Demons of the Hunter (War of the Magi Book 2)

by Stephen Allan

  It was too real. It was too cruel.

  How horrible it was that for the first time in six years, Eric had finally felt their presence… and all he’d gotten was about thirty seconds of a hug before his own dream turned on himself.

  He was not going to experience those sensations in reality as long as he lived. Only in dreaming would he get them—in some ways, it was something to be grateful for. But still.

  The more Eric thought about it, the sadder he became. Not even death could guarantee the return of those feelings—what lay beyond?

  No one knew for sure. No one Eric ever knew had really ever bothered to address such a question. For all Eric knew, once he died, that was it. He wouldn’t even get to dream about his mother and his sister again.

  He knew the magi had their own mythology, but what good did the afterlife of magi do for a simple human like him?

  But there was one thing he could daydream about, one thing that had occupied his mind in the weeks since Artemia, the head of the Dragon Hunter’s Guild, had told him after their victory over Indica. There was one thing that he could control, and even if he knew it wouldn’t grant him a return of the deceased, it could assuage his mind.

  The slaughter of Ragnor.

  Ragnor. The demon of dragons.

  Rumors stated that Ragnor rested in the icy lands to the far south of Dabira. It would be a treacherous hike, and they likely would not have the reinforcements from Caia that they had before. The topic of recruiting from Dabira had come up. It would take at least a week, if not longer, to reach the resting spot. People would probably die if they joined Eric.

  Reinforcements didn’t matter, though. The deaths of others barely affected him.

  Eric had become so resolute in destroying this evil dragon, this murderer, this demon, that he would die for it if he could. Yes, he had asked for magi. But if magi didn’t come, he would still fight. He would rather die pathetically against Ragnor than live comfortably without trying.

  His mind focused on that image that he knew of in the dragon. The red scales. The four legs. The massive wings. The body large enough to destroy a building just by sheer physical force.

  Eric would destroy it. He would mount it, slice its wings off first, and then drive his sword into its throat, killing it, a single man bringing down the dragon who brought down his only family.

  Yes, Eric would make sure of that above all else. He would not lose. He could not lose.

  Ragnor had cost him everything he loved. Now he would cost Ragnor everything.

  No matter what it took. Even if the empire fell. Even if the Shadows perished on the journey.

  He finally had his family’s killer in sight, and Eric would destroy the world if it meant having his revenge.

  He snorted, his eyes narrowed as if facing Ragnor. The process would only start, though, once he got out of bed.

  Then he grimaced when he rolled awkwardly on his bad arm.

  Eric rose as he reminded himself that before he could destroy any dragons, before he could trek across the mountains and the ice plains, he had to recover and nourish himself. Though his arm had mostly healed, it was still not to the level it was in the past. It would require another couple of days, and even then, Eric knew there would be an adjustment period. It had already taken him some time to feel comfortable about battling on the ankle he’d sprained while in the valley of Indica.

  He rubbed his shoulder, grimacing at the pain. Ignore it. Push through. Fight.

  He slid on his combat boots with a black tunic which seemed aptly colored for the dream he had just had. He could not shake that too-real dream. His mother’s eyes… her hands… his sister’s giggle… it was so frighteningly realistic. It was as if fate itself had planted that dream within him. Or some other malevolent force.

  The little things drove him mad, and even now threatened to make him cry. Eric told himself if he was to cry, he had to do it now before facing the rest of the palace. Facing anyone with red eyes, streaks of tears on his cheeks, or abnormal breathing patterns would only make him look weak and prevent him from accomplishing his desired goal.

  He tried to cry. He really did. He wanted to flush out any underlying emotion he had not yet gotten rid of. If it was there and it surfaced in the middle of battle or trekking… that would be the worst outcome given the leadership around him.

  He had nothing, though. He felt emotion, but mostly, it was fire, not salty water tears, within. Fire to see the world burn so that he could bring down Ragnor. Fire to see the creature suffer as Eric had the last six years. Fire to kill it.

