Dragon Sword: Demon's Fire Book 1

by Christopher Patterson

“We’re going to be here all night fighting these golems,” Bryon said.

  “Maybe we need to kill the drake,” Erik said.

  “Might as well kill a dragon,” Bryon said.

  “No,” Turk replied. “They are very mortal. We just need to get close. Erik, we will draw the attention of these golems. You get close to the drake.”

  “Great,” Bryon said. “When I die, Erik, skin me and tan my hide to stretch over your shield. It seems that’s all I’m good for.”

  The dwarves and Bryon tried to consume the attention of the ice golems, but each wave that came at them seemed tougher than the one before. These ones were bigger and faster and stronger. They wielded icy swords rather than spears, and iced spikes protruded from their shields. Erik found himself dodging and rolling out of the way, away from the drake. When he tried to rush the drake, three of the golems blocked his path, and he felt as if he had to use all his energy to destroy just one of them.

  He watched as the dwarves and Bryon did all they could do to stay alive. For the first time, the drake joined the fight, breathing ice in front of Turk, and, even though it struck one of the golems, destroying the thing, the dwarf’s boots looked frozen to the ground. The drake turned, whipping its tail outward. Beldar ducked out of the way, but as the tail came down to the ground, it swept Bofim’s feet from underneath him and as soon as he crashed to the ground, two more golems were on him.

  “This is ridiculous!” Bryon shouted. Whenever his elvish blade struck a golem, it flared brightly, and the animated ice formed to look like a man melted away. He was the only one that seemed to have any luck in fighting the things.

  But before Erik could cheer for his cousin, one golem shouldered Bryon in the ribs, sending him staggering backward until he finally lost his balance and landed at the drake’s feet. The creature turned hard, Bryon coming up to his feet with his elvish blade held firmly in both hands. He looked ready to fight, and when the drake reared up and opened its mouth, ready to breathe ice again, Erik could tell his cousin was about to lunge forward. His elvish blade flared to a brilliant purple, and Erik could feel the heat from the weapon even several paces away. But the drake stopped. It glared at Bryon with those crystalline, blue eyes and then screeched. The golems turned into snow.

  “What’s going on?” Bryon yelled as the drake poked its snout close to him and began to sniff him, his hair swirling about as the creature smelled and snorted.

  But before any of the dwarves could say anything, the drake sniffed at Bryon’s sword. It backed away from Bryon and seemingly bowed and then lay down in front of Bryon, as a cat might lay at the feet of its owner.

  “Something about your sword?” Turk asked.

  “It’s elvish,” Beldar said. “Maybe the elves built this bridge and put the drake here to guard it.”

  “Here north of the Gray Mountains?” Nafer asked, and Beldar just shrugged.

  “Will it let me pass?” Bryon asked, still holding his sword in both hands, ready to fight if he needed to.

  “I don’t know,” Beldar replied. “Try.”

  “Oh sure,” Bryon said, “it’s not your ass that gets frozen or eaten.”

  But Bryon sidestepped around the drake, and the creature just watched him with its blue eyes. He stopped once when mist rose from the drake’s nostrils, but when it rested its head on its front feet, Bryon started up again. He looked to Erik and shrugged.

  “Let’s go,” Bryon said.

  They all gathered at the bridge, watching the drake cautiously.

  “Is it truly made of ice?” Bryon asked. “The bridge?”

  “I think so,” Erik replied.

  “It feels as cold as ice,” Turk said, “and looks like ice.”

  “It can’t be safe,” Bryon added.

  “It looks sturdy enough,” Erik said.

  The bridge was wide enough for a horse-drawn carriage to comfortably cross. Looking over the side, Erik saw a solid ice abutment, holding the bridge firmly to the wall of the dark ravine. A large arch extended from the abutment to another abutment on the other side of the chasm, and it looked as if it were reinforced with beams crossing over to the arch on the other side of the bridge. Guardrails and barriers lined the bridge to either side, the topmost guardrail arching up to a tall point roughly halfway across the bridge, and then arching downwards to the other side. More beams extended from the tall guardrail, seemingly adding even more support to the bridge.

