THE DRAGON HUNTERS
A HISTORY OF MALWEIR BOOK TWO
By: Christian Warren Freed
Edited, Produced, and Published by Writer’s Edge Publishing 2014
All rights reserved.
© 2014 by Christian Warren Freed.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Other Books by Christian Warren Freed
The Northern Crusade Series
Hammers in the Wind
Tides of Blood and Steel
A Whisper After Midnight
Empire of Bones
The Madness of Gods and Kings
Even Gods Must Fall
A History of Malweir Series
Armies of the Silver Mage
The Dragon Hunters
Beyond the Edge of Dawn
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank those who helped contribute to this novel. Writing it proved slightly problematic since I was in Baghdad in 2005. Silly things like war kept getting in the way. Still, much of this story wouldn’t have been possible without the feedback and support of my friends: Gina Grey, Jurgen Kote and Ardjan Balla of the Albanian Army, and Charlotte Brock. You guys were my anchor throughout the process. None of this would have been possible without the drive given to me by my parents, however. To them I express eternal gratitude.
ONE
A Foul Wind
A pale wind kissed the fading winter day. Spring was but a few weeks away and the lands were still being assailed by an unexpected blizzard coming down from the Darkwall Mountains to the north. Massive snowdrifts dotted the lightly forested plains. Trees drooped under the weight of gathering ice. Winds howled and screamed in tortured agony from canyon to valley. Even the skies, normally pale blue by this time, were sickened in a mottle of grey and black. Winter refused to let go.
Normally Fitch Iane would be nestled in his favorite chair built by his great grandfather, in front of the fireplace, but this winter had been especially harsh on hunting and fishing. A record six storms all but crippled the lands, making it next to impossible for most to gather food or firewood. As he tramped through the woods on the way home, Fitch wished for the thousandth time that he’d been born some sort of royalty. Living in a warm, toasty palace with marble floors and dozens of waiting servants seemed the life. A sudden gust of wind sent ice and snow down the back of his heavy coat, forcing Fitch back to grim reality.
Still, it wasn’t all bad. His knapsack was filled with three cleaned and quartered hares and a handful of plucked grouse. Not too bad considering it was just for him and his wife. The thought of Shar, with her warming smile and long, flowing golden hair stirred his passions. How much he’d give to be lying next to her supple body under the down blankets right now. Fitch shook his head. That sort of thinking would leave a man dead quicker than getting cut wrong. Besides, he still had too far to go to get distracted with thoughts of what came next.
Fitch sighed and continued his trek across the darkening landscape. He couldn’t help but shiver at the unseasonable cold. The snow should be nearly gone by now and the land was soggy from the additional moisture. A quick glance around and he figured it would be another six weeks before things got right. Six whole weeks. Fitch wondered how this year’s harvest would turn out. The farmers were all but panicking by now. As it was, this part of Thrae wasn’t known for outstanding crops or heavy farming. Most of the residents of Gend, Fitch’s home since birth, were miners. The kingdom of Thrae won ownership of the jewel mines after a fierce war with the Dwarves of the Bairn Hills nearly a generation ago.
It was left to those like Fitch to provide for their homes and right now all he wanted was to get out of the insufferable cold. He could almost taste the stew and freshly baked dark bread. A pint of heavy ale would do nicely too. Fitch stumbled, his foot snagging on a buried root. A tremendous roar shook the very ground as he dropped. His heart froze as a blast of freezing wind sliced into him. Fitch looked around but couldn’t spot the source of the fury in the gathering darkness.
“What?” he asked himself, hoping his mind could rationalize the moment.
Fitch looked up just then and noticed the entire eastern sky seemed as if it was on fire. He smelled ash and burnt meat. He wanted to believe it was just an illusion played by the setting sun. The first flicker of flames shooting up over the treetops changed his mind. He looked around. Everywhere he looked trees were blackened and dead. Fresh snow was dusty, charcoal splashed. What nightmare could have done such a thing? A tiny whisper in the back of his mind warned that the answers were much closer than he wished.
