The Dragon Hunters

by Christian Warren Freed

  His heavy, black eyes fell on Fitch, who meekly stared back. Again the Minotaur king laughed. “You wonder how it is I can speak your tongue so well when others cannot? That is a tale long in the telling and there is no time. Perhaps when you return for the victory feast I shall indulge you.”

  He motioned for a guard to unlock the door and made a sweeping gesture with his arm.

  Grelic grinned fiercely. “Let it never be said the hospitality of the Minotaurs is lacking.”

  “Many would argue otherwise.”

  “Goblins and Trolls are a filth in need of cleansing. Perhaps you and I should strike up the sword and go to war ourselves.” Grelic enjoyed the thought.

  Both knew it would never happen. The Minotaurs ruthlessly attacked in the forest and Grelic responded in kind. Desperate times made them unsteady allies but the killing of so many of Thorsus’s warriors demanded repayment. He’d wait until after the dragon was dead to see how far he’d go in trusting the massive bull.

  There was a momentary flicker of misgiving in the Minotaur’s dark eyes. The loss of so many warriors to the humans was still too near to let go. It faded quickly as he remembered his promise to Dakeb. “Indeed.”

  He spoke to the guards in their language, sounding like no more than grunts and snorts to Grelic’s band. They passed disapproving glances among each other and Grelic noticed Thorsus’s rising anger. His nostrils flared, vibrating the thick, iron ring. Any debate ended immediately.

  Thorsus faced his guests. “My warriors will escort you to the arms room. There you will find all of your weapons and perhaps a few others that may better suit your quest. I leave you in their capable hands. Much is still needed to be said with the Mages. I take my leave of you now.”

  He bowed stiffly, as if unaccustomed to the act.

  “Thank you,” Cron replied when he noticed the giant’s sudden reluctance. He reminded himself to ask Grelic about it the next time they were alone.

  “This way. Come now,” snarled the smaller of the two remaining Minotaurs.

  Friendly enough in his own hostile mannerisms, the Minotaur was focused on performing his king’s orders. Cron had come to understand them, slightly, and almost admired the young bull leading them. He respected the militaristic culture and wished he had a battalion to throw into his own battle lines. Still, he found it disturbing that the Minotaur kingdom thrived under Qail Werd without the king of Thrae knowing. Considering how large the human population had grown and expanded, Cron feared for his kingdom should Thorsus ever decide he’d had enough.

  They came to the end of the tunnel and Cron’s eyes widened in amazement. He’d been around weapons and smiths all of his life but had never seen anything comparable to the Minotaur armory. An enormous cavern stretched out before them. Coal fires bathed the cavern with a hellish glaze. Smiths and apprentices hammered freshly poured steel. Great racks of swords, tulwars, shields, and heavy war bars lined the beginning of the bottleneck cavern. Spears and axes sat piled in large numbers. So much weaponry led Cron to imagining this fearsome army rampaging across Thrae. Impressive was an understatement.

  An aged male standing behind the small counter in the near corner eyed them sharply. Minotaurs didn’t trust strangers, much less a pack of humans, so deep inside the secret places of Malg. Much like his fellow warriors, the aging arms master had spent a lifetime dedicated to the arts of warfare and peace. Where humans fought because it was their nature, Minotaurs fought to attain peace.

  “Ah, the humans,” he growled.

  Turning his back, the arms master went about collecting their weapons. He hefted Grelic’s broadsword with the ease of a child, much to his amusement. Even Pregen couldn’t keep from grinning despite the profound sense of negativity he felt. The steady ca-ting ca-ting of hammers striking cold anvils haunted him. Soon they were strapping their weapons in place and refitting for the continued journey. Grelic and Cron perused the Minotaur-made weapons, collecting what looked useful.

  “Thank you,” Kialla told the arms master with a genuine smile.

  The Minotaur snorted, about as close to acknowledgement as he was willing to give. Like Thorsus, he had marched with the Mages at the siege of Ipn Shal. Friends and fellow warriors he’d known for decades fell that bloody day. An arrow had pierced one of his lungs as they stormed the wall. Many good souls, too many, fell from the blind hatreds of a handful. The arms master blamed hum for the ills of the world. That the group before him hadn’t even been thought of at the time meant nothing.

