Dragon Sword: Demon's Fire Book 1

by Christopher Patterson

  As half a dozen more guards rushed up the stairs leading to the collonade, Andragos clapped, and each of the soldiers burst into flames. They screamed and flailed and fell to the ground, rolling about and trying to extinguish flames that could not be put out. Andragos opened his arms, closed his eyes, and opened his mouth, breathing in deep.

  The Black Mage felt the souls of the dead enter his body and become a part of him. He felt his magic grow, and he didn’t know what this meant for the future. He had fought with former rulers of Golgolithul, having to prove he was powerful in the past, but Syzbalo was going too far. Did he want all-out war with Andragos? No, he was being influenced—by the witches, by Melanius…and by something much more dangerous.

  A dozen more guards rushed up the stairs.

  “Is this what you want?” Andragos asked, holding his hands out like a priest towards the blackened and smoking corpses scattered on the stairs.

  The guards stopped and then parted to let him walk between them.

  “This changes things, Syzbalo,” Andragos said loudly as if talking to the guards who stood to attention, watching him. “You have gone too far, you and your witches. Your Isutan magician. I know what influences you. I know what demon speaks to you in the darkness. This changes things indeed.”

  Again, he knew the Lord of the East heard him.

  “I need you to travel to the northwestern part of Hathgolthane,” Andragos said to his two bodyguards once they were in his carriage and headed home.

  “My lord?” Raktas asked.

  “Watch Erik Eleodum,” Andragos said. “Protect him.”

  “What about you?” Terradyn asked.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Andragos replied.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord,” Raktas said, “but you are our concern. Not some farmboy.”

  “You will do as you are told,” Andragos said. Perhaps he had been too lenient on these men recently, too familiar.

  “My lord …” Terradyn began.

  “Enough!” Andragos yelled, and the carriage went black and shook. “You will do as I command you. Either that or you stay here so the Lord of the East can execute you to teach me a lesson.”

  “My lord, I don’t understand,” Raktas said, and the Mage reached out his hands to lightly touch the arm of each man. They were beyond loyal.

  “It is not for you to understand. Now is the time,” Andragos said, his voice back to a much more conversational level, “to make a move, to make a stand, but in order to do so, we need Erik Eleodum alive. You will watch and protect him. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my lord,” the two men said in unison.

  Belvengar Long Spear watched from a distance. He saw Turk, once his friend, watching Erik Eleodum fight an opponent that was no normal man. He was a mage, and it looked as if he would do Belvengar’s job for him, but then the tables turned, and Erik slew the magician. He was a strong fighter and powerful soldier. He wouldn’t be so easy to kill.

  Belvengar Long Spear turned to slink back into the darkness as a burning barn lit up the night sky. Before he could take a step, he flinched and gasped.

  “What are you doing here?” Nafer Round Shield asked.

  Belvengar stopped for a moment, surprised. He didn’t know what to say.

  “Looking for you, of course,” he finally replied.

  “You lie,” Nafer said.

  Belvengar looked down and saw the broad sword of Demik Iron Thorn hanging from Nafer’s belt.

  “Turk gave you Demik’s sword,” Belvengar said.

  “Aye,” Nafer replied.

  “That man killed him,” Belvengar said, pointing in the direction of the burning barn.”He should still be wearing his father’s sword.”

  “No,” Nafer replied. “I was there. Demik gave his life for that man.”

  “What’s the difference?” Belvengar asked.

  “You know the difference,” Nafer replied. “The very fact that you have to ask that question proves that Fréden has poisoned your mind.”

  “Fréden has nothing to do with this,” Belvengar said.

  “More lies,” Nafer said. “You, out of all of us, loathed lying, and here you are, slinking in the shadows, lying.”

  “Nafer, the world around us is changing,” Belvengar said, “and we need to gather together to make our people strong.”

  “Yes, we do,” Nafer said, “and Erik is one of our people. All of these men and women are our people.”

  “Do you even hear yourself?” Belvengar asked.

  “Erik was given a clan name,” Nafer explained. “Dragon Fire.”

