The Horsk Dragon (Swords of the Bloodline Book 1)

by A. R. Wilson

  The view to the rear remained uneventful. They stopped for the night before the sky turned dark. As soon as the horses came to a halt, Jurren jumped down from his perch and scanned the area. A ghostwood tree had a tunnel gouged into it leading up at a slight incline. This was their usual rest stop, and Jurren intended to do an above normal check for unwelcomed visitors.

  He paused at the entrance, listening, and pulled out his sword. Motioning for the other men to stay in the wagon, he sniffed inside the tunnel. Nothing. A few cautious steps forward, and he listened again. The room inside the ghostwood tree sat empty of animals and people. Good. He walked around the outside looking for signs of intruders and found none. Satisfied they were safe, he signaled the other men to come down.

  Normally, all possessions remained outside, but this trip had become anything but normal. The three men shared in the chore of rolling the barrels into the safety of the shelter and placed them at the farthest end of the room. Jurren removed the falcons from their cages and secured their tethers to a post hammered into the wall. Ellam and Arkose brought in the horses. If there had been room enough through the entrance, they would have brought in the wagon, too. After some indecision, Ellam agreed with Jurren the best thing to do was to pull it around to the back of the shelter where it would be out of sight from anyone passing by.

  With his sword gripped firmly to his chest, Jurren accepted the task of sleeping nearest the door.

  * * *

  Jurren sat bolt upright on his bedroll. He gasped for breath. Uncertainty raked along his skin. His grip tightened on his sword. He scanned the room, running a short inventory. The horses. The birds. The wine. His companions. Everything was there. He strained his hearing and sense of smell, trying to determine what had pulled him from his sleep.

  Only a faint odor of something he could not place lingered in the air. A rotting smell? No, it was far more acrid than mere decomposing food. He could feel it in his nose. Like the pungent sting of vomit without the accompanying sweet acidic odor. It was almost like smelling a memory. But a memory of what?

  Perhaps someone passed by us on the road...

  The idea slammed to a halt in his mind. Not a single rider or wagon passed them on the road the previous day. They should have seen at least a few other parties. Where was everyone? It was the beginning of summer, a busy time of year for most people. Had word spread in Kovarilos about the robberies?

  The hint of light at the entrance of the shelter caught his eye. No point in making the next day and a half of travel take any longer than it had to. The sooner they got out of these woods, the sooner they might get to the bottom of what was going on.

  He released Zemarick from his tether. Pausing at the entrance, Jurren sniffed the air again. Whatever had passed them by had taken their bizarre odor with them. Giving a series of whistles and clicks, Jurren instructed the bird to circle the outside of the tree. If he found anything worthy of hunting, or capable of hunting him, Zemarick would give a warning cry.

  For several agonizing seconds, Jurren waited in the shelter. When the bird reappeared without a screech, Jurren tiptoed his way out of the tunnel. Dim light filtered through the canopy. A quick sweep of the area, including a lap around to the back of the tree, proved nothing had chanced upon them. Jurren’s nerves itched all the more. Where had that smell come from? And where had it gone?

  Though few like to wake as early as he, Jurren decided to return to the shelter and nudge Arkose.

  “What’s going on? Is it even dawn yet?” The thick of sleep mumbled through the man’s words.

  “Almost. I smelled something strange a moment ago, and now it’s gone.”

  A grunt of annoyance soon turned into playful sarcasm. “Seriously? You woke me up to tell me the woods smell funny?”

  “In light of Ellam’s revelation yesterday, I think it’s significant.”

  “I guess that’s possible. Let’s go take a look.”

  “No need. I already did a check.”

  “So why are you waking me then?”

  “Just get ready to go. We have to reload that wagon, remember?”

  More grunts of irritation, but he complied.

  Jurren turned to his other friend. “Ellam, let’s get moving.”

  “Oh Jurren, please. It’s barely even dawn.”

  “The sooner we head out, the better.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the robberies. We shouldn’t tarry —”

  “What robberies?”

  Was he serious? “The people you told us about yesterday. All those stories from Windervail Inn.”