  “It could have been made from stone or iron or wood,” Erik said, stepping out onto the bridge. “It’s just made of ice, but this bridge marks the edge of dwarvish lands.”

  “How do you know that?” Nafer asked.

  “Something Yora said,” Erik replied. “She said as soon as we cross the ice bridge, we will not receive dwarvish help.”

  He looked over his shoulder at the drake as it watched them.

  The bridge was at least three hundred paces long, but as they walked its length, it didn’t move, sway, or give any hint of instability. An extra chill emanated from the bridge, mixing with the howling wind funneled into the chasm, and Erik not only felt his teeth chatter, the rattling sound echoing through his skull, but heard his companions’ teeth chatter as well.

  “So is this dwarvish?” Erik asked.

  “No, this is no dwarvish bridge,” Turk said as they crossed the halfway point on the bridge.

  “How do you know?” Bryon asked.

  “It is too intricate,” Turk said, stopping and inspecting one of the support beams rising up from one of the guardrails. “These designs show an artist’s embellishments. Dwarves wouldn’t have taken the time to bother with something as simple as elaborate, and if it is the edge of our territory, why build access to land beyond?”

  “Who built it then?” Erik asked.

  “Elves,” Turk replied.

  They had walked halfway over the bridge when Erik felt a flutter in his stomach. The air around him swirled, and it felt warm when it was icy cold only a moment before. He took another step forward and looked down. The bridge was no longer white ice, but black and made of iron and wood. He turned. The whole of the bridge was black, and the drake that lay at the entrance to the bridge was now green, with emerald eyes.

  “Do you see this?” Erik said, his mouth open in wonderment.

  “See what?” Bryon asked, rolling his eyes and shaking his head, but when he took one more step, his eyes widened. “By the Creator’s Beard.”

  Erik looked all around them. The mountain was still there, as was the tunnel that the bridge led to, but shrubs and creepers clung to the side of the mountain, green and lush. Looking back, the once icy forest was green, but not with tall pines but a canopy of wide, broad-leafed trees. The air was warm and humid.

  “It is a jungle,” Turk said.

  “A jungle?” Erik asked.

  “Aye,” Turk replied. “The humid forests of the Feran Archipelagos and Wüsten Sahil. It is even suspected that some of the forests of Ul’Erel look like this.”

  “What magic is this?” Erik asked.

  “Elvish magic,” Beldar said. “Truly, this is elvish magic.”

  “Look at Bryon’s sword,” Nafer said.

  The sword didn’t glow as it had before, but rather, a purple light shimmered along the blade, like waves lapping up on the seashore.

  “It’s never felt like this,” Bryon said.

  “How does it feel?” Erik asked.

  “Powerful,” Bryon replied. “Like I can feel its magic running through my veins.”

  Erik felt a small tingle at his hip and looked down at his golden-hilted dagger. It didn’t enter his thoughts, but for a moment, he could feel its presence.

  “Could you be …” Erik whispered, but then shook his head.

  38

  The bridge led them through a small tunnel in the adjacent peak, a solid slab of vertical rock that looked icy and black before, but now looked green with shrubs growing from little crevices and creepers crawling all along the side. The t
unnel was short, and when they stepped out on the other side, they found a small clearing where they all quickly shed their bear skins; cold was far from being an issue now.

  Bryon looked down at his elvish sword and smiled. For once, he was the savior and, even though he hated himself for it, it felt good.

  “Do you see that?” Erik asked.

  He looked at his cousin, to see what it was that had caught his attention. A white tower, once tall and imposing, now nothing but ruins, rose from the middle of the small clearing. White stone littered the ground, some of it nothing more than rubble, but in other places, large slabs piled against one another. They walked over to the tower.

  A thick forest, or jungle as the dwarves referred to it, surrounded a wide glade, presumably cleared for the tower, even though there was no evidence of anyone living in this place. Small animals like rabbits and squirrels, scurried about, and Bryon heard the call of quail and saw the topnotch of a male bouncing through the tall grass of the meadow in which they stood. A blue-collared lizard stood atop one such pile, basking in the warmth of the sunlight. Bryon looked up at the sun.