  “Blasphemy,” Belvengar hissed.

  “But it doesn’t matter,” Nafer continued. “Even if he wasn’t given a clan name, he is one of us, a goodly man, a follower of An, and a noble soldier.”

  “He is a man,” Belvengar said, almost pleading with Nafer.

  “Aye, that he is,” Nafer said, “and a good one. I would give my life for him. Turk would too.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Belvengar said.

  “I will let you leave, peacefully, just this once,” Nafer said. “The next time I see you slinking in the shadows …”

  “Nafer, we were once brothers,” Belvengar said.

  “Once,” Nafer replied. “It is not I who changed the situation.”

  Nafer turned and walked away, leaving Belvengar in the dark, only the distant glow of a burning barn shedding any light on the night. He would have to wait. When this Erik was alone, that was when he would strike.

  63

  Erik sat under the willow tree, its branches weeping and dipping low, brushing his face gently when a gust of wind was strong enough. The sun was soft overhead, providing just enough light and heat to ward off any chills that the breeze might bring. Erik stared at the black mountains in the distance, black clouds and purple lightning endlessly raging overhead. When the thunder was especially loud and powerful—Erik could only normally hear it as a distant echo—the ground and the hill and the tree shook slightly.

  “The storm over there. What does it signify?” Erik asked the man with whom he sat, a man he knew, but, then again, didn’t. Every time he dreamed this dream, he would stare at the man’s face. He recognized it, but couldn’t place where he had seen it before. Then, just as he was about to remember who the man was, he would wake.

  “You have been there,” the man said, his voice calm and familiar. “You have experienced it.”

  “I still don’t understand,” Erik replied.

  “Think, Dream Walker,” Dewin said. The old wizard had appeared on the other side of Erik to the familiar man. He had done that in the last couple of dreams Erik had, but now he didn’t appear as an old, broken man. Rather, Dewin appeared as his younger self, a handsome, blond-haired man, strong and vibrant.

  “It is the Shadow?” Erik both said and asked.

  Dewin shook his head with a smile.

  “Am I wrong?” Erik asked.

  “Yes and no,” the man under the tree said. “It is an aspect of the Shadow.”

  “An aspect?” Erik wondered. “You too have experienced it before?”

  “Oh yes, Dream Walker,” Dewin said.

  “The Shadow tries to infiltrate this place, influence this land of dreams,” the man under the tree said, “and in doing so, the Shadow then influences people.”

  “I don’t know if I understand,” Erik replied.

  “You see,” the man said, “the Shadow uses others, influences them, invades their minds and hearts to do his work. He poisons relationships and corrupts leaders. He causes divisions amongst people … hatred and bigotry and prejudice. The Shadow is not the one carrying out evil. He finds others to do it for him. He was defeated long ago, cast away in ages past into the depths of the cosmos, and so this is how he must work. And one of the easiest places to influence men and women is the world of dreams, a place that most disregard as the leftover thoughts and worries of the day, or the hopes and fears of the subconsciousness, or the co
njured, deep memories that seem lost to time save for the faded glimpse one sees when they sleep.”

  “His strength ebbs and flows,” Dewin said. “Right now, the Shadow gains strength, both in his part of this world and the world of the living. The greater the thunder over there, at the edge between this dream world and the shadow lands, the more he is succeeding.”

  “More and more people are serving the Shadow?” Erik asked.

  “No,” the man under the tree said. “At least, not purposely. But when they do wrong, when they intentionally hurt, they are serving the Shadow. And the Shadow’s greatest victory is making people believe he is some fanciful demon mothers tell their children about to make them behave.”

  “So, when I was here, and the mountain range was gone, and there was a mysterious person clothed in black, who wasn’t the one who comes with the carriage?” Erik asked open-endedly.

  He couldn’t help but see the look Dewin gave the other man who sat under the tree.

  “Is that the Shadow losing power?” Erik asked.

  “I told you,” Dewin said, “there is something else—another evil—rising up.”

  “A new evil?”

