by Sam Ferguson
The three female dwarf hunters nodded and ran through the company back to their drakes. They grabbed seven others and took off through the forest on foot leading their drakes by the reins as all of them prepared their bows.
Hermean turned and looked at a few others. “Koril, Jeret, and Merean, I want you to pick seventeen others and scout around the perimeter. Look for secondary burrows, alternate exits, or any tunnel or hole these sly rats might crawl out from and block them off. Keredil, Boroil, and Findel will wait here in the clearing with seven others. If you need reinforcements to block off escape routes, call on them. The rest of you are with me. We will go in the front with Brinwal and knock these lumbering slobber-suckers down to the Pits of Morinda”
No one cheered. No one shouted. All were silent. They moved to their drakes and saddled up, except for Brinwal and the others from the expeditionary forces, they would follow on foot as they did not have drakes at their disposal. Hermean moved back to his saddle and whipped the air with his hand as a signal for all to take off. The grass and flowers in the clearing bent low under the beating wings. The scene resembled a flock of birds taking flight from the ground as they clouded the air and all swirled around in a cone until Hermean lead them off toward the knoll.
The hunter captain took his axe and jerked his head to the side, cracking his neck. They reached the knoll in no time at all, but they circled above it, waiting for Brinwal and the others to catch up. No sooner did the black-armored dwarf emerge from the forest than Hermean tapped his drake.
“Tonight you feast,” he told his beast. The drake flicked its tail anxiously. A moment later Hermean whistled sharply and the drake dove down for the burrow. The others would land nearby, dismount and then enter the tunnel, but Hermean had other ideas. He ducked down low against his drake’s spine and the beast pulled in its wings at the last moment to fit through the opening. They soared through fifteen yards of tunnel before the burrow leveled out enough and the drake put its taloned feet on the floor.
An angry shriek sounded from the left. Hermean’s drake turned to catch an atorat lunging from a side chamber. The drake tore out the side of the atorat’s neck and Hermean leapt from atop his saddle to run over the atorat’s back and charge into the chamber. His eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness and he saw two figures stirring and coming off of ratty nests of dried grass and branches. The first lunged at him, but he rolled underneath it and opened the beast’s belly with his axe. He then pulled a wickedly curved knife from a sheath on his belt and drove it up into the atorat’s thick chest, slipping the blade between a pair of ribs to thrust up into the lung. The atorat convulsed and spurted out bubble-filled blood as it rolled onto its side.
The second atorat circled around, snarling and exposing its yellow fangs under bright pink gums. Hermean twirled his axe in his hands, spinning the head to distract the rat, and then he jumped left and swung his weapon, severing the atorat’s left foreleg from its body. Instead of retreating, however, the atorat became enraged and lurched forward to lash out with its right foreleg. The claws caught Hermean’s right shoulder and threw him to the ground. In an instant the beast was on top of him, its hot, fetid breath in his face while blood oozed from the stump that used to be its left foreleg. Hermean slammed up into the atorat’s neck with the shaft of his axe, pushing the foul demon out of biting range. The dwarf kicked up with his iron-toed boot, but his short legs barely afforded him any reach, and he hardly did more than strike the skin on the atorat’s soft underbelly.
Suddenly the weight was gone and the beast was ripped from atop him. Hermean watched as his drake lifted the atorat and bit down on the back of its neck, snapping the bone with a sickening crunch before shaking the remnants of life from the foul animal and then dropping it at Hermean’s feet.
“Perhaps I should name you,” Hermean said.
The drake offered only a single, short snort.
Hermean shrugged and jumped up to his feet. His drake was moving to the far side of the chamber. “Come on, let’s go hunting,” Hermean said.
The drake snorted again and kept its eyes fixed on the wall. Hermean turned to see the other dwarves storming past the chamber, down through the main tunnel. Shrieks and cries rang out, echoing horribly. Then he looked back to his drake. He stroked his beard and walked up to his drake.
“What do you have? Did you catch a scent?” he asked.
The drake moved forward and raked a set of talons across the stone with a deafening scrrrreeeeeeeech! Hermean shuddered and cringed against the agonizing noise. “Was that necessary?” Hermean grumbled. He slid his hand over the smooth stone until he found a niche on the right. A faint, cool draft emanated from the other side, carrying a distinct odor with it.
“Good boy,” Hermean said as he patted his drake’s head. “I think you found the nest.”
“A bit close to the entrance to be the nest, don’t you think?” Brinwal called out from behind.
Hermean turned around to face Brinwal and shook his head. “I have heard that sometimes they keep the nest close to an entrance, or an exit.”
“Doesn’t that leave them vulnerable to predators?” Brinwal asked.
“What is going to prey on rats that are larger than bears?” Hermean shot back. “Besides, they appear to have sealed it off with a heavy stone to prevent us from noticing it. If we all ran down the main tunnel, it would be easy for the nesters inside to take the young out into the forest.”
“Unfortunately for them, we found the nest,” Brinwal said with a grin. “Can you open it?”
Hermean turned and wedged his axe into the niche. He worked the axe this way and that, twisting, pushing and pulling to pry the heavy slab free. It budged a little, but slipped back into place once Hermean tried to pull and his axe slipped out of the niche.
“Step away,” Brinwal said. The thick-muscled dwarf pulled his mighty hammer from a harness on his back and squared off, pointing his left hip at the slab while he took in a deep breath and raised his hammer. With a mighty yell he brