The backpack suddenly complied, and dove down toward the forest directly below them. One of the dark shadows passed through a lighted area and gave a shriek. Murland gasped. The backpack was bringing him down right in the creature’s path.
“No, no, up, up!”
But too late. The backpack dropped him in a dark clearing with only a single beam of sunlight peering through the thick pine branches. Again came that terrible shrieking sound, which was answered by three other creatures. Murland ran into that small patch of sunlight, urging his backpack to fly with every shaking step. He spun round and round as the creatures continued to call to each other from every direction.
“Come on backpack, we’ve got to get out of—”
Murland’s voice was lost to terror, as directly in front of him, less than ten feet away, one of the shadows emerged from the woods. The creature had no face that could be seen, just an eternal darkness that seemed to churn beneath a low-drawn hood. A dark cloak, like folded bat’s wings, covered the creature, its ragged flaps dancing in the still air like black flames.
“Meeerlaaand,” came a terrible screeching voice. “Come to usss.”
Murland swooned as a soothing wave of sleepiness came over him. He was suddenly overcome with an urge to be out of the sunlight. The cool darkness of the wood called to him.
“Ssstep out of the sssunlight,” said the creature, which was now floating toward him.
“Murland!” a faint voice called to him from far away. “Murland, get out of there!”
He knew that he should heed the voice, but he could not fight the urge to be out of the light. He took a step toward the creature, which rippled and writhed in the faint light seeping into the clearing. The creature reached out, and a black, skeletal hand emerged from beneath the ragged sleeve. Murland stood there, entranced, reaching out his own hand.
Suddenly, something lifted him off the ground and into the sunlight, and below him, the four shadowy creatures shrieked with rage. Murland shook his head, snapping himself out of the strange trance and realizing that his backpack had decided to get going after all.
“What took you so long?” he said breathlessly, shivering with the thought of how close he had come to the terrible creature.
The backpack flew him to the road, where the companions sat waiting for him on their mounts.
“There he is!” Gibrig said delightedly, pointing up from his saddle.
“Go, go, go!” cried Sir Eldrick, and the companions spurred their mounts into action.
Murland flew above his friends as they sped down the road, followed closely by the terrible cries of the darklings.
Sir Eldrick pushed the mounts hard for an hour, until the sun had risen over the tallest of trees and bathed the road in bright sunlight. As they came to a bridge spanning a wide river, Sir Eldrick finally reined in his horse and told the others to do the same.
Everyone was panting with the exertion of riding so hard for so long, and each of them glanced back the way they had come more than once as they brought the mounts down to the water.
“What in the world were those things?” Brannon asked, seemingly quite flustered.
“They are said to be servants of the Dark Lord Zuul,” said Sir Eldrick.
“Zuul, but, but that is impossible,” said Brannon with a shiver. “Zuul was defeated long ago by Allan Kazam the Mighty.”
“Yes, he was defeated, but his spirit endured. There have been stories of strange happenings around the Twisted Tower. It seems that perhaps the tales are true. For if the darklings have returned, then it means that Zuul is gaining in power.” He turned to Murland, who stood behind the companions, petrified. “They are said to be wreathed in shadow, with only darkness where their faces should be. Is this what you saw?”
Murland slowly nodded, entranced by the memory. He shook it from his mind and shivered. “They called to me in a terrible voice, and I had no control over my body. I…I nearly touched one.”
“It is good that you did not,” said Sir Eldrick.
“But what do they want with us?” said Gibrig, biting his nails.
“That is a question better suited for Kazimir, for it is one that I cannot answer.”
“Boy, I wish he was here right now.”
“Fret not, young Hogstead. The darklings cannot bear the sunlight. They will hunker down in the shadows and wait for nightfall. That is why it is imperative that we put as much distance between us and them as possible during the day.”
“And what about when night falls?” asked Brannon, absently stroking his white steed as it drank from the river.
“We will continue on after the sun sets without making camp,” said Sir Eldrick. “We can put twenty miles between us today if we’re lucky, and though they can travel swiftly in the dark, they will not catch up to us by morning. Hopefully by then, Kazimir will come to us.”