  Ellam flinched in confusion. Sitting up, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Stories from... Oh! That’s right. Jaddik came home empty-handed. What’s that got to do with us?”

  “You told me Jaddik was beaten with a stick by a group of young men.”

  This time, Ellam flinched hard enough to move back a few inches. “Ah! You’re right, you’re right. How did I forget?”

  Arkose stooped to pack his bedroll. “Maybe there really is a spirit of forgetfulness out there trying to keep us all in the dark.”

  “Then let’s hurry along.” Ellam kicked out of his bedroll.

  The two men exchanged glances with Jurren and nodded in agreement. No longer caring for sleep, they loaded the wagon and hitched up the horses. With the last of the load secured, Zemarick took his perch atop the cage closest to Jurren.

  By nightfall, they reached another of the shelters without incident. Inside the room, they found several long sheets heaped along the back wall.

  “Looks like someone forgot the tarps for their wagon.” Ellam unfolded one of the sheets to find it was about ten feet long by thirty feet wide.

  “There are at least a dozen of these,” Arkose said. “Why would someone leave them behind?”

  “Whoever abandoned this pile will definitely want it back.” Jurren grabbed an edge of the sheet to look for an owner’s mark.

  “Well, we can’t leave them here in this big pile. They’re taking up too much space. We barely have enough room for us and the horses as it is.”

  “Don’t worry. There are sufficient pegs and posts hammered into the walls.” Jurren continued looking along the edge of the sheet. “We can tie them up tonight and take them down in the morning. Maybe someone in Kovarilos knows who owns these.”

  “I suppose.” Ellam scanned the room in the dwindling twilight. “Don’t you find it strange we haven’t seen a single rider or wagon this whole trip and now this?”

  “That’s why we’re sleeping in shifts tonight.”

  “What?”

  “We’ll take turns staying awake and listening for anything suspicious.”

  “I don’t trust myself to stay awake at night. You know how I am.”

  “Then I’ll take your shift.”

  “Jurren, I —”

  “Let’s get to work.” Arkose marched back out the entrance, running his hand along the back of his shaved head.

  “Agreed.” Jurren followed. “With any luck, we’ll be to Kovarilos by late morning.”

  Ellam padded up behind him. “I’ll take my shift. I want to do my part.”

  Turning, Jurren gave a nod. “Only if you know you can do it.”

  They hauled all but the wagon into the shelter, as they had the night before, along with the added task of draping the sheets up onto the posts.

  Sometime during the night, Arkose woke Jurren for the third watch. Within moments, he heard the soft, steady breathing of both men sleeping. One of the horses snorted.

  For an hour, the worry of an attack chewed at Jurren’s mind. Then, something bit. The sound of hushed voices. He held his breath. It was neither Ellam nor Arkose talking in their sleep. Jurren angled his head. The voices came from outside. At least two, maybe three. Great. Jurren swept his blanket off.

  Feeling along the ground for the right spot, he located his nearest companion. Jurren eased in close and cupped his hand over Arkose’s mouth. The man j
erked to free himself from beneath the weight of Jurren hunching over him.

  “It’s me.” Jurren dared to whisper only the most necessary of words. “Listen.”

  Arkose relaxed his grip on Jurren’s wrists. The hard stillness that came next confirmed he understood.

  “Wake Ellam.”

  Arkose nodded under the still firm grip, and Jurren released him.

  The voices outside echoed a little louder. Then, to Jurren’s dismay, they changed to the sound of shuffling footsteps. He pushed his hand against Arkose and felt the man retreat. A muffled gasp followed a swish of blankets. Good, Ellam didn’t make too much noise.

  Footfalls inched their way up the tunnel for another moment. Then silence. To Jurren, it seemed as if both parties anticipated each other for not even the faintest sound of breathing came from either direction. Even the horses were silent.

  He tightened his grip on his sword, keeping it pointed down. Crossing his arm at his waist, he readied for them to rush him.

