by David Adams
They looked back at Lucien. “Six Lorgrasian horses? You travel well, or others were unseated. Perhaps in battle?”
“Saw signs of battle to north. Delosh and Omwee. Did not see it happen.”
The goblin thought for a moment. “So you sent to make alliances. Is this female your lone success?”
“All Arkania prepares for war. Lorgras, Delving, and Corindor will be readied by others met on journey. I hope to muster our people.”
“To what end?”
“Assault on Veldoon, and on Solek.”
“Your journey has been long?”
“Almost six months.”
“Things change much since then. Dead Legion had their time, but now take war somewhere else. But our land now worse than ever, and game scarce.”
“War has begun between packs,” Lucien stated.
The large goblin nodded. “I speak no more. Grosh will decide what to do with you. I hope I not need to make you walk. Journey swifter on horse.”
“I not doubt accuracy of your bowmen,” Lucien replied. “We ride with you as unbound prisoners.”
The lead goblin smiled. “Excellent. Kabrinda do show some intelligence from time to time. Keep weapons as they are and you keep them. Touch them and you die.” Before Lucien could reply he kicked his horse and started away to the east. Lucien and Alexis followed, and soon found themselves riding in the center of the group. The eyes of the goblins never left them, giving them no opportunity to consider escape.
* * *
Corson woke to find the dwarf camp alive with activity. A small breakfast had been laid beside his mat, which he dug into and enjoyed. As he was finishing, he saw Demetrius speaking with Gellan, and the two of them overlooking some sort of excavation work several hundred yards from the camp. As Corson approached, he saw the shovels of the dwarves rising and falling with well-honed precision. They worked in teams of four, and the earth and stone gave way quickly before them
Demetrius turned at the sound of his friend’s footsteps. “Good morning,” he said. The words and the tone were pleasant enough, but his face was somber.
“I must have been more tired than I knew,” Corson said. “I didn’t mean to let so much of the day slip by. You should have dumped some water on my head.”
“Tomorrow, perhaps,” Demetrius said. “I’ve just risen myself.”
“Your trip has been long and hard,” Gellan said. “A few hours of sleep while others keep watch is to be treasured, I would think. Trouble yourself no more with this.”
“My thanks, Gellan,” Corson answered. “For you kind words, the food and drink, and the sleep.”
“It was good to host friends again, even if the surroundings are not the fine carved halls dwarves prefer. With such grim work, it was good to talk of other things, if only for one evening.”
“ ‘Grim work’?”
Gellan gestured at the digging dwarves.
Corson looked a second time, and noticed now another tool being used—dwarven axes. And once an axe fell, the shovels returned dirt and stone to the hole they had made.
“We must deprive Solek of his resources,” Gellan said, “though it pains me to do so foul a deed.”
“You’re digging up graves and…”
Demetrius laid a hand gently on Corson’s shoulder and said simply, “Yes.”
Corson tried to untangle his tongue. “We have found need to do similar deeds. Dark though they seem, they are necessary.”
“I know,” said Gellan. “And I appreciate your words, though they cannot remove the stain I feel on my soul from ordering such a thing. Worse, these are dwarves who fell in battle and were buried in this open field by men. They meant well, and honored the dead I am sure, but these should rest in the halls of their ancestors. Not only do we abuse the bodies, we must rebury them in this place.”
“Someday you will return,” Demetrius said, “after Arkania has been purged of the Dark One, and will give these a proper dwarven funeral.”
Gellan forced a weak smile. “It is my fondest wish to do all you have said. My axe hungers to taste Solek’s blood, foul and black though it will likely be.” He fell silent for a moment, then shook himself back to the present. “Come, my friends. The sun is up and the day is brisk. I wish to have you depart upon more pleasant thoughts.”
They readied their horses and supplies, accepting only fresh water for their skins. They thanked Gellan for his hospitality and departed, promising to return or send messengers when plans were made to march to Veldoon.
* * *
Late the next day the Stone Mountains came into view as dark shadows on the southern horizon, beacons that drew them with the promise of home, as Corindor lay beyond them. They worked their way further west, so they could move around the end of the range. On the third night since departing from the dwarves, they camped in the western foothills of the mountains, knowing the next day they would pass into their own land once again. They spoke of this event with no excitement, despite the fact that their hearts longed for things left behind long ago. A shadow had stretched over all Arkania, and they feared the changes that they might find in familiar places and friends, assuming those places and friends continued to exist.
The moon was waning, a thin crescent hanging idly in a cloudless sky. As the two men spoke quietly, a dark shape passed before it, and on the ground the soft, pale light it cast flickered once. Corson subconsciously noticed it and stopped speaking, wondering for a moment what had disturbed him. Slowly he turned toward the moon.
Demetrius gazed skyward, “What’s wrong?”
“Thought the moon faded for a second, like something flew past it.” He scanned the darkening sky. “Probably nothing. A trick of the fire maybe.”
“Don’t be so swift to discount it.”
“Did you see anything?”
“No, but the moon was to my back. Best we stay alert. Better put out the fire for now.”