Then it hit him. A horrible, sickening thought all but crippling him. Fire. Smoke. Distance. Gend! His village was burning. Fitch dropped his sack and started running. The need to get home, to find Shar, overpowered all other thoughts and emotions. A nightmarish roar frightened the world. Fitch covered his ears and ran. Blood began to trickle from his nose.
When he got closer he could hear new sounds, sickening sounds of steel ripping human flesh. Women screaming. Children crying. Fitch suddenly grew very afraid. His body became lethargic. He found it difficult just to move. Shar. Thinking of her kept him going, but he was so afraid. A warm feeling ran down his leg. Sweat turned cold. His body shivered and trembled. He was no great hero, but neither was he a coward. What manner of demon can make me so? Fitch Iane gave in to his fears and collapsed. He used what strength remained to crawl under the boughs of a snow-laden fir and cried.
The screaming quickly drowned out his sorrow. Fitch tried covering his ears. Tears streaked his frozen cheeks. Strength abandoned him. Fear dug deeper, gaining strength and crushing him. Jagged pieces of ice fell from the pine needles and cut his face. He didn’t care. His only concern was staying alive. Just to stay alive!
What must have been hundreds of booted feet crunching through the ice-covered snow inspired new terror. Fitch reluctantly opened his eyes and had to cover his mouth to keep the gasp from escaping. He barely made out the huge, barrel-bodied figures marching by. Watching the shadows move so stealthily through the forest reminded him of the ghost and ghoul stories his mother used to tell him and his three brothers when they were growing up. These apparitions were much more real. Fitch got a good look as they marched closer.
Garbed in black and grey, they had massive bodies and spoke in a gnarled tongue. The sound of their boots crunching made him cringe. Stomp, stomp, stomp. He wanted to break and run but couldn’t. The demons wore armor and had flowing capes of the purest black. Spikes jutted up from their helmets. Axe and sword rested in their mailed hands. Some sang songs which were cruel and wicked. Fitch saw hundreds of them moving through the forest. He’d never believed in demons before. They seemed so dire, menacing. Then he noticed the tiny rivers of crimson staining their armor. Blood! Demons or not, they were pure killers. Struggling to control his sobs, Fitch watched them as they merrily went about slaughtering every last man, woman, and child in his village.
A pair of demons halted nearby, close enough for him to hear part of their conversation.
“…much longer?” snarled the first.
The second spit a wad of bloody phlegm. “Maggots take too long to kill. No honor. They run instead of fight.”
“The king’s army will come soon. We must hurry. Ramulus wants them all dead but we aren’t strong enough to fight an army.”
“One hour,” the second confirmed.
The demons stalked off, going their separate ways and leaving Fitch more frightened t
han before. He didn’t want to die. The thought replayed in his head over and over. He knew it was shameful to be so selfish but he couldn’t help it. Gradually, the slaughter abated and the demons returned to the shadows. Fitch was alone. The flames of Gend slowly faded. Night crawled back into the world. He nearly summoned the strength to crawl out of his self-imposed prison when that horrible roar shattered the calm. A fierce gust of wind shook most of the snow from the branches. Fitch pulled his knees up as an immense presence sailed overhead. Wrapping his arms around his knees, he cried himself to sleep.
Dawn crawled across Malweir with eerie casualness. Fitch reluctantly wiped the crust from his sore and bloodshot eyes. He was damp from melting snow and frozen to the bone. His body shivered uncontrollably in a desperate attempt to find warmth. The overwhelming sense of fear was gone but he was still loath to leave his hiding place. Some of the demons might have stayed behind.
Shar. The thought of her brought tears to his eyes. He couldn’t help but feel she might still be alive if only he’d been there. If only he’d…no, he would be dead as well if he hadn’t hid. Shame and disgrace competed for his soul. Fitch Iane was a shell of a man. He held on to the sliver of hope that Shar managed to find a place to hide. That she had somehow made it out of this nightmare alive. It was all he had left.