  Their guard led them back into the puzzling warren. No one bothered talking. There was a growing excitement. The time had come to return to the quest and move forward. They followed the Minotaur down long and winding corridors. Unsure why, Grelic suddenly realized that they hadn’t seen any females during their internment. He wondered if that had been deliberate or if the females of the species were just incredibly rare. Either way, it could mean nothing good for the dwindling population.

  The other issue vexing him was the complex variety of mastery of the basic language. Lower-ranking warriors spoke it brokenly and in choppy sentences whereas Thorsus and many of the shamans sound like they’d been educated in one of Averon’s academies. The disparity was fascinating and any answers he could discover would help him differentiate between their importance. Right now it was an added complication he didn’t need.

  They finally came to a halt in the reception hall. Their guard held up his hand and said, “Lord Thorsus awaits.”

  Legs burning from the steady uphill climb and a decided lack of use over the last few days, Grelic knew they were close to the surface. His face held a tight grimace. No doubt anxious to be rid of us. Good. I need to feel the open air on my face again. They found the Minotaur king standing in front of the remarkably small door leading out of Malg. A massive double-headed battle axe was strapped to his back. Grelic spied the skill and craftsmanship the blades were made with and recognized the handiwork of the Dwarves.

  “The time has come for you to return to your quest. I have spoken at great length with your Mages and though I tried, they will not be swayed from this fool’s errand. Should you return alive, you are more than welcome in the great halls of Malg.”

  “We would be honored,” Grelic replied.

  Dakeb and Ibram slipped out from Thorsus’s shadow, along with a youthful-looking bull. Old hunting instincts in Grelic recognized a trap. Why else would one of the Minotaur warriors be accompanying them? A sinking feeling gnawed at the pit of his stomach. What games are they playing?

  “Good, we are all here. Time to go already,” Dakeb said with a sense of finality. He turned to Thorsus. “I would have liked for our stay to be longer, but there is much to be done. Perhaps we shall meet again, Minotaur king. It has already been far too long since we talked as brothers.”

  “Journey safely, Master Mage,” replied Thorsus with the authority of a king. He wasn’t pleased by the sudden change of events, but knew full well that this may be their only chance at ridding the lands of a horrible evil. “Krek will guide you to Deldin Grim. He is young by our standards, but a tested warrior with more than ten kills. He shall do you good, Dakeb.”

  The scout nodded sharply, clearly unimpressed with the pitiful hum but more than willing to prove his worth in his king’s eyes. Dakeb smiled respectfully. He’d noticed the conflict the moment they met and decided it would prove interesting on the journey, if nothing else. The Mage then looked to each of his companions. A mixture of emotions confused them. He wasn’t sure which was the biggest threat. Of course, he knew who the spy was. That bit was fairly obvious to his heightened senses, but a spy and a threat were vastly different entities. This quest was already dangerous enough without matters suddenly compounding.

  He silently wondered how long it would be until the first of them snapped.

  Sunlight beamed down on them, forcing them to shield their eyes from the suddenly hostile glare. The heat warmed them soothingly and did wonders to erase the cold and damp
impressed upon them by Malg. Thorsus remained in the cooler shadows, amused by their reactions to the sun. Part of his unusual enjoyment stemmed from the knowledge that each had been certain they were going to die lost underground.

  “This is as far as I go. Krek will take you the rest of the way. You can rest assure that your arrival has delivered newfound hope and meaning to my people. War bands are already forming to cleanse the Goblin filth from Qail Werd. Go with the peace and giving of the Minotaurs. My handlers will bring your horses out. You shall be pleased to find your packs filled and ready for a long journey. Fare thee well, humans, for the fate of Malweir rests in your hands and hearts,” Thorsus told them.