  “Yes and no,” Dewin said. “New and ancient at the same time.”

  “An ally of the Shadow?” Erik asked.

  Dewin shook his head.

  “It opposes the Creator, but also the Shadow?” Erik asked.

  Dewin nodded slowly.

  “That is bad,” Erik said. “My battle isn’t over, is it?”

  “Oh no, Dragon Slayer,” Dewin said with the hint of a laugh, “it has just begun. And it is about to become much more dangerous.”

  The distant thunder caused the ground underneath Erik to roll. He heard the air crack and felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Purple lightning flashed, and Erik closed his eyes, sucking in a sharp breath. When he opened his eyes, Dewin and the other man under the tree were gone. The distant range of mountains was gone. The sun seemed to pale. And a cloaked figure stood in the middle of the vast field of grass.

  Erik opened his eyes to darkness, the only light in the room the sliver of moonlight escaping through the smallest of cracks in the window’s shutter. He sat up, Simone gently snoring next to him, her breasts beneath the covers moving slowly up and down as she breathed evenly. He swung his feet to the edge of the bed, putting them on the floor. A rug of bearskin lay there, and it felt soft and warm under his feet. He looked to the small table next to this bed. His sword, Dragon Tooth—the Dragon Sword reforged—leaned against it.

  Erik grabbed his sword and unsheathed it. The green glow was soft as if somehow it knew his wife was sleeping and glowing brightly would wake her. The green flames, almost mere silhouettes, danced along the blade, and Erik rested the steel in his hand. It didn’t burn him. In fact, it felt cool.

  Erik stared at the weapon, as he did most nights when his wife was asleep. He didn’t want anyone, especially her, catching him watching the blade longingly, lest she think him mad, so he did so at night. It worried him as much as it might worry anyone else—a man just staring, having a conversation with a sword in his mind as if it were some long lost friend. But there was no response anymore. The voice was gone—the elf, Rako. And it truly felt like Erik had lost a dear friend.

  What do I do?

  He dropped his chin to his chest.

  I cannot leave my family again. More assassins will come. How can I work to stave off evil for the greater world if I am always worried about the ones I love?

  He heard shuffling outside his window, heard the distant low growl of a dog, and the scratching and skittering of a mouse across the wooden veranda outside the house. He heard the chase and the squeak of the rodent as it desperately tried to avoid capture by a farm cat. He heard a hiss and then a louder squeak and a low growl. The hunt was done, and he or Simone would find an offering on their doorstep in the morning. A part of him wondered, hoped, that maybe it was a great snow cat outside his window, hunting mice. He smiled. It was a nice notion, but his ally was gone, living a life of freedom, and mouse would be much of a meal. Thought of the snow cat brought the elf to mind again.

  I am sorry, Rako. I wish I could have saved you. I wish I were stronger.

  He looked over his shoulder, making sure his wife was still asleep.

  I feel lost without your guidance. I miss your presence.

  Erik sat for a while longer, staring at his sword, inspecting the etching of a raven on one side and the dwarvish runes on the other. He thought it funny, the sigil of the raven. He had thought it a bird of death, but Turk had explained to him that the dwarves revered the raven as wisest of all birds, strong and loyal. He smiled.

  Erik placed the tip of the sword in the scabbard and began to sheathe the blade. He felt the gooseflesh on his arms and stopped. He squinted as if he could see something on the blade he had never seen before. He tilted his head as he heard something faint and distant. A voice.

  64

  Syzbalo walked through his dungeon, hands clasped behind his back, his witches and Isutan advisor trailing close behind him. He stopped before a cage. A shadow in the corner moved and he was pleasantly surprised his prisoner was still alive. He hadn’t had the time to visit the scum and few people survived very long in these cells. He lifted a hand and snapped a finger and the bars that covered the front of the cell disappeared. He stepped in.

  “Tarren,” Syzbalo said, his voice hard and flat.

  The prisoner stirred and groaned. Syzbalo lifted a hand and said an incantation in his mind, one he had newly learned. He knew the dwomanni’s intestines had begun to twist and wrap themselves through the cavity of his body, constricting and tightening. The prisoner groaned louder. He was ready to scream. Syzbalo knew it.