Murland thought of facing the shadowy creatures again and inwardly cringed.
“Murland…Murland!” said Sir Eldrick.
“What?” said the young apprentice, snapping out of his dark daydreams.
“I said that you should gather that soil there by the riverbank.”
“Oh…right.” Murland had forgotten all about his wizard leaf seeds, and he was glad for the distraction.
From his backpack he took a mug and scooped up the rich, wet soil by the bank of the river and carried it over to Brannon, who was combing his steed.
“Will this do?” Murland asked.
Brannon put a finger in the soil and brought it to his lips, tasting it. “That will do fine,” he said, and spit out the bits of dirt. He dug a small hole in the ground where the sunlight hit, before pouring the moist dirt into it. “Let me see those seeds of yours.”
Murland eagerly retrieved his seeds from his pocket and carefully emptied the contents of the small sack into Brannon’s outstretched hand. The elf inspected the three seeds for a moment, and then brought them to his lips and began chanting something softly in Elvish.
“How long is this going to take?” Sir Eldrick asked, glancing back east.
“It will only take a few minutes if I am not bothered,” said Brannon. “Murland, using your finger, poke a hole in the soil up to your first knuckle.”
Murland did as he was told, and Brannon dropped the seeds into the hole and covered them with dirt.
“Get me a cup of water,” said the elf, and Murland hurried to comply.
Brannon poured the water over the dirt, motioning for the others to step back. Willow, Gibrig, and Murland watched in awe as Brannon weaved his hands back and forth over the wet earth and began chanting his Elvish words louder and faster.
Suddenly, a seedling poked out of the soil, followed by two more, which quickly grew to six inches, and then a foot. Branches popped out and grew outward as the base thickened. Brannon continued his spell, chanting musically and waving his hands in the air before him. The plants grew to five feet tall and suddenly sprouted fat green buds that glistened in the sunlight.
Brannon finished his spell work and stood back to inspect the specimen.
“Wow!” said Murland. “That was incredible! Look at all that leaf.”
“Thank you. It is quite a beauty, if I do say so myself,” said Brannon.
“Mount up, you two,” Sir Eldrick told Willow and Gibrig. “Make it quick,” he said to the other two.
Brannon picked four long buds from the plants and handed them to Murland.
“They’re so sticky,” said Murland.
“Indeed. They need to dry out for a few days. So put them in something, and do not disturb them or get them wet. Understand?”
“Yes, thank you, Brannon. I really owe you one.”
Brannon seemed to like the sound of that, for he genuinely smiled.
“Alright, let’s go,” said Sir Eldrick. “We’ve got a long hard road ahead of us.”
Chapter 21
The Hog Farmer and the King
Hagus Hogstead reined in his mountain ram a
nd adjusted his eyepatch as he reached the market at the foot of the Iron Mountains. He had traveled all day and night to find answers to the questions that had been keeping him from sleep.
He hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye to his son, and couldn’t for the life of him figure out why in the hells Gibrig had been chosen to be a Champion of the Dragon. Hagus was proud of his son, to be sure, but Gibrig was no champion, and something smelled fishy to the old dwarven hog farmer.
“Ye seen Kegley ‘round?” Hagus asked a merchant he knew well.
“He be down in the human district tryin’ to haggle himself a cow, last I seen him,” said the merchant.
“Many thanks,” said Hagus and snapped the reins.
He found Kegley leading a fat cow out of the human district, wearing a smug grin on his face. When he saw Hagus, his face dropped, but he quickly put on a jovial smile.
“Hagus Hogstead? How ye been? I heard ‘bout yer lad, Gibrig. Ain’t that somethin’?”
“It be somethin’ alright,” said Hagus, stopping and dismounting. He hiked up his trousers and squared on the shorter dwarf. “I came to ask ye a few questions.”
“Questions,” said Kegley, scratching his head.
Hagus watched him closely. The merchant was obviously nervous.
“What happened the day that me lad was chosen as the Champion o’ the Dragon? Folks say that they saw ye with him that afternoon.”
