Erik And The Dragon ( Book 4)

by Sam Ferguson

  Now as he walked through the forest he found himself traveling with purpose, almost as if the forest had become more familiar to him. He changed course by instinct, without regard for the sun’s position, crossing over streams, through groves and fields, and around hills until he finally came to a village of seven buildings surrounded by a couple of large wheat farms and pig corrals.

  As he looked down from the forest at the old wooden buildings, watching the few visible farmers going about their work, he realized that when he had absorbed the bear’s energy, he had also absorbed its knowledge of the forest and the area.

  What, then, might happen should he consume the vampire’s energy?

  The thought was so delicious to him that he almost salivated. Without wasting another moment, he descended from the hill and walked into the village. He got no closer than one hundred yards from the closest wheat field before a bell rang out in the center of the village. The laborers stopped working and pulled rugged, crude short swords from their belts and moved into defensive positions in the main road. A couple of burly men hurriedly drove a horse-drawn wagon up behind the laborers and turned it to the side. Then they jumped into the back and raised some sort of large contraption that Aparen could only guess was some sort of missile launcher.

  The large men alternated up and down as they cranked a large wheel. Even from where Aparen was he could hear the gears clicking and straining under the load. One of the men put a large shaft into the contraption.

  “Looks like a modified scorpion launcher,” Aparen said to himself.

  “Halt there,” one of the laborers shouted at the top of his lungs.

  Aparen paused momentarily and watched the men curiously. “I mean you no harm,” he shouted back.

  “State your name and purpose,” one of the burly men with the scorpion launcher bellowed.

  Aparen decided not to use his name. “I have come from the south, I heard there is a vampire that lives in these parts. I have come to slay him.”

  In unison the men all started laughing hysterically. It took them several minutes to calm down and it appeared as though a couple of them were wiping the sides of their eyes as they tried to stifle their laughing. Aparen resumed walking toward the town and one of the laborers grabbed a bow from the back of the wagon and fired a warning shot in Aparen’s direction.

  He decided it was time to demonstrate some of his ability. He sent a fireball up and caught the arrow a few yards away from where he stood. “I have more where that came from,” he said. “However, as I said, I am here to hunt a vampire. I am in need of food, and information about the monster.”

  The bowman stepped forward and strung another arrow. “A few paltry magic tricks will be no match for the vampire,” he said. “You are a fool if you think you can succeed where so many others have failed before.”

  Aparen walked toward them quietly, keeping an eye on the men with the scorpion launcher. Once he was within a few yards of them he stopped and folded his arms. “If I fail, it will mean nothing for you, but if I succeed, then it will change your lives.” The men glanced to each other and then nodded.

  “Alright,” the bowman said. “If you are set on throwing yourself at him, then I suppose that is your business.”

  “What if he makes the vampire angry and he comes after us for revenge?” one of the other laborers asked.

  “Sooner or later he will come for you,” Aparen said. “You can either help me put him down, or you can slink back to your fields and live out the rest of your days wondering when he will come for you.”

  The other laborer snorted, but said nothing. The two burly men nodded and stepped away from the scorpion launcher. “Let him do as he wishes,” one of them said. Then they climbed back into the front and started driving back into the village without another word.

  “I’m Gerald,” the bowman said.

  “Are you the mayor?” Aparen asked.

  Gerald laughed and shook his head. “We don’t have a mayor,” he replied. “There are only a few families here in the village.” The other laborers put their swords away and slowly made their ways back to the fields.

  “So, where can I find him?” Aparen asked.

  “You look a bit young to be hunting vampires,” Gerald said. “You sure you are up to this?”

  Aparen forced a confident smile and nodded. “There is more to me than what meets the eye, I assure you.”