  CHAPTER 2

  An eternity of seconds passed in the inky black of the ghostwood shelter. A voice whispered from somewhere in the direction of the entrance.

  “Kase, I think they left.”

  Jurren did not recognize who owed the voice, but he knew to whom it was speaking. Names were to be as individual as the person who received them in Bondurant. There could be only one Kase roaming this forest.

  “Kase Rohjer of Southam,” Jurren bellowed.

  A crackling burst of light erupted, and a young man Jurren had met once before held up a lit torch. How was it possible for a torch spring to life so quickly?

  “What makes you think you know me?” A young man, barely eighteen years, took a step forward. His dirty blond hair cast shadows around his face.

  Jurren took a few steps forward until his face and six-foot-two, 210-pound frame were in full view. “Don’t you remember? I made a trade with your father ten years ago. I gave him a white-cliff falcon and a few rare pelts. In return, he gave me this.”

  Bowing his elbow, Jurren angled his sword to reflect the light of the torch across the young man’s face. As Kase pulled his head back from the flash of light, Jurren thought he saw something not right in the boy’s eyes.

  “I have no father.” Kase barked his words. “He died shortly after I was born. You are a liar.”

  What was going on? What was there to gain by lying about the death of his father?

  “I do not lie.” Jurren lowered his head to try and see beneath the mass of sloppy hair obscuring the boy’s face.

  “But you do lie.” The loathing in Kase’s voice increased. “And these woods are sacred to us. We do not tolerate such sins here.”

  Jurren kept still. He wanted to look back at Arkose and Ellam but thought better of it.

  “We require tribute in exchange for forgiveness!” Kase declared.

  “You will take nothing from us except your presence.”

  “Then it seems we are at an impasse.”

  From what he saw, Jurren guessed four young men between the ages of fifteen and twenty had entered the shelter. Were more waiting outside?

  Though ten years had passed since his last journey to Southam, Jurren knew the customs of the people living there. No one would tolerate such behavior. Why had Kase’s father not put an end to these actions? Resources were too plentiful in Bondurant to need to resort to violence as a means of survival. What happened to these boys to make them act this way?

  “My name is well known in these lands. I am Jurren of Hess Bren. An attack on me or either of my companions would do well in damning any future you hope to have.”

  Kase barked what sounded like a laugh. Another boy, behind and to the left, pulled his shoulders up and took a step back. The faces of each youth looked lean and dirty, giving the appearance they were ill-suited to live the life of a vagabond thief.

  “I’m not worried about a couple of old men full of wine.” Kase pointed to the barrels against the wall. “And to prove it, I think I will double the homage required for safe passage on this road. C’mon, boys. Tell the others to come inside and load up that wagon. We will drink to my greatness tonight! And this time…” His mouth snarled into a smile as he raised his hand in a mock gesture of holding a drink. “This time we will leave no witnesses.”

  Those old instincts crashed through him. Jurren swooped forward with a cross-step that knocked Kase’s legs out from under him. As Kase fell, Jurren wrapped his arm around the boy’s torso and up behind his head. Doing the same with the other, he pinned Kase’s arms out wide to the side. The torch fell to the floor, along with Jurren’s sword.

  “No!” The venom in Kase’s voice pierced the night air. He tensed his body forward then snapped his head back with lightening speed.

  One instant, Jurren braced himself to keep from lifting off the ground, and the next, he gasped from the shards of hot pain radiating across his face. Kase’s arms swooped up, and the boy slid through Jurren’s grasp. As soon as he lifted his head to look at Kase, the young man snapped a dagger from a sheath strapped to his thigh.

  Movement came from all directions as the boys rushed forward to assist in the assault. Jurren spun to kick Kase in the arm, forcing him back. Where is my sword? A quick dart of the eye and Jurren saw the glow of flame reflecting off steel. Kase came at him again. With an upward swing, and a jerk of the head to prevent losing an ear, Jurren struck his right fist against the boy’s forearm. This time the young man cried out and dropped his weapon. Two steps to the left and Jurren retrieved his sword, ducking from the elbow of someone fighting Arkose. At the same time, Kase stooped to pick up his dagger.