They beat out the small blaze and covered the glowing embers with dirt. The night went from deep purple to black as the sun descended further beyond the horizon. The sliver of moon glowed a sharp silver-blue.
“There,” Corson said, grabbing Demetrius by the arm and pointing to the southeast. A large creature turned a lazy circle in the sky some distance off, two great wings supporting a long, slender body. “Looks almost like a small dragon.”
Demetrius studied it for a time before speaking. “The tail looks wrong, though, down towards the end. Maybe it was hurt in a fight. It is small…for a dragon.”
Corson squinted to try to focus his vision. “You’re right, in a way. It’s not a damaged tail, it’s a stinger. That thing’s a wyvern.”
Demetrius raised an eyebrow. “You know of such creatures?”
“Read about them.” He smiled, embarrassed. “Something to do on rainy days when off duty. I thought I was reading about myths and legends.”
“Apparently not. At least not in these days. Do you know anything about these wyverns?”
“Not much that I can recall. Related to dragons, perhaps. Aggressive. Meat-eaters. No breath weapons like dragons, but I imagine the stinger would be nasty.”
“Fatal,” Demetrius stated flatly.
“A good bet. Of course, this is stuff I read in a book. I doubt the author ever saw a wyvern.”
“Maybe not, but tales passed down through time can become myth and legend, even while truth remains at the core.”
Corson chuckled. “Who are you and what have you done with Demetrius?”
“I deal with facts as much as I can. That thing is real, whether from legend or not. I would rather adjust my perception of what is and can be real rather than fighting it and going mad in the process.”
The wyvern suddenly darted down and was lost from sight for a moment. When it reappeared it slowly rose up into the air. A small animal—a sheep or pig most likely—hung limply in its talons. It flew east for a time, and then glided downward into a wooded area to enjoy its meal.
“Hop
efully that’ll keep its hunger satisfied for a while,” Corson said.
Demetrius nodded. “All the same, we better keep a good watch, and leave the fire out.”
Corson was in complete agreement.
* * *
As they set out the next day, they had to decide where to go once in Corindor. The decent options, based on the state of things when they left, were Steeple Rock, Galena, Port Charles, and Port Hydleton. They knew the best chance of finding any sort of population base, army, or leadership was further south, and they could reach Galena most easily and go east from there to the other cities if necessary. They decided to move toward the White River, and from there they could simply follow it downstream to their destination.
It took them most of the day to reach the river, and they made camp for the night within sight of the water. The weather held dry, and was warm for the season, so they took their food cold and went without a fire again. They scanned the sky and passed the night in silence, and there was no sign of the wyvern.
They followed the river south the next day, keeping it in sight but preferring the shelter of the thick bushes and trees that lined the river’s course rather than the rocky edges of the stream itself. A year ago they would have expected to see some boat traffic on the river, moving goods between Steeple Rock and Galena, but today nothing traveled in the river bed but the slow-moving water.
“Think we’ll see anyone at all before we get to Galena?” Corson asked.
“Who knows?” Demetrius said with a shrug. “If folks are huddled together, it would likely be in a city. But the Legion prefers to strike there. It’s possible a large group is somewhere in the wilder lands of central Corindor. Or they could be scattered so as to not give the Legion an easy target. Regardless, they’d need to be close to fresh water.”
“Unless something drives them away from it,” said Corson, thinking of the Legion, and the wyvern.
“They’d still need water,” Demetrius said with a scowl. “I hadn’t given much thought to no one being here, and I really don’t want to. But we should keep an eye open for any sign of a large crossing of the river and a migration west.”
“Into the Shadowlands.”
“Can things be any worse there? We know Solek has acted there as well, from what Lucien has told us, but our people didn’t have such knowledge. Given a choice between the Legion and entering the goblin lands, what would you choose?”
Corson rode on in silence, not answering the question. Finally he said, “Let’s hope it has not come to that.”
The sun was just touching the western horizon when a long, high wail pierced the air. Corson shook off a shiver and reined in his horse. Demetrius moved up next to him.
The wail sounded again, and now they saw it, the wyvern flying high in the air some way off to the east. The fact that it had apparently moved the same distance south as they had over the last two days was unsettling, but not nearly as much as the fact that the latest cry that left the wyvern’s throat was answered by not one, but two similar calls. In moments the trio of flying beasts was circling just across the river, their heads turning this way and that, searching the land below.
“Hunting for food?” Corson whispered.
“I hope so.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve wondered what Solek has been planning while we’ve been traveling. I’m not sure what he would use as spies, but something with wings would make a good choice.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
The wyverns continued to move in an ever-expanding circle. As the sweeps widened, they drew closer to the riders and their horses.
“Know anything about their eyesight or their hearing?” Demetrius asked.
“Sorry,” Corson replied, shaking his head.
The wyverns now passed almost directly over the two men. The riders held their breath and waited, stroking their horses to try to soothe them, hoping they would make no revealing sound. It was the third horse that did them in. It sniffed the air, then looked up, spotting one of the great beasts gliding majestically overhead. It reared and screamed, kicking at the air and then pulling hard on the rope that held it fast to Corson’s horse.