  A flock of pure white egrets erupted from a stand of nearby trees. They circled the clearing once before trailing off to the east. The old Mage smiled, taking the display as an obvious good omen. Now if only the rest of the path was so mild. Cool wind blew through, sending refreshing chills through each. Surprisingly, many of Dakeb’s companions found themselves invigorated. They were going to need it. It had been many years since he’d last entered the Deadlands and the memories remained foul.

  The Deadlands were exactly that. No sentient being would purposefully live there. The air was hot and humid year round. Every breath felt like the air was trying to kill you. Foul winds scorched the forever plains, blanching everything sickly yellow and brown. Fields of thorn bushes seemed to be the only thing that thrived there. And now the Goblins have rebuilt their strength and invited a dragon, no doubt under the control of the Silver Mage. Between those two, which were extraordinarily powerful, and the multitudes of Goblins, Dakeb was not looking forward to his return.

  His private memories were interrupted by a handful of Minotaurs leading their horses out from a small game trail leading back to Malg. Dakeb had always liked horses and their finicky temperaments. He much preferred the feel of fresh spring grass bouncing under his feet, but the exhilaration of riding instantly made him smile.

  Grelic and the others wasted no time in mounting up. It was a toss-up as to who was more anxious to get away from the hospitality of the Minotaur king. The old Mage followed suit and took his own reins in hand.

  “I don’t know if we shall ever meet again, Thorsus. It was a blessing to cross your paths and now that we are leaving I find myself wishing to have your army at my side,” he admitted quietly.

  “The days of old are long gone, my friend,” Thorsus replied. He carried undeniable regret in his voice. “I am forced to look after my own people now. Should the day of despair come crashing down on this land, we will meet it with all of our might. The old alliances are forgotten by most, yet the people of Malg shall return to fight beside men should the dark Mage rise again.”

  He looked to the others. “Farewell to you all. You have earned my respect and curiosity. Never let it be said that my hospitality was denied to you. Now go and may you meet an end worthy of song and tale.”

  The handful of warriors and shamans raised their fists into the air and bellowed ancient battle cries. Krek, most of all, seemed excited. Pride beamed in his features and his roar went louder than even Thorsus’s. Dakeb supposed he couldn’t blame him. This was a momentous occasion, if not fatal. The deeds of this obscure handful of people held the balance of good and evil in their hands. Most would have shied away if they knew the implications associated with their future actions.

  Thorsus gently pat Dakeb’s horse on the neck. He leaned close to the Mage and whispered, “I say this for your ears only. Look not to trust for victory. One of your band will betray you before the end. Do not let his deeds foul your quest.”

  Dakeb nodded solemnly but said nothing. Thorsus nodded back, so slight it was almost imperceptible. He stood and watched as the band of would-be heroes rode off to certain doom.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  The Road to Deldin Grim

  Qail Werd was much less ominous now that they fully understood the source of the myths and legends. While there were no demons or manifestations of the netherworld roaming beneath the trees, Grelic and the others certainly maintained wary respect for the Minotaur kingdom. Thorsus and his folk had earned the giant’s trust and confidence. No doubt that was why Krek had been sent along. The Mage could have easily led them out of the Werd and to the pass of Deldin Grim.

  They set up camp when dusk came much sooner than they anticipated. Soon a roaring fire warmed them and the smell of roasting meat filled the air. Krek chewed so loudly he almost drowned out the subtle crackling of the fire. Only Pregen paid it any attention. He scowled with disgust as he watched pieces of partially chewed meat fly from Krek’s mouth. Ragged strips of almost raw meat dangled between the Minotaur’s entirely too large teeth. Pregen turned away before he threw up.

  It was almost laughable. Pregen knew the bull was never going to get invited to a formal ball in any civilized kingdom. Surprisingly enough, Pregen missed the glitz and glamour of royal banquets and fetes. He’d spend the majority of those nights chasing and seducing young maidens to the bedroom for his own satisfaction and the chance of fattening his purse. Royalty seemed the best for that. Besides, most were rich beyond measure and wouldn’t miss a few gems and baubles here and there.

