Fitch looked at the ruins, remembering the way Gend had been. Sweet smells drifting up from the bakery. A trader caravan loading and unloading goods at the chandlery. He saw children running down the streets laughing and playing without a care. There was Agnes next to the meeting hall selling her flowers. Fitch felt his heart stutter as he fought back a wave of suppressed emotions. And finally, he was there. The rubble of his home looked nothing like his dreams. Fitch Iane had come home.
He dropped to his knees. His body was wracked with sobs. More than anything he wished he could have said “I love you” one more time. Guilt from never saying good-bye when he snuck out of the house hours before dawn that final morning. Tears ripped free. The pain was near unbearable. It hurt. It hurt bad, but this was the only way he could be free from the past.
“I’m so sorry,” he cried. “I’m so sorry, Shar.”
Fitch took the small wildflower he’d picked along the trail from their camp and laid it atop the pile of rubble that had been his home and wept.
Far enough away not to be seen, Dakeb watched the villager make his final amends. As painful as it was to watch, the Mage knew it was absolutely necessary if their mission had any chance of progressing successfully. Through long discussions with Father Seldis, he managed to piece together much of what had happened here. Perhaps the saddest tragedy was that most of the women had been taken as captives, Fitch’s wife included. He wondered if he should let Fitch know. It was the same argument he’d had since leaving the monastery a month ago. In the end Dakeb decided against it. Fitch Iane had to learn the truth for himself. Through that revelation laid the path to victory. Sighing softly, Dakeb turned and left Fitch to his lament.
Faeldrin pointed at a spot on their crudely made map. Pine cones, sticks, rocks, and coarsely drawn lines in the dirt comprised borders and features. Though not entirely discernible, with a little orientation he could imagine himself in the middle of it. The others crowded around to hear what was being said. Only the Aeldruin were absent. They were already packing up the camp and preparing to move.
“The rest of my company is camped less than a day’s ride east of Vorshir Lake. We’ll need every last one of them to take on the wyrm,” he said.
“How many are you?” Kialla asked.
Faeldrin offered a dispassionate glance. “The Aeldruin have always been fifty. No more or less. Most of my kind frown upon us, but we serve Malweir diligently when evil arises. This time will be no different.”
Grelic stretched out his right shoulder, now stiff from pain. “What’s the plan?”
The Elf Lord studied his terrain map. “I’m going to link up with the rest of the company and meet back up with you in a fortnight at Deldin Grim. The Aeldruin could be here much sooner but we need to craft weapons capable of bringing the dragon down. Dakeb, take the easy path. I sense great danger on this journey. A shadow clouds the future. Beware of the old ruins of Malg. Something wicked lies within.”
The Mage nodded. “We’ve long suspected the same. Still, it is the quickest route to the gates of the Deadlands. It’s also the only way we can meet you in time. Our path must go through Qail Werd.”
“Time is of no consequence,” Faeldrin cautioned.
“I know, but I fear. This evil plaguing the lands needs to be stopped. We must hurry before the shroud of darkness falls.”
The Elf nodded grimly. “So be it. Until we meet again, my friends.”
Faeldrin marched back to his waiting mount and climbed into the saddle. The Aeldruin thundered away, leaving the tiny band only slightly less beleaguered than before.
TWENTY-SIX
Tests
The warm breeze pushing across the open plains felt good. Both Ibram and his horse tilted their heads back. The group moved north at a leisurely pace. Grelic said it was less than ten days to mountain pass and for that Ibram was exceedingly grateful. Soft living in the monastery left him woefully underprepared for the numerous challenges and hardships of extended travel. He was tired. Tired of it all. They’d been on the run since Eline and been in more battles than he imagined would happen when he first went to Father Seldis. Most of all he was tired of trying to live up to the unrealistic expectations he’d once held. He was starting to believe what the others told him. He wasn’t the warrior he dreamed of being.