  Gerald nodded and chuckled softly. “I suppose we will find out soon enough.” He motioned for Aparen to follow him and then turned to lead him to the nearest farmhouse. Aparen noted the three rocking chairs on the old, gray porch. It appeared that Gerald had a wife and at least one child. As the man opened the door to the farmhouse and walked in, Aparen could smell soup over the fire pit in the center of the house. As he stepped inside he saw a small bed on one side of the room and a larger bed on the opposite side. A round, wooden table was situated near the back wall and a couple of rugged wardrobes lined the front wall.

  The man caught Aparen scanning the house and pointed to the small bed. “My son was only six when the vampire came. He was one of the first to disappear in the night.”

  Aparen looked to the bed and noticed that it was perfectly made up, as if Gerald still expected the boy to come home at any moment. “When was that?” Aparen asked.

  “About seven years ago now,” Gerald said. “It drove my wife mad. When I gave up searching for the creature, my wife left me. She took the axe we used to chop wood and left into the night. I tried to stop her, but she was beyond reason, and I was the last person she would have listened to anyhow.” Gerald paused and a tear welled up in his left eye. “I never saw her again. I assume the vampire got her too.”

  “You didn’t go after her?” Aparen asked.

  Gerald shrugged. “By that time there were many other families that had fallen prey to the vampire. News spread that other villages had been attacked also. There wasn’t much use in going after the vampire anymore. Anyone who did disappeared.”

  Aparen shook his head. He could almost understand Gerald’s reasons, but he couldn’t get past the fact that the man had allowed his wife to go after a vampire. “Where can I find him?”

  Gerald went and sat on a wooden chair near the round table. “No one knows,” he said. “Some say there is a cave or a castle out in the forest, but if that is true no one has ever found it and lived to tell the tale.” Gerald bent down and pulled his boots off, wiggling his toes underneath threadbare socks that looked as though they were about to unravel entirely. “If I were you, I would go northwest. There is an old, dry stream bed that leads up to a gray mountain that is riddled with caves. If I were a vampire that is where I would go.”

  “Would that give him easy access to all of the nearby villages?” Aparen asked.

  Gerald shrugged. “I suppose it is easy enough as any other place.”

  A thought came to Aparen then. Perhaps everyone had been looking in the wrong places. “Are there any clearings close to the center between all of the villages?”

  Gerald arched an eyebrow and folded his arms as he leaned back. “If you take the main road north, you will find a large field about half a day from here. There’s nothing there though, absolutely nothing but a few wild flowers.”

  Aparen nodded. “I’ll start there. Thank you for your hospitality.”

  “How old are you?” Gerald asked.

  Aparen smiled and exited the farmhouse without answering. He walked quickly through the village. He waved when he passed the burly men sitting atop their wagon and drinking from flasks. They waved in kind and continued talking between themselves.

  If Dremathor had positioned himself in the middle of a valley, then perhaps the vampire had done the same. It seemed a good tactic. All of the villages would send their men to the caves and deep into the forests, all while the vampire would be smack in the middle, within easy reach of the womenfolk whenever the fancy struck to hunt. No one would ever suspect it. If he was wrong, it would only cos
t him a little bit of time, and he could simply move on to the next village and ask for more information. On the other hand, if he was right, then he might be able to return and free Silvi before the moon rose in the sky.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Gilifan pulled his cloak tighter around himself. A cold, biting wind tore in from the north, swiping at the goose bumps on his skin. Nerekar hardly seemed to notice. He just walked on, letting his over cloak flap wildly behind him. The necromancer hated these lands. No matter what time of year he arrived, it was always cold as a witch’s heart. Sheets of ice and snow piled high in the winter followed by deceptively bright, sunny summers chilled by northern winds that brought the arctic cold with it. It was not as bad further inland, but here on the coast, it was eternally cold and bitter.

  “Do you know the way?” Nerekar asked, pulling Gilifan from his thoughts.

  Gilifan nodded. He looked back to the ship they had disembarked from only ten minutes before. The crew was busy casting off from the lonely, long abandoned dock. They were obviously not eager to stay and wait for Gilifan to finish his business.