  “Are you ready to speak?”

  “What?” Tarren Red Hair, Captain of the Shadow Horn Guard asked.

  The Lord of the East lowered his hand and the magic stopped. The dwomanni slumped against the wall. Syzbalo pointed to the corner. A small ball of red light appeared. It was enough to illuminate the creature, enough to irritate him, but not enough to harm the wretched, pale-skinned, dwarf-kin. Tarren immediately threw up an arm, shielding his eyes.

  “Oh stop,” the Lord of the East said, rolling his eyes.

  “Have you found the sword?” Tarren asked, scooting up against the wall and staring out at the Lord of the East with pale, blank, blind eyes.

  The dwomanni was blind, a symbol of allegiance and loyalty to their dark gods, the Shadow, and their dwomanni ways, but despite being blind, his other senses were so heightened, he might as well have had his sight.

  “No,” the Lord of the East said.

  The dwomanni looked upset, as if he had wanted Syzbalo to find the Dragon Sword. The Lord of the East found that odd, since he had no intention of giving it to, or even aligning himself with, the dwomanni. Him finding it was just as bad, maybe even worse, than the dwomanni not fighting it at all.

  “We didn’t find it,” Syzbalo repeated. “In fact, Erik Eleodum found it and, apparently, reforged it as his own sword.”

  “What?” Tarren hissed.

  The dwomanni pushed against the wall, sliding up the stone until he stood. He hissed.

  “You fool,” the dwomanni hissed.

  The accusation took the Lord of the East aback. How dare this wretched creature call him any name, let alone fool?

  “It will eventually fall back into the hands of the elves,” Tarren said, sidestepping along the wall, towards the entrance to the cell.

  “The elves?” Syzbalo asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “We can still find the crown,” the Lord of the East said, “the Dragon Crown.”

  “It is only one piece of the puzzle,” the dwomanni hissed, seemingly more agitated with each passing moment. “It is nothing without the sword. The scroll, sword, and crown must be combined. And then the mistress and her master can rule.”

  “Are you speaking of this dragon?” the Lord of
the East asked. “I will be the one controlling her.”

  Tarren gave a croaking laugh, shaking his head.

  “No,” he hissed, a mad smile spreading across his face. “You cannot control the right hand of the Shadow.”

  “I will,” Sybalo said, even as the dwomanni slid closer.

  “Fool,” the dwomanni cursed.

  The Lord of the East was about to speak the incantation again to twist the dwomanni’s intestines when he felt a presence behind him.

  “The Dragon Sword and Dragon Crown are nothing but trinkets forged by dwarves and enchanted by elves.”

  Syzbalo turned to see the cloaked figure, who had infiltrated his throne room, standing between he, his witches, and Melanius.

  “You,” Syzbalo hissed.

  “Be careful,” the man said.

  The Lord of the East turned to see Terran lunging at him. The dwomanni should have been near death, but he came at Syzbalo with strength and fervor. He put up a hand and the dwomanni stopped midair. He flicked his wrist and Terran flew across the cell, slamming into the wall and crumpling to the ground.

  “My master has been generous with his power,” the cloaked man croaked.

  The witches and Melanius all began to touch their magic, Syzbalo could feel it, and the cloaked figure laughed.

  “Leave us,” Syzbalo ordered.

  “But master,” the witches said in unison.

  “I said leave us,” and he snapped a finger. His three magical advisors disappeared and it was just he, the cloaked figure, and the unconscious dwomanni in the corner of his cell.

  “The Dragon Sword is not some trinket,” the Lord of the East said.

  These tools are nothing compared to the power of Chaos! a deep voice boomed, low and methodical, so loud the whole dungeon shook.

  The dwomanni began to move, pushing himself up into a crouch. He groaned and hissed as the unseen voice rolled through the dungeon.

  Do not waste time on trivial things, the voice said, deep and mechanical, rather, seek me, and seek true and real power.