The nearest wyvern wheeled around and spotted them easily enough through the trees. It let out a short cry, then raced at them.
The horse refused to calm, and now that the others had been fully alerted to the danger they became restless as well. “Cut him loose,” Demetrius ordered.
Corson sliced the rope with his sword and the spare horse bolted. All three wyverns started after it, but only for a moment. Two checked themselves and wheeled about, returning their attention to the riders. The third raced low over the trees and was soon out of sight.
“I wish we had a bow,” said Corson.
“How well can you fight mounted?”
“Against a flying creature? Never tried it. Don’t like my chances much. And it doesn’t look like we can outrun them.”
“Not through these trees,” Demetrius agreed. “If we dismount, the horses are gone, and if we tie them to a tree, they have no chance. At least free and running…” Demetrius trailed off. Either way, he felt like he was sentencing the animals to death. Hard enough with any worthy mount, and these Lorgrasian horses were that and more.
“We have to let them go,” Corson said. “They’ve earned the opportunity to have a fighting chance.”
“That they have.” Demetrius sighed and dismounted, patting the side of his horse’s neck and offering his thanks. Then he slapped it on the shank, causing it to race away. Corson did the same with his mount.
The two men stood there, swords drawn, feeling very alone. The wyverns had immediately taken up pursuit of the horses, giving the men some time to gather themselves. The fading day had taken on a haunting red glow, as the half-set sun lit distant clouds on the western horizon.
“Stay close to the trees,” Demetrius said. “If they want us, we’ll make them fight us on land. We need to see if there’s somewhere we can go to ground. Let’s move quickly; they’ll soon return.”
They worked their way steadily south as night began to fall, moving in sporadic bursts through open areas to reach the sheltered places under the trees. Only a few minutes had passed when one of the wyverns returned, claws, jaws and stinger dripping with dark liquid. They had no doubt about what it was.
The wyvern flew lower with each pass, growing confident that the men below did not have the weapons that often stung its kind while they were still high in the air.
From the ground the wooded areas acted as both shield and hindrance. Demetrius and Corson could almost feel the wyvern’s presence, but they could only see it when it passed above them.
“Should we split up?” Corson asked. “It can’t follow both of us.”
“You’re right, but I’d rather try to take it down together. We should see if it’ll come down if we stop here. If we keep moving its friends will likely join it shortly.” Demetrius looked over the area around them. “Not bad,” he said. “Stay here.”
He waited until he saw the wyvern begin another pass, then darted across a small patch of open ground to the next stand of trees, timing his dash so the beast was sure to spot him.
The wyvern was even quicker than Demetrius had given it credit for, but he timed his run well. He reached the temporary safety of the trees a second or two before the wyvern could reach him. It pulled up and soared skyward, letting out a short cry of frustration.
“Be ready!” Demetrius shouted across the open area.
Corson waved his sword to show that he was, then pressed close to the nearest tree.
The wyvern sailed overhead twice more, its dark eyes glistening in the last light of day as it searched for its prey. On the third pass it settled into the opening, its wings remaining spread as it screamed at Demetrius. If it thought to intimidate him, it must have been disappointed.
“I don’t suppose you have the wit to speak the common tongue,” Demetrius said t
o it. He stood casually between two trees, making himself plainly visible, but his muscles were tensed and ready to spring at any time.
The beast snorted and squawked in reply, then moved forward, bobbing up and down as it walked on its short, thin legs. It kept its head high, and waving back and forth behind it was the large stinger. Demetrius thought the stinger might kill him even if it held no poison, such was its size.
Corson moved out from under the shelter of the trees, advancing slowly. He wasn’t sure when he should strike, but he knew when the time came the window of opportunity would be small. He glanced at the ground beneath him, fearful of the dried twig or leaf that might give him away. After a dozen steps he knew he was committed. If the wyvern turned on him now he would have to fight.
Demetrius saw Corson coming and kept up the banter to hold the wyvern’s attention. As it moved closer he found it harder to hold his ground, and as its head lowered he could only hope that it had no breath weapon, unlike its cousins, the dragons.
The wyvern’s eyes flashed to Demetrius’ sword and then back to his face. It bellowed another challenge, then coiled itself for a strike.
Demetrius could see it coming and prepared to spring aside. “Now,” he thought, willing Corson to swift action, but not wanting to shout the word for fear he would give his friend away.
Corson continued to close the gap, but when the wyvern paused, he did not interpret it as preparation for an attack, and fearing even the sound of a footfall, he froze. The wyvern then sprang forward, and as it did so it was completely out of his reach.
Demetrius lunged aside at the first sign of movement, but the creature was much faster than he anticipated. Its head rammed into his ribs, flinging him in a different direction from his initial leap. He slammed into a tree, his head and legs snapping back as his back absorbed the blow. He fell to the ground, breathless.
The wyvern was big, but with its wings in it could move easily enough in the woods, its body more like that of a thick snake. The momentum of its charge carried it beyond Demetrius’ prone form, but it quickly gathered itself and spun about, its talons finding easy purchase in the soft soil.