Summoning what little strength remained, Fitch crawled out into the open. He made his way through the smoldering ruins in search of his wife. He had to know. An hour later he stood in front of the ruin that was his home. Their home. He looked at the desperate pile of burnt timber, searching for the one thing he didn’t want to find. Fitch sank to his knees as waves of raw emotion burst free. He had let her die. He let them all die.
“I’m sorry, Shar. I am so very sorry,” he whispered through heaving sobs. “I should have come back. I should have helped.”
Half a day passed before he remembered he was alone and had nowhere to go. Fear kept him alive last night. The coming night was another matter. Fitch needed to find some food and shelter before he froze to death. He retraced his tracks to his pack and contemplated returning to Gend for the night. Much of the residual heat had worn off but there was enough to keep him alive until dawn. No. The demons might return. Fitch gave in, knowing he had to get as far away from Gend as possible.
With heavy heart, he turned his back on what had been his whole world. Fitch Iane walked away with horror that would forever dominate his life. Shar’s face haunted him every time he closed his eyes. It wasn’t long before he realized he hated himself. Hated how he cowered and hid while everyone he had ever known died. It didn’t matter that one man couldn’t make a difference. Fitch was a coward.
He wandered aimlessly for most of the day before finally deciding on a plan. The capital city of Kelis Dur and King Rentor needed to be warned of the growing darkness. Fitch may not have been able to save his loved ones but he couldn’t allow the same fate to befall the rest of Thrae. Kelis Dur was more than five days away by foot, but with a little luck he might hitch a ride with a passing wagon or caravan once he made it to the major trade lanes.
First things first. You need rest or they’ll be finding your corpse once the snow melts. Fitch found a suitable campsite under a small rock outcropping and set about making a fire. After filling up on cooked grouse and melted snow, he wrapped up in his thick bearskin hunting coat and let sleep claim him. Nightmares toyed with him and he tossed and turned long into the dark hours. The fire died out just shy of midnight, right when winter decided to throw its final blast across the world.
TWO
Grelic
The world shuddered and groaned under the pounding late winter storm. Few dared to brave the elements, even tucked away in the comparative safety of the major cities. Life in the kingdom of Thrae all but halted. The citizens of Kelis Dur huddled in their homes, eagerly awaiting the return of the sun. Yet no matter how difficult the times, there were always those who never stopped. Mercenaries and bounty hunters seldom found the time to pause. A winter storm was certainly no reason.
The roaring fire in the common room of the Battering Ram constantly attracted the wrong kinds of crowds no matter what nature threw in the way. Dozens of potential heroes and more than a few villains milled about, drinking and bragging. A bard sang tales of greatness off in the far corner as serving maids kept a steady stream of fresh mugs flowing to the paying customers. Many a pipe was lit, coating the ceiling with a thick layer of smoke.
“Damned strange happenings this winter I say,” old Bartus told the men at his table. His one eye scanned each for signs of what they might be thinking.
Helf laughed and drained his pint in a long gulp followed by a hearty belch. Foam dripped from his moustache. “You always say that, old man. Sometimes I think you want strange things to happen!”
Bartus jabbed an accusatory finger at him. “Says you! I know what I know. People talk.”
“Most have nothing useful to say,” Helf countered. “I didn’t come here to argue with you. I just want some more ale to take the chill off.”
“Judging from the size of your belly I’d say you been keeping warm often,” young Nurlen grinned. Unlike the others, time and age hadn’t begun to sink their teeth into him.
“Mind you, boy,” Bartus snarled. “We both be veterans of the Dwarf War. Back when you was suckling on your mother’s tit. You’d do well to hush yourself and listen.”