  Eric let himself try and cry for about five minutes before he gave up. He still thought of his sister, but the outward display of emotion never became greater than his lips twisting in grief.

  He grabbed his sword and clipped it to his belt. Before he left the room, he gave it a couple of practice swings, first with his good arm and then with his injured arm. Even though he’d woken up and his injured arm had not felt great, it was surprisingly smooth and mobile. It didn’t have the velocity of the good arm, but that was still not a significant drop-off. As long as he used two hands or his good arm, Eric didn’t foresee any more problems as his arm finished its recovery. Of course, easy to say that now. You’d better hold up in sparring.

  He stopped at his door, took a deep breath, and walked out. He was now Eric, a legendary dragon hunter, going to prepare himself for the upcoming day. The Eric who was a son and a brother and a grieving man was put to the side, compartmentalized.

  He passed by several guards who acknowledged him almost reverently, bowing and saying “Thank you for saving our city.” Word had spread of his accomplishments, and perhaps desperate to praise anyone who was not a mage, the empire and its denizens had granted special adulation upon the dragon hunters. Not that it mattered that much to Eric. The gold was nice, sure. When he got back to Mathos, he might even get himself a home.

  But praise didn’t do anything. On some more insecure men, maybe it stroked their ego, but Eric was so relentlessly focused on his task that the words of glory merely distracted him. If anything, he came to resent it. The soldiers only told him “Good job” and “You’ve saved the city.” But it didn’t encourage him to keep pushing. Where was the voice that told him to keep going? Where was the critic outside of his mind who reminded him to finish what he’d left Mathos to do in the first place?

  He made his way into the dining hall, an opulent room full of majestic—and false—paintings of the empire slaughtering great dragons, conquering distant terrain, and controlling the land and sea of Hydor. A cook at the far end of the room prepared meat, grains, and eggs for the soldiers, dignitaries, and honored guests of the palace. Eric approached and received three eggs, three slices of bacon, and two sausage links. The time for the emperor and his closest associates to eat had already passed, leaving the room mostly open.

  Eric chose to sit by himself. The faster he ate, the better. The less he had to interact with others, the better. The—

  “Eric Garland?”

  Eric paused mid-bite on his eggs and looked up. A young soldier, perhaps also sixteen years old, stood wide-eyed.

  “Wow, the man who slaughtered Indica! I’m so honored.”

  “Don’t be,” Eric said, but his words had little effect on the effusive boy.

  “How did you do it? How did you defeat a monster like that? I’m just overwhelmed, I can’t even—”

  “I had help,” Eric said.

  He bit his tongue on saying the magi had played the largest role. Even someone as worshiped as he in these halls could become persona non grata with the wrong words.

  “Still, you slaughtered it! You, Eric Garland, are a true legend.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Eric said, grabbing the leftover food and stuffing it in his face.

  Even as bits of food crumbled to the ground, he stood up as servants rushed over to take his plate. The young boy kept praising him, even asking if he could practice with him sometime. But Eric di
dn’t need reminders of his inflated legacy.

  Instead, he headed to the one place he could find solace the past month.

  The sparring pit.

  Even when he could only watch, battle gave him a sense of calmness. He could not control many things, but when he faced off against a man or a monster with his sword and his shield, he controlled his actions. He controlled his reactions. He dictated, as much as any individual man could, the outcome in battle.

  And on this day, he found an open pit and an ideal partner by the equipment.

  “Tyus, shall we?” Eric said.

  The son of the emperor, an athletic young boy, nodded to Eric once. Unlike the other guards, Tyus knew the truth. He also knew Eric’s mental state. Once upon a time, he would’ve mocked Eric and the two would’ve come to bloody blows. Now, he respectfully kept his mouth closed.

  Eric grabbed a strong wooden sword and a shield, holding the shield in his left arm, the weak one. Tyus did the same.

  “Knock to the ground and it’s a win. Get hit three times and it’s a win,” Tyus said.