Worse, Ibram was confused. For so long all he thought of, his very will and dreams, was the quest. He’d heard the tales of men like Grelic since childhood and wanted so badly to be like them. He wanted to live the dream. Only that dream turned into a cold and bitter reality. Death and dying haunted him every time he closed his eyes. Once, he believed he was ready to go out into the world and be a force for justice. The brightness of that vision dimmed the longer this quest went on.
He quickly discovered he had too many questions, not only about himself but life in general. He wasn’t entirely convinced this was the sort of life he was intended for. Ibram studied the world around and saw so much life. Birds and animals. Wildflowers bloomed in multicolored blankets across rolling hills and valleys. Trees were vibrant shades of green and full of leaves. He longed to find the inner serenity nature held. To be at peace with the world. Even as he wished it, Ibram knew it was just another dream.
Father Seldis would say that all life was but a series of dreams interconnected through random patterns based on individual choice. At the time it didn’t make sense to him. How could things be both interconnected and random? He shook his head, trying to clear some of cobwebs. Strangely, much of the journey was beginning to make sense in ways he couldn’t explain. His failure against the Dwim still bothered him, but in light of recent revelations, he didn’t feel much heartburn. Ibram had held his own against the dark wolves and then the Goblins. Even Grelic treated him slightly better, though he’d never admit it.
Ibram passed a casual glance over the others. The night with the Elves had done wonders for their morale and well-being. He used to feel sorry for Fitch but the timid villager wore a healthier complexion and was even caught smiling from time to time. That cheered Ibram. Fitch was too young to be burdened by hate and despair. A purple-winged butterfly danced across his field of vision, causing him to smile. Reluctantly, yet starkly and with no regrets, Ibram realized he wasn’t meant to be a warrior.
“A nice day,” Dakeb commented after noticing the smile.
Grelic agreed. “Enjoy it while you can. I fear there will be too few of them in the coming days.”
Ibram frowned, the building good mood dashed like breaking waves on the shore.
Dakeb merely laughed. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re the flower of optimism?”
“Many times. Tell me, Dakeb, what do you think of our merry little band?”
Dakeb had been awaiting this question since the day they spoke at the stream. “There’s still too much mistrust involved, though I feel it waning. I’d almost say we were starting to bond. No thanks in large part to the number of adventures already suffered.”
Grelic shook his head at the term “adventures.” “Dakeb, my heart tells me one of them is a spy. I can’t figure out who though. The situation is muddled. I’m not a great thinker. My skill is in using a blade.”
A red songbird landed on a small butterfly bush, catching Dakeb’s eye.
“You know something, don’t you?” Grelic asked accusingly.
“About the same as you. Not even centuries of Mage work can reveal our traitor. Some mysteries are only solvable through time.”
The giant nodded. He didn’t completely believe Dakeb. The question was answered too smoothly, too easily for complete deniability.
“Kialla seems happier,” Dakeb transitioned abruptly.
Grelic suppressed an angry retort and decided to let his questions rest for the time being. “She deserves it. It’s been a long time since she had reason to really smile. Cron’s a good man. I’ve been watching him for many years now. He’s a good fighter and a better leader. Thrae is fortunate to have men like him.”
Grelic laughed. “Do any of us? I don’t know, Mage. I’ve never been in true love.”
“They say there’s someone for everyone, Grelic. It’s never too late.”
Grelic laughed again, this time tapping the hilt of his sword. “This is my one true love. She’s never let me down and doesn’t talk back when I want to do something I probably shouldn’t.”
“Ah, Grelic, smell the freshness of the late spring winds! Ha. I’ve walked the forests and mountains of Malweir for hundreds of years and the one thing I profess to having no understanding of is humanity. People are frustrating creatures capable of intense love and unfathomable cruelty all in the same breath. Did you know the Mage orders envied man?”
“How so?”
“You have so much to live for. Your lifespan is the shortest of all Malweir’s races. It gives you a sense of purpose, a reason for going on. The limit of your days drives you to excel.” Dakeb sighed. “Take Faeldrin and his band. High Elven mercenaries! They are a most restless sort. The Elves can live until the dying of the sun and to what end? They’ve lost their edge, their drive. That’s why the Aeldruin have been roaming the lands for two thousand years. Some die, others lose interest and return to their mundane lives. But the result is always the same. You’ll always find an Elf ready for a new adventure.”
Fitch rode up alongside them unexpectedly. His shoulders were higher, his chest out. Old pride long forgotten had returned after they’d left Gend. The shadows of self-imposed oppression were receding. He viewed the world again for what it was: a place of unending hope and promise. Fitch had already proven himself in both battles and came away without a scratch. Not even Grelic had such luck.
“How are you feeling this afternoon, Fitch?” Dakeb asked.
“About as well as can be expected,” he said and smiled back. He was starting to feel like a part of the team.
Golden sunlight washed over the green fields as the clouds parted. “You certainly look much better. In fact, I’d say you almost looked happy.”
“I haven’t been happy in a long time,” he said after a moment. “When better to start again?”
“Very good. What better time indeed. We should always laugh. Life’s much too short.”
He agreed. Memories of Shar were as strong as ever, and they gave him hope. “I used to ride across these valleys when I was a child. My father had an old dray. He said it would be a shame if we didn’t take her out and stretch her legs from time to time. I miss those days.”
“Wouldn’t it be nice to be so young again?” Dakeb asked, memories of his youth suddenly blooming.
Fitch replied, “Yes. It’s a lovely dream.”
The landscape gradually changed from light forests and rolling hills to plush valleys of verdant grass. Grelic guided them along a small brook running northeast, hoping to take it all the way to Vorshir Lake. The mighty forest of Qail Werd lay not far beyond it and the Darkwall Mountains after. They were fast approaching the Deadlands. He called a halt just before dusk after finding a suitable place to camp. This far away from Gend, there were no signs of the dragon’s desolation. White birch trees filled the forests like shining spears.
Grelic asked Ibram to join him once preparations for the night were made for camp. The former monk did so warily, almost expecting to be berated for yet another reason of minimal importance. He walked half a stride behind the giant. His senses warned caution. Grelic hadn’t spoken to him, negatively or positively, since leaving Gend. It was almost as if he’d either conveniently forgotten or didn’t want to add insult to injury. They stopped a good distance from the camp, well out of sight and sound.
“We need to talk,” Grelic told him.
Here it comes. Ibram braced himself. “Yes?”
Grelic noticed the budding look of defiance and approved. “The easy part of this quest is over. From here on I’m going to need every sword. You have skills and talent, but they are raw. I’m going to change that. Draw your sword.”
Ibram instinctively stepped back to avoid the huge broadsword waving menacingly at him.
“What…are you doing?” he stammered.
Grelic edged closer. “I won’t say this again. Draw your sword, boy.”
Untamed aggression laced his voice. Ibram reluctantly eased his blade free. The giant sprung, not waiting for him to prepare. Taken off guard, Ibram reeled backwards while fending off a series of slashing blows. Grelic was simply too fast and powerful, however. Ibram stumbled backwards and fell. The bigger warrior was upon him instantly, sword pointed at his heart.
“You’re dead,” Grelic scolded. “So fast and I didn’t put effort into it. Get up and try again. Try this time.”
Ibram’s cheeks flushed. “That wasn’t fair! I didn’t know what you were going to do.”
“Exactly the point. Do you think your enemies are going to give you time to say a prayer before they strike? A good swordsman has to be ready at all times. An easy kill is what we all live for in battle. Now get up and put some effort into this. I’m not going to die because you can’t fight properly.”
Ibram pulled himself up with a snarl on his face. Grass and dead leaves clung to his clothes and his hair was unkempt. He lunged after Grelic, mimicking the giant’s own moves as best as he could. Grelic moved like the wind, much to Ibram’s astonishment. Anger took over as every strike met only empty air. His best efforts were met with laughter. Furious, Ibram doubled his efforts. The giant seemed almost complacent fending off the clumsily placed blows. Ibram overcompensated and pushed too much of his weight into an overhand chop. Grelic sidestepped and swatted Ibram with the flat of his sword, sending him sprawling.
“Never let anger control you. Emotion will kill you quicker than clumsiness. You must be dispassionate. Controlled. You must envision the battle in your mind. Picture your opponent’s next move before it happens,” Grelic said as he got back to his feet. “Luck often settles the fight. We all die when it’s our time. Don’t be in such a hurry to meet yours. Now, come at me again. This time with a clear mind. Loosen your grip. It’ll soften the impact and give you flexibility. You must be limber in mind and body.”
He raised his sword in challenge. Ibram took a deep breath. He was very confused. Why did Grelic bring him out here just to humiliate him? He could easily have done that back at the campsite. Nothing made sense to him. Almost reluctantly Ibram returned the gesture. Grelic dropped into a fighting stance. His movements were slow, deliberate. His eyes wary. The battle began anew.
His sword licked out, clinging off Ibram’s with a crisp sound. Ibram managed to hold his ground. He recognized the feint, a probe to test his reactions. Grelic nodded approvingly and stepped back. Ibram smiled. Then he realized his mistake as he was immediately hard pressed to defend himself. His blade was slower, almost lethargic compared to the brutal, more experienced swordsman testing him. Bitter realization slapped him across the face. How ignorant I have been! A test. This is all just a test!
All of it. The Goblins. The Dwim. Now Grelic. They were all just testing him. Ibram parried a harsh blow that sent sparks of pain up his arms. He adjusted quickly, spinning around and hammering back at Grelic’s flank. Grelic dodged, pointing his sword downward to block. Ibram danced his blade up Grelic’s, aiming a quick swipe across his midsection. The giant blocked again and retreated. Ibram continued to attack. Harder. Faster. He felt the battle flowing. He us moves practiced a thousand times in the courtyards of the monastery. Their blades clashed together in violent fury, drawing both inches apart. Grelic smiled wickedly.
“Very good,” he commended. “That’s enough for today. Remember, always fight with patience. You don’t necessarily need to be better than your enemy to best him. I don’t know about you but this sparring works up a massive appetite for me. Let’s go see what’s to eat and get some rest.”
Ibram walked beside Grelic on the way back.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Repercussions<
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Fires burned hotly under the weight of mighty Druem. Rivers of molten lava melted the rock walls with unbridled fury. Constant tremors plagued the area. Scourd held a sinking suspicion that the instability was going to become too much sooner than it should. The continuous mining operations weren’t helping, perhaps were the cause. Sulfur and brimstone poisoned the air in the caverns and tunnels. He was used to it by now, but there was nothing comparable to the open air of the Deadlands.
The sounds of picks and shovels echoed around the clock. Scourd hated inspecting the work. Slaves gave off a sickening smell he found particularly offensive. Humans were disgusting creatures. The very thought of them turned his stomach. The caverns under Druem were polluted with their stench. Scourd thanked the dark gods for the open skies and the city fortress of Mordrun Bal.
His affinity for the open sky went unshared by the vast majority of his kind. He failed to understand the allure of living underground. The world belonged to them. It was merely by chance they remained shunned. Curses of damnation kept them from enjoying the tender kiss of the sun. Scourd hated man, along with all of the other races of Malweir. His sole aspiration was to wipe them from the face of the world. He hoped his alliance with the dragon would benefit him.
Ramulus and the Hooded Man were searching for something important. He didn’t know what or particularly care. Let them plot and dig. Spend more years than a lifetime on an insignificant quest. As far as Scourd was concerned, their conspiracies were merely the opportunity he needed to begin his war. Soon all Malweir would tremble under the boots of the fledgling Goblin empire.
The Dragon Hunters Page 19