Nurlen stayed quiet. He’d been around them long enough to know they meant no ill. Helf watched the exchange, mindful of the hurt Bartus continued to carry. Losing his eye had cost him his job at the chandlery as well as his wife. He’d never been the same.
“You heard tell of that man they found a week ago? Near dead and half mad,” Bartus asked knowingly. “Says he keeps talking about demons in the night.”
“Faw!” Nurlen snorted. Youth didn’t necessarily involve naivety. “Demons and monsters don’t exist. All them are stories my ma used to tell me to keep me in line when I was getting out of hand.”
Bartus leaned forward, so close his drunken breath made Nurlen grimace. “Just where do you think them stories come from, boy? There’s many a strange thing that goes bump in the night round these parts. Many I don’t care to remember.” His voice trailed off. Bartus sat quietly, wishing some memories would fade.
Helf was about to break the unnerving silence when a table on the far side of the room suddenly flipped up. Mugs and dishes flew, sending beer, food, and worse across a large portion of patrons. Angered shouts were quickly drowned out when a beast of a man rose from the commotion. A heavy fist lashed out to catch the nearest city guard in the jaw. The sharp crack was unmistakable. The guard’s head twisted and he dropped. The big man roared and struck again. Another man fell. The crowd started easing back by the time the fourth man dropped.
He moved with lightning quickness. Snatching up the nearest man, he hefted him overhead and threw him into the crowd. Another man dropped his ale with a squeak and bumped into Bartus. The old man started to lash out when he caught a glimpse of the giant’s face. I know you. Yes, I do.
“Are you all right?” Helf asked, seeing the confusion in the old man’s eye.
A fresh squad of city guards burst through the front door, bringing chill, winds, snow, and legal fury with them. Their dark blue cloaks concealed boiled leather body armor and the standard truncheon of the city guard. The raven feather painted on the armor gave them purpose and a sense of pride.
“What’s all this?” bellowed the sergeant of the guard. His thick, black moustache had flakes of melting snow still clinging to it.
The big man bellowed with fresh challenge. Sergeant Phaes was no fool. He’d been in the city guard for nearly twenty years and had dealt with his share of drunken fools. He’d also seen enough to know when a man was so drunk he became dangerous. Look at the size of this bastard. I’ll need a ballista to take him down. Worse, he knew the man.
Phaes took a step forward and held up empty hands. “Take it easy
, Grelic. It’s just your old pal, Phaes.”
Grelic’s eyes narrowed. Rage distorted his features and his face burned the color of fire. Regardless of anything the guard said, he was too drunk and angry to calm down now.
Shit. “You don’t want to hurt anyone, Grelic. I know you. We’ve been friends a long time. Come sit with me and have a drink. Talk to me about what’s bothering you.”
Phaes felt his stomach cramp with the knowledge there was no way Grelic would fall for it. Instinct told him a fight was coming. He hoped no one got killed. His doubts nearly disappeared as Grelic took a quiet step forward. The big man’s face calmed just before his huge fist crashed into a guard’s head.
“Take him down!” Phaes cursed.
His men ran forward, swords drawn.
“Don’t make me do this, you big, dumb bastard,” Phaes shouted. “The king doesn’t want to see you back in the dungeons.”
Grelic didn’t care. Raising his fists above his head, he roared defiance. Phaes sidestepped the rushing man and gave a quick signal. A pair of guards dropped their swords and cast a heavy mesh net over Grelic before he could change his path. His momentum slowed. The rest of the guards closed in and beat Grelic to the floor. Only when he was unconscious and snoring did they stop. He didn’t stop fighting the entire way down. Another three men were taken out, the last being kicked so hard it dented his helmet. Phaes groggily regained his feet, swearing more than a few teeth were knocked out. He looked around the common room and was relieved to see everyone at least breathing. He’d once seen Grelic take out almost an entire Averonian infantry platoon singlehandedly. A hard man for hard time. Peace had no room for men like Grelic. And men like Grelic didn’t understand peace.
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