  “I know the way,” the necromancer replied evenly. “We go to Och’Duun, a port city perhaps an hour’s walk from here.”

  “If it has a port, then why did we dock here?” Nerekar asked.

  “Because the orcs of Och’Duun would sink a human ship on sight.”

  “But they will not attack us on foot?” Nerekar countered.

  “You will not enter the city with me,” Gilifan replied. “I expect you to find your own way in. As for me, they will not attack me. Their chief owes me a favor.”

  “An orc owes you a favor?” Nerekar smirked.

  “Don’t belittle the orcs,” Gilifan snapped. “A favor promised by an orc is worth more than a king’s alliance with other men.” Gilifan reached down deep into his pocket and pulled out a round coin made of hematite. “Do you know what this is?” the necromancer asked.

  Nerekar shook his head. “Child’s money?” he guessed sarcastically.

  “It is a token of debt.” Gilifan held it up in the light to show it off. “On this side you see the face of the first ruler of Hammenfein and the creator of the orcs.” He flipped the coin over. “On this side you see the symbol of the Tiger Clan, the strongest orc tribe in these lands. No orc would dare lay a finger on me so long as I carry this.”

  “Why do you have it?” Nerekar asked.

  “Never mind about that,” Gilifan said. “You just remember what I told you.”

  Nerekar nodded grimly. “If a white scarf hangs from the third window in the longhouse, then I am released from our contract. If a red scarf hangs, then I am to strike before the sun rises.”

  “See to it that you do not fail,” Gilifan warned.

  “I have never failed,” Nerekar growled.

  “Neither have you ever tested your mettle against an orc.” A howling wind tore through the air then, bending the brown, brittle grass down to the earth and forcing Gilifan to tuck his face into the crook of his elbow. “I hate this wind,” he grumbled.

  The pair travelled over rolling hills next to the sea as the road wound around some and over others. The beach in this part of the realm was very rocky, and smelled of salt and rotting flesh. They passed by an old oak tree worn smooth by drifting onto the beach and sun bleached so that it might easily have been mistaken for a great bone if not for the still intact branches that now gave roost to a flock of seagulls. The birds squawked loudly, some of them fighting over a couple of small crabs unlucky enough to have ventured into the open and been caught by the vigilant birds.

  Gilifan and Nerekar walked on the rocky road for about half an hour before Gilifan pointed out a large, black tree. “In the hollow of that tree you will find a map of Och’Duun.”

  Nerekar nodded and went toward it. “I will look for the scarf tonight,” the assassin promised.

  Gilifan continued walking without slowing his pace or even waving to his hired thug. He pulled his cloak in again, warding off the harsh wind as it kicked up for the third time This wind brought with it small, stinging drops of rain that bit his cheek and drove the cold into his bones despite his best efforts to shield himself with his cloak. The necromancer cursed the rain. He thought for a moment to use his magic and dispel the horrid weather, but he knew better. He was in orc country now, and they did not take kindly to magic. Should he use it, some orc patrolman might order an attack without bothering to come close enough for the necromancer to display his token. Better to face sharp drops of ice water than to try and deflect an orc’s arrow.

  As he suspected, a patrol was only a few minutes away. There were four of them, that he could see, and they saw him from afar and started galloping toward him. Being familiar with the orcs, he knew that seeing four meant there were likely ten more orcs nearby that he hadn’t yet spotted. Fortunately, he knew how to react so as to not draw their ire. The necromancer stopped walking and held his left hand out to the side as far as possible, empty palm facing out. He extended his right hand out in front of him, displaying the token prominently in his palm for the orcs to see. In all other respects, he stood still and quiet, waiting for them to get to him.

  The sharp point of a spear prodded into his back, deep enough to jar him forward, but not so hard as to break the skin.

  “On your knees,” the orc said in Common Tongue.

  Gilifan obliged the orc while keeping his eyes on the four riders galloping toward him. “I have come to see your chief,” he said. “I have his token in my hand.

