as the purple blade flared and Bryon thrust, driving the sword deep. The dwomanni’s smell was even stronger now, as his blood seeped from his wound and boiled around magical steel. With a grunt, Bryon removed his blade, and the dwarf collapsed on the floor, dead.
“Erik,” Bryon said, going to his cousin as he began to falter on his feet and catching him before he could fall. “Are you all right?”
Erik was about to reply when Hragram let out a loud gasp. He rolled over onto his back and stared at Bryon and Erik.
“Let me go,” Erik said, and Bryon complied.
Erik walked slowly to the dwarf, kneeling next to him and putting Ilken’s Blade next to his throat. He grabbed Hragram’s shirt and pulled at it.
“What are you doing?” Bryon asked as Erik sought to tear buttons from the cloth.
“You do it,” Erik said, breathing heavily. He was so weak, the stitching of the cloth barely moved as he tugged at the piece of clothing.
Dragon Sword: Demon's Fire Book 1 Page 22