  Eric nodded. Standard rules. The sooner they got through them, the sooner they could fight.

  Eric and Tyus bowed to each other and circled. Eric wanted to wait for Tyus to strike so he could counterattack and remained poised, looking for the smallest of twitches in his opponent’s shoulders or hips. Many soldiers tried to watch the weapon, but misdirection could fool them. A shoulder or hip rotation could not be faked.

  Sure enough, Tyus’ right shoulder reared back just a tiny bit, foretelling of a strike. Eric held up his shield, preparing to counter with an overhead chop.

  But when Tyus swung, Eric’s arm howled in pain and he stumbled back. In fact, it became so painful that Eric took a knee. Tyus, at least, had the courtesy not to gloat.

  Eric swore and slammed his fist into the pit, dropping his weapon and shield.

  “Still need some time?” Tyus asked.

  “No kidding,” Eric said, but he apologized for his curt tone. “I… I need to go.”

  He left quickly, briefly shaking hands with Tyus. He felt embarrassed he had lasted literally one strike. He felt ashamed for having given up so quickly.

  But more than anything, he felt immense frustration. How long would it take for his shoulder to heal? How soon could he leave the palace and hunt Ragnor?

  How much pain can I tolerate if I choose to leave early?

  * * *

  A week passed. Eric went to the sparring pits every day. If he could not physically perform, he would get the mental reps.

  But even that became frustrating as he watched soldiers make countless mistakes, from dropping their guard as they backed away to failing to strike through the enemy as opposed to on the enemy. They lacked intensity in training, and as Eric had learned from Artemia, you don’t rise to the level of your inspiration, you fall to the level of your training. It was little wonder, then, that the empire’s soldiers fell so easily to Indica.

  Somehow, Tyus looked like a great fighter in comparison to the soldiers. And though Tyus had certainly improved—even challenging Eric when both were healthy—Eric would never hold up Tyus as the model of a fighter.

  Still, going to the pit beat being away from the pit, when memories of the dream would arise. He tried to kill time with Abe, but his mentor spent a great deal of time near Artemia, and the only person more closed off than Eric was her. He probably looked like an encyclopedia of open knowledge compared to Artemia.

  But after a week, enough time had passed. His shoulder had healed enough that he could start fights feeling healthy. That was good enough. They wouldn’t reach Ragnor that night, that week, or maybe even that month. It would take more than enough time to allow Eric’s shoulder to heal.

  He headed immediately for Artemia’s chamber, ignoring the usual bows and reverence. He even passed by Tyus without a word.

  At the entrance, he heard a loud sigh, quite unusual for Artemia. The door was open, and he could not help but stand in plain sight of his superior.

  “Abe, give it a rest,” Artemia said. “You have my answer.”

  Neither her nor Abe had turned yet. Artemia, a woman who was probably in her late 30’s or early 40’s but looked much younger, stared down Abe with her dark, empty eyes that seemed to suggest a far more profound story than any of them could imagine. Abe had at least a decade on her, but Eric knew which one he’d rather have a stare down with.

  Eric had remembered how at one time he had thought those dark eyes indicated an inability to show empathy for anyone, but now he just assumed that it was to hide something. Not that Eric cared—Artemia had provided him training, answers, and opportunity. She could be sleeping with or conspiring to kill the emperor for all he cared as long as she provided those three things.

  “I’m just asking if this is a good—”

  “Abe, I will not ask again,” Artemia said, placing her hands rather loudly on the table.

  At that, she finally turned to Eric and gave a curt nod.

  “Good morning,” she said. “Have a seat.”

  Eric did so with a short nod in return, seating himself to the right of Abe. He looked at Abe, but Abe only gave a curt “Hi.” He had not seen his mentor this grumpy and bothered in quite some time. He loved Abe in part because Abe was the soothing river of calm compared to the uncontrollable fire he had.

  “Tomorrow marks one month of time which has passed since the destruction of Indica,” Artemia said. “It is a momentous occasion, and even now, the people know of what you’ve done.”

  Well, obviously. Have you walked through this palace at all in the last month?

  Still, one month flew by quickly. One month… one month since he’d seen any of the Shadows. Seen Kara or Zelda.

  Though Kara had tricked him, he still… was it feelings he felt for her? If it was, was it genuine feelings? Did he really like her? Or did he just like her because she was an attractive woman who wasn’t afraid to show her feelings for him?

  If it was the latter, was that OK? Or did that lessen it somehow?

  Did it even matter if so?

  It wasn’t even real on her end. Was it?

  Who cares. That’s done and past. You probably won’t ever see them again. Focus on the task at hand.

  “However, now, we have a new mission ahead, one that, Eric, I know you have sought for a long, long time.”

  “Quite,” Eric said.

  At this point, he just wanted the command: “Go.” Even if Artemia said it mid-meal, it wouldn’t have mattered to Eric. He could be in the middle of dreaming about his family and he would do it again. He’d follow that command sober, in a drunken stupor, with a woman, in the middle of fighting another dragon… the circumstances truly did not matter.

  “Artemia—”

  “Abe, now is not the time,” she said sternly. A haunting silence followed that did not allow for anyone to speak up until Artemia allowed it. “I imagine, Eric, that you would like to embark on this mission as soon as possible.”

  “An understatement, but true,” Eric said.

  “Then you will be pleased to know that we will leave tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow? Finally.

  But…

  Well…

  “Why not sooner?” Eric said.

  Artemia smiled, but Eric had the cold feeling that she wasn’t smiling because she agreed with him.

  “Eric, this is not a good idea,” Abe said sternly. “Your arm isn’t healed. Your mind isn’t in the right place. You need more time.”

  Eric shot his mentor a look of utter disgust. He couldn’t remember when he had last yelled at Abe, but he also couldn’t last remember when his mentor had been so lacking in understanding. If this was to hunt a normal dragon, even a large normal dragon, Eric would get it. His arm did need healing, and Abe generally knew what he was talking about. His thoughts limited his sleep and affected his rational thinking.

  But.

  This.

  Was.


  Ragnor!

  This was his family’s killer! Literally nothing else mattered. He would sacrifice just about anything to see the red demon fall.

  “My arm is fine,” Eric said coldly. “I don’t need my arm at full strength.”

  “Then your mind needs more time.”

  “My mind is fine!”

  There it was. A time when he had yelled at Abe. Abe said nothing, seeing that he had made all the impact that he could. Eric felt terrible but maintained his cold stare. He had to make it clear that nothing short of death would stop him.

  “As it is, Eric, while I appreciate the desire and desperation to begin the hunt, we have a good reason for not going now,” Artemia said, interrupting their stare down. “We are to be honored by the emperor before we depart tomorrow, and while we have enough influence and capitol at the moment that we could just leave, I myself will not leave, and I recommend you two don’t either. It is never a good idea to expend your capitol if you don’t have to, and while I certainly understand your pain and frustration, Eric, a week from now, you won’t be regretting waiting a day. It will take us several weeks to get to Ragnor—what’s one more day in return for future support of the empire?”

  No. No, you don’t understand my pain and frustration. What in the world makes you think you could understand losing a mother and a sister. What!

  Nothing, Artemia. Nothing. You don’t know pain. You just acknowledge it. But you don’t feel it. You don’t live it. Not like I do.

  “Of course, the choice is yours. You could leave without us if you’re that desperate. But Eric, may I suggest that you do not make the mistake of doing something you do not have to, no matter how much your mind craves a certain feeling. Understood?”

  Eric grimly nodded. Artemia took one last bite of her food and then stood.

  “There is also someone here who owes me more resources but has not contacted me since our initial meeting a month ago. Perhaps that person will wise up and support me, and our impending departure will spur that. If not, then when we return, I will simply make sure they pay us back then.”