  “Quiet,” the orc instructed. “Maernok will decide your fate.”

  Gilifan nodded and closed his mouth. He had hoped for someone else to be the first to find him, but there was nothing he could do about that now.

  The four riders pulled their horses to a stop only a few yards away. Gilifan looked up, squinting at the dust the horses had kicked up. The first rider swung his leg over the horse and jumped down to the ground. The many plates of his steel armor jingled together. The necromancer noted how each small plate was attached so that the entire set of armor resembled a skin of scales. Tufts of fur protruded out around the wrists, knees, elbows, shoulders, and around the neck. A pair of sleek scimitars hung from the orc’s belt. A bow of wood and bone was slung across the warrior’s back, and the feathered shafts of arrows stood out above the orc’s shoulders.

  The orc’s face was a dark green, lined with a scar on his left cheek that ran down under his jawbone. A pair of sharp tusk-like teeth jutted out from his lower jaw, stopping about half an inch below the prominent cheekbones. Blue, cold eyes stared out from under a lock of black hair that had escaped the conical, leather helmet. The orc emitted a throaty growl as it eyed Gilifan from head to toe.

  The orc walked with ease, his armor shimmering in the bright sun. “The wizard who plays with the dead,” the orc said. “I had hoped not to see you again before we had both crossed over into Hammenfein.”

  “Maernok, I have many years yet before I will depart from the mortal realm,” Gilifan said with a slight nod of his head.

  “Why wait?” Maernok asked. He drew his scimitars and flashed them before Gilifan’s nose. “I could shorten the time considerably and offer you as homage to my master.”

  “I carry your chief’s token,” Gilifan said sternly. “I would remind you that to slay one who bears a token of debt would be considered a great affront to your master. Your promised place in Hammenfein would be stripped from you and you would be discarded to the lower levels of hell.”

  Maernok stepped in close so that his fetid, hot breath washed over Gilifan’s face. “It would almost be worth it, meddler,” he growled.

  “I have come to speak with your chief. Now that you have seen the token I bear, you are obligated to take me to him.”

  Maernok scoffed and turned to the other orcs around him. He shouted something in orcish that Gilifan did not understand. The others laughed. The necromancer grew weary of the power struggle. He held the token u
p in the air and bellowed “Hacht ten mag’nul berak!” The others shrank away.

  “Do not recite the command to me, meddler,” Maernok snarled. “We will take you to Och’Duun. You will speak with our chief, and then, when you no longer carry the token of debt I will flay you alive, use your skin as a leather cloak and then march up to the dog who gave you life and make her choke upon your flesh.”

  Gilifan smirked and cocked his head to the side. “My mother has long been dead, by my own hand in fact,” he said. “But I appreciate your pathetic attempt to frighten me. Now, move along, cur, and take me to your chief.”

  Maernok stepped back, jerking his neck to the side sharply, cracking his bones and grunting as he did so. “Let’s go,” he said to the others. He whirled his scimitars back into their sheaths and jumped up to land in his saddle. The orc riders led the way, and a pair of orc footmen emerged from the nearby grasses to join the other already behind Gilifan.

  The first one poked his spear forward, “You heard Maernok, time to move.”

  Gilifan wheeled around and dissolved the spear with a single touch of his left index finger. “Prod me again and I shall remake your spear and dissolve you instead.” The orc’s eyes grew wide and he took half a step back as he glanced to his empty hands. Gilifan winked evilly and then turned to follow Maernok.

  Maernok shouted something in orcish over his shoulder. A warning to the others, no doubt, but Gilifan honestly couldn’t care less what Maernok said just as long as they stayed out of his way.

  They walked along the coast for about twenty minutes through the biting rain and harsh wind. The orcs seemed almost to grow stronger in the unforgiving weather. The riders sat tall in the saddle, letting the rain sting their faces as the wind howled about them. Gilifan, on the other hand, drew his cloak in as tightly as he could. He also put up an invisible ward to at least shelter himself from the rain.