  “Isn’t it night?” Bryon asked. “What sort of enchanted place is this?”

  He looked up at the ruins of the building. Gaping holes pot marked what remained standing of the structure.

  “Elves,” Turk said, standing at a door that now seemed useless, but stood intact. The dwarf traced his hand over runes in and around the door. “I can’t read them, but I know these are elvish runes.”

  “What are, or were, elves doing in the Gray Mountains?” Beldar asked.

  “I don’t think we are in the Gray Mountains anymore,” Turk replied.

  “I don’t understand,” Erik said.

  “I don’t know if we have been transported to some other place in the world,” Turk said, “or if the elvish magic keeps this place green and warm. It is powerful magic indeed.”

  Despite the dilapidation of the white-stone tower, the door was locked. Turk pushed and pulled, but it didn’t budge.

  “Help me,” Turk said, and all six of the companions pushed on the door until Bryon heard something snap on the other side and the door swung open.

  Birds flew through the opening, a few feathers floating gently to the ground as they scattered. Bryon expected the smell of rotting wood and mold, but the sweet scent of mint and lavender and, perhaps, honey hit his nose. Stepping into the tower, Bryon looked up. The wood of the floors above them was gone, as was the ceiling, so he stared up at the sky.

  “What is this place?” Bryon asked, more to himself than anyone else.

  “It was definitely built by elves,” Beldar said. “Look at the etchings along the walls.”

  Engravings of trees and leaves and nature scenes covered the walls. Giant marble planters sat along the walls as well, clearly void of any foliage but big enough to hold even the grandest of trees. A stone altar sat in the middle of the room, wide and square vines etched into its sides. The light spilling through the open ceiling illuminated the altar as if it was meant to, and Bryon cocked an eyebrow, walking around the thing and brushing a hand along its surface. His sword pulsated with its purple light as he stood there.

  “More runes?” Erik asked.

  “Aye,” Beldar replied, standing next to Bryon and inspecting the altar. “The elves have a special affinity for nature.”

  “All of nature?” Bryon asked.

  “Yes,” Beldar replied, “all of nature.”

  “Even the cold reaches of the northern Gray Mountains?” Bryon asked.

  “Aye,” Beldar replied. “Although they don’t like the cold so much.”

  Both Beldar and Bryon continued to look at the altar, covered in runes and carvings when Turk shouted.

  “Come look at this!”

  He pushed broken furniture and rubble aside and lifted up a large book. He carried it to the altar and set it down. Bryon couldn’t help but think the cover of the book, a thick, tan leather-bound thing, glowed slightly when Turk set it down. He opened the book.

  “There are names,” Bryon said.

  “How can you read them?” Erik asked.

  “They are written in Westernese,” Bryon replied.

  “Your eyes are tricking you,” Beldar said with a laugh. “These names are written in Dwarvish.”

  Erik stood next to Bryon.

  “No, Beldar,” he said, pointing to a name—Sarah. “It is clearly written in Westernese.”

  “I see Dwarvish as well,” Nafer said.

  “Elvish magic,” Turk said.

  “Just like the Dragon Scroll,” Erik said to himself.

  “What?” Bryon asked.

  “When I read from the Dragon Scroll,” Erik explained, “the words on the parchment shifted until they formed the spelling in Westernese, and I could read it.”

  “But none of these names are elvish names,” Beldar added. “They are all women … human women.”

  “Is that all that is in this book?” Bryon asked. “Women’s names?”

  “Aye,” Beldar replied. “Their names and their lineage.”

  “There are blank pages, though,” Bofim added. “Only half the book has been used.”

  “Names yet to be written, maybe?” Erik asked.

  “Names never to be written, more like,” Bryon said, looking around the broken-down tower.