“Well,” said Kegley, not quite able to meet Hagus’s eyes. “He came to sell me a hog, if I remember clearly.”
“And…”
“And, well, he got all stubborn like, ye see, and wouldn’t sell me the hog. Said it was his friend. Named it Snorts, he did.”
“I told him not to name that damn hog,” said Hagus, shaking his head. “Well, then what happened?”
Kegley rubbed his bearded chin, looking like he would rather not say. “Hells, Hagus, ain’t no one told ye?”
“Told me what?”
Kegley let out a sigh and shook his head. “Ye see, the king came along while Gibrig and I was hagglin’ and such, and the king offers Gibrig triple the gold that I did for the blasted hog.”
“He wanted to pay three times as much?” said Hagus, proud that his hog had caught the king’s attention.
“Sure he did, but yer blasted lad there, he told the king no!”
“He what!” said Hagus, gaining the attention of the human merchants nearby. He pulled Kegley closer to his ram and glared at him sternly. “What ye sayin’?”
“Just like I said. He went and told the king no. Well, the king was hot, he was. But he threw Gib the money and went about his way with a guard leadin’ that hog away.” He stopped and took off his hat, wringing it with his hands. “I tried to stop him, Hagus, I really did. But that lad o’ yers be pig-headed. No offense intended, ye be knowin’. He went and snatched that rope up and slapped that hog’s arse, tellin’ the fat beast to run away, run away.”
“No…” Hagus breathed, suddenly very afraid for his son.
“He did, or I be a sucklin’ whelp. He knocked over a guard and hurried after that hog. Why, I tell ye, the king was furious. It be a good thing Kazimir picked Gib to be the champion, ‘cause I swear the king wanted his head on a pike.”
“Thank ye, Kegley. Sorry me boy gave ye such trouble,” said Hagus, bowing his head in shame and turning back to his mount.
“Ain’t no hard feelin’s. We all did stupid things when we was young,” said Kegley behind him.
Hagus barely registered the merchant’s words, so shocked he was by Gibrig’s behavior. He steered his ram back toward the mountain and kicked the sides of the beast, intent on apologizing personally to the king.
He rode his ram up the pass and through the hundred-foot iron gates leading into the mountain. As he rode through the city of Hammerstrike, someone recognized him and called out triumphantly, “Long live the Hogsteads!” Others took up the call as well, and Hagus raised his fist to placate their calls. They cheered behind him as he hurried through the city toward the castle at its center, built into a gargantuan stalagmite.
“I be here to see the king,” he told the guards, who bowed repeatedly as they opened the gates.
Hagus snapped the reins, riding his ram right into the castle proper before leaping off and rushing to the king’s audience chamber. The two guards standing at the door crossed halberds, blocking the way.
“Speak yer name and yer business,” said one.
“I be Hagus Hogstead, son o’ Harrod Hogstead, father o’ Gibrig Hogstead—Champion o’ the Dragon o’ the Iron Mountains. I wish to have words with me king.”
The guards swiftly pulled back their weapons and offered him a bow. “Good Hogstead, please wait but a moment,” said one, and turned and disappeared behind the door. He came back a moment later. “He’ll see ye in his private chambers shortly. Please, follow me.”
“Very well,” said Hagus, and he followed the dwarf along the veranda that wound its way up the stalagmite castle. After ten minutes and many stairs, they came to the tip top of the formation, where Hagus was shown to a bench beside the balcony overlooking the city. The hog farmer instead stood while he waited, enjoying the rare view of Hammerstrike.
“The king be seein’ ye now,” said the guard.
Hagus followed him through the threshold and into a dome-ceilinged chamber, the walls of which were covered with gold leaf. A large candelabra holding a dozen torches hung from strong chains, its light shimmering and shining off those luminescent walls, giving everything within a golden glow. King Dranlar Ironfist sat waiting for him upon an intricately carved golden throne at the center of the room. A quick look around told Hagus that this room was indeed the king’s private quarters, for a library containing dozens of tall bookshelves adorned one entire side, and a screen wall blocked off the other, which Hagus assumed to be the sleeping quarters.