  The one thing Pregen found no satisfaction in was bedding common folk. He’d been born to a poor family with the typical sad drama of poverty. His mother drank herself to death while his father was a simple street thug who preyed on young men and women for money and various degrees of carnal pleasures. Fortunately he died while Pregen and his sister Reinna were still young.

  Pregen accepted the burden of responsibility of raising his sister without having a clue how to do it. He learned how to work the streets early out of sheer necessity. He made a fairly good time of being a pickpocket and two-bit hustler. Reinna plied her meager household skills as a maid and assistant in different kitchens. Neither of them made enough to get by. Pregen was fairly confident life couldn’t get any worse when he came home after an unsuccessful day of petty thievery to find Reinna gone.

  He searched frantically but found nothing. The house was in ruins, if theirs could be considered a house. It was more akin to a rundown shack than living quarters. Pregen ran out into the streets shouting her name at the top of his lungs. Cold winter rain stung him. The mournful wail of street dogs echoed his plea. For the first time in his life, Pregen Chur was alone. Though he never stopped looking for her, he never learned so much as a clue. It wasn’t until years later when she walked back into his life.

  He hardly recognized her. Reinna was dressed prim and proper, so unlike the poor, parentless waif she’d been. The reunion was tearful. She cautiously explained how she’d been kidnapped and sold to a minor nobleman who treated her decently, even allowing her to sleep in a real bed. The story broke Pregen’s heart, not because her life took an upswing, but because she had no intention of returning home. She was moving south to Averon and would not be coming back. Reinna kissed his cheek and held him lovingly one final time. Then she was gone.

  Pregen gave up trying to make a semi-honest living after that. He devoted himself to learning how to become a proper gentlemen. That’s when he learned where the real money was. Jewels were easy picking and, as he later discovered, the women enjoyed his heady street-like quality. For a time, life was good. Word reached him some years later that Reinna was dead. She’d been killed by her aristocrat husband during a drunken rage. Pregen flew into his own rage. He cursed everyone from himself to his worthless parents and even the gods. Long nights he delved into sorry and self-inflicted misery. His hatred steamed, threatening to consume him. Then he stumbled upon a plan. Seeking out the cheapest smith, Pregen contracted a handful of weapons and struck out in search of Reinna’s murderer.

  It took awhile and the road was fraught with inescapable peril, but Pregen finally tracked the beast to his lair. Consumed in a cloak of violence, Pregen had the good sense to wait his victim out. He watched everything. Who came, who went. How many guards the men had. Which servant
s were loyal and which were decidedly less scrupulous. Through it all, his hatred kept him going and when the time was right, he entered the manor.

  Looking back, he probably shouldn’t have killed the guards. They seemed decent enough but Pregen was fairly confident they had a part in getting rid of Reinna’s body. He watched ruefully as they gurgled their last breaths in a mouthful of blood. When at last he reached the main chamber, he noticed the strangest thing. His heart began to beat too hard. His palms were dry and his mouth still wet. It was almost as if killing was the most natural thing.

  Delighted and repulsed by this newfound freedom, Pregen stole into the chambers with death in his heart. He found the man in bed with a beautiful blonde. Rage whispered and Pregen struck. He fell on both with unsuppressed fury. The man died almost instantly from a slice across the throat but the woman’s pain was long and drawn out. Pregen saw in her the love and stolen grace from Reinna. For that, she paid dearly. Her death was pure revenge.

  Pregen stumbled away from the carnage covered in blood. Too many thoughts and sensations assaulted him at once. Darkness claimed him. When he awoke, Pregen knew what his calling in life was. He went on to become one of the premier assassins in northern Malweir. Visions of that fateful night haunted him to this day. He gave Krek one last look before shuddering and going to sleep.

  * * * * *

  Fitch found it increasingly difficult to take his eyes away from the young bull. He guessed they were about the same age, or at least comparable, given the long lives of that race. The Minotaur strode through the forest with uncanny ease and an almost haughty attitude. His gait was swift and confident, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Fitch was immediately impressed and started to like the bull. He doubted he’d be able to leave his own people so easily to travel off into untold dangers, perhaps even death, with a handful of complete strangers.