  Inspecting more of the tower, Bryon found broken statues, tapestries, and rugs that were almost mere dust and splintered furniture. He knelt down, picking up the head of a white statue. It was a woman, her features perfect, and he rubbed a thumb tenderly along her cheek and over her lips. He wondered if she was once real … as crazy as that sounded. He could envision her, pink flesh, hair blonde and blue eyes, her lips red and sensuous. He picked up a piece of another statue—another woman, one of her cheeks, eyes, and half her lips gone. Her eyes were brown, her hair almost black. The piece of statue in his hands was alabaster white, but he could see the woman the figurine represented. Another broken piece, just the torso of a woman with no arms below the elbows and wide shoulders filled his mind. Her skin was dark—a deep brown—and her eyes were almost black, matching her hair that was wound in neat braids, falling to the bottom of her backside.

  Bryon shook his head, standing and brushing dust off his hands. He stared at the broken statues. He drew his sword, and the purple glow brightened. He felt pain and sadness as his stomach knotted and his chest felt tight. His hands were shaking as he stepped back.

  What was the purpose of this place?

  39

  “Why did you send us here, old man?” Erik mused as he walked about the first level of the white tower.

  Despite the intricate engravings on the walls, the oddly placed altar, and the thick book filled with women’s names, this place felt wrong, tainted, and cursed. He had seen his cousin looking at a pile of broken statues, fragments of ancient figurines. He wondered what curiosity Bryon could possibly have with them, but when he saw that most of the statues were of women, he figured it had just been so long since Bryon had been with a woman, broken statues started to look pretty. But when his cousin walked away, he looked upset, perhaps even worried.

  Erik walked over to the pile of broken figurines. Blank, alabaster eyes stared up at him. They were fake images of some make-believe women, but they looked sad and lonely. One of the faces caught Erik’s attention, a soft face with a pointed chin staring up from the pile, seemingly at him. He knelt down and touched the cheek, pushing other pieces of stone aside. This statue was almost completely intact, and when the whole head was visible, Erik could see it had pointed ears.

  “An elf,” Erik whispered.

  The elf statue had a stern jaw, and, among all the broken statues of women, Erik could tell it was an elf man. As he looked at it, the vision of an elf popped into his head. He was tall and slender, but with strong arms and shoulders. His eyes were a piercing blue, and his hair was long, held off his face by a leather thong, and blond if not almost silver a
s the light hit it just right. As the elf stared at Erik, his eyes seemed to recognize him, and Erik remembered the dream he had after his baptism. This elf reminded him of the one in his dream once he had broken the chains. An elf who looked powerful and strong…a leader.

  Erik felt a tickle at his hip. He immediately touched his golden hilted dagger, his heart racing, but then he felt nothing. Even though the conscience of his weapon was seemingly gone, something about this place, about this elf, made him feel he longed to hear the voice in his head again. He lifted up the statue, inspecting it.

  “Who are you?” Erik asked.

  It was as if a bee had stung his hand as he flinched and pulled away his hand, the statue slipping in his grip. It was a sturdy thing, heavy and thick, but when it struck the ground, the head of the elf statue shattered.

  “Damn,” Erik said, rubbing his hands together.

  A shocking sensation ran up his arms to his shoulders for a moment, and then it was gone. He shook his hand a looked at it but could see no sign of a sting and looked down again at the shattered head, annoyed at his clumsiness.

  What’s that?

  Something in the rubble around the elf statue glimmered. Erik squinted and then crouched down, moving some of the broken stone aside with his finger until something sparkled when struck by the sunlight gleaming through the tower’s open roof. Erik picked up a smooth stone, perfectly round and white, and when the light struck it, it seemed to soak it up as if it might give it energy. It reminded Erik of two stones a gypsy named Mardirru had given him, once belonging to the gypsy’s father—Marcus—a man Erik remembered fondly. He was a man who, up to the moment he died at the hands of Samanian slavers, had an optimistic view on life despite having lost his first wife and children, being chastised for being a gypsy, and having endured hardships beyond what any man should.

  The stones Mardirru gave Erik were red, but they were also perfectly round, and as the light hit them, they seemed to drink it up. He had one left. The other he had used against the dragon in Orvencrest. He had thrown that stone—after his golden-hilted dagger had told him to use it—into a river of molten lava, which then consumed the dragon. He thought the beast dead, but dragons are made of fire, so fire cannot kill them.