The guard led him down the long red carpet to the throne and stopped. Together he and Hagus bowed before the king. “Sire, I give to ye Hagus Hogstead, son o’ Harrod Hogstead, father o’ Gibrig Hogstead—Champion o’ the Dragon o’ the Iron Mountains.”
“Welcome, Hagus,” said the king, offering him a slow nod.
Hagus had only ever met Dranlar once, ten years ago, when one of Hagus’s hogs had been chosen to grace the king’s table during a dinner with human dignitaries from Magestra. Hagus himself had made the first cuts, and even plated the meat for the king. But he doubted that Dranlar remembered him.
“That will be all, Barkwar,” said the king, and the guard turned on his heel and marched out of the room.
Dranlar sat there leisurely upon the throne, looking down at Hagus with a glint of interest in his icy blue eyes. He stroked his black, braided beard as he stared, and Hagus wondered if he saw anger in that unreadable glare.
“What brings ye to me halls, Master Hogstead?”
“Sire,” said Hagus, bowing again, and straightening his eyepatch. “I came to offer me apologies for me son’s behavior. I heard what he did in the market, and—”
“Heard it from who?”
“From Kegley Quartz, Sire. Says he was there when me lad disrespected ye like he did.”
“And ye believe the words o’ this dwarf, do ye?”
Hagus was taken aback. He hadn’t assumed or suspected that Kegley had been lying. “Well…I known the dwarf goin’ on five decades. I ain’t ever known him to be a liar.”
Dranlar studied Hagus, making him increasingly uneasy. “Come,” he said, rising from his throne. “Let us have a drink.”
“Yes, Me King.”
Hagus followed him to a sitting area in the library and was offered a seat. He waited as the king moved to a small bar and poured two glasses of amber liquor. The king took off his long, trailing cloak, tossed it onto the back of a chair, rolled his thick shoulders, and returned with the two drinks. Hagus rose to take his, feeling quite queer having the king serve him.
“To Gibrig Hogstead, may his sacrifice keep u
s safe from the wrath of the dreaded Drak’Noir,” said the king, and he tapped his glass against Hagus’s before shooting back the drink in one swallow.
“Thank ye, Me King,” said Hagus after shooting back his drink in the same manner. He fought the cough growing in his throat from the harsh liquor. He wasn’t much of a drinker, and only took wine with a meal when he and Gib had company over. He never drank liquor.
“I be acceptin’ yer apology,” said the king. “And I be trustin’ that ye be speakin’ ‘bout the incident at the market to no one. I can’t be havin’ me subjects thinkin’ they can insult their king without no consequences.”
“Of course, Sire. I understand.”
“Yer friend Kegley don’t understand, though, does he? That must be remedied.”
“Ah, he didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” said Hagus, and then he realized his mistake, for the king’s brow rose threateningly, and his hard eyes squared on him.
“Sorry, Me King,” said Hagus with multiple bows. “I asked him, is all. Any dwarf would answer a father’s questions about his lad.”
“Yer son, and Kegley, will have a chance to redeem themselves,” said the king evenly.
“Then…then ye won’t be punishin’ Gib when he returns?”
A small smirk played at the edge of Dranlar’s mouth. One that gave Hagus a sinking feeling. “I have accepted yer apology, Master Hogstead, but I did not say that I forgive that disrespectful little shyte o’ a son o’ yers. Never in me years as king have I been treated with such utter contempt. I thought to take his head and make it a centerpiece at me banquet, but then Kazimir arrived to announce the champion, and I thought of a much better punishment.”
Hagus felt his bottom lip quivering and fought hard to bite back the terrible words churning around inside his brain.
Dranlar smiled, showing his gold-plated teeth, seeming to thoroughly enjoy Hagus’s shock.
“It is little known. But the champions that Kazimir chooses every generation are no heroes. They be worthless idiots, like that son o’ yers. People who no one wants—or people who got to be gotten rid of.”
Champions of the Dragon: (Humorous Fantasy) (Epic Fallacy Book 1) Page 15