  With Kase lunging forward, Jurren peeled back. The sting along Jurren’s side proved he didn’t move fast enough. Clanging metal, mixed with shouting cries of attack and pain, filled the shelter. Jurren narrowly missed a flailing hoof from a reared-up horse as he dodged another swipe from Kase.

  A sudden weight pressed down on Jurren’s shoulders. Without thinking, he leaned down and forward while thrusting the base of his sword up. A young man tumbled over his shoulder just as the pommel of Jurren’s sword caught the side of the boy’s forehead. The youth landed on his chin with his head tilted back, then flopped onto his side.

  Kase was already arcing his dagger for another slice.

  As Jurren lifted his sword in defense, the tip of his blade dragged across the throat of the fallen boy. He felt it. Felt the shiver up his arm. In all his wanderings to escape his past, the reason Jurren chose to stay in this land was the serenity these people enjoyed. A small nation protected from the harsh truths of the outside world. The last oasis of peace.

  But those thoughts were shoved away the moment they came into his mind. There was no time for sentiment here.

  Kase ducked beneath Jurren’s stroke and parried. With teeth bared, the boy made a jerking motion as though about to pounce. Jurren held up his blade to deflect the attack. A youth jumped onto Jurren from behind. The moment his peripheral vision registered a blade coming toward his throat, Jurren dropped his sword. He grabbed the arm of his assailant and tweaked the youth’s wrist under his forearm all in one motion. Screaming, the boy dropped his blade and released Jurren’s neck. With his left hand, Jurren pulled the boy off his shoulder then drove his right fist into the lower left side of the youth’s back.

  Movement flickered to Jurren’s right. He thrust his heel to catch another boy in the stomach then spun to give two quick jabs to the first boy trying to thrust a dagger in his foot.

  From his crouched position on the ground, Jurren reached for his fallen sword. Kase’s feet stood in its place. The moment Jurren’s eyes registered the sight of his own blade poised to kill him, he thrust both fists up and inward to slam the youth’s elbows. The crack of bone against bone caused the sword to fall from Kase’s hands. Jurren caught the grip midair as he stood up and pivoted to force his elbow into the boy’s sternum. A single, strained cough released as Kase collapsed.

  Th
en another flicker. Jurren’s vision pulled in and noticed something reflecting in the blade. It was orange and bright. Like the color he saw while banking a fire.

  Jurren turned. Six feet away, Arkose staggered between two boys wrestling him to the ground. That was when his eyes finally registered smoke swelling toward the ceiling. Flames licked their way up the curtains from the loose torch against the wall. A different instinct surged through him.

  “Fire!” Jurren called out. “Fire!”

  The horses had had enough of the frightening sights and sounds and bolted for the exit. Ellam stumbled to the floor, taking a boy down with him. A horse kicked another thief to the ground. The second horse was close behind and trampled the fallen youth.

  Screeching called to Jurren, and he swerved from running toward the entrance to running toward the falcons. The moment his sword clipped across their tethers, they flew in all directions. With his forearm over his face to protect his eyes from their frenzied wings, Jurren stumbled over someone.

  Oh no! He couldn’t leave them here to get burned alive. Scooping under the arms of the youth at his feet, he braced himself against the memories of death and murder from all those years ago. Now that he had the power to decide who would survive, he chose to drag the young man out of the tunnel and into safety.

  A scream came from the shelter, and he hurried back inside. Squinting, he turned to find the source of the sound. It was to his right. He found a youth slapping at the advancing fire on his legs. Shoving him to roll across the ground, Jurren pushed the young man toward the exit. At the tunnel, Jurren tucked his hands under the teen’s arms and dragged him outside.

  One more life possibly saved.

  “Help me!” The fire victim’s voice was pitiful.

  For a moment, the sight of a young man covered in a mottled mess of blood and charred skin caused Jurren to pause. But if the sheets continued to burn, they might set the whole tree ablaze. If that happened, the safety of Bondurant would shift from the worry of a traveling band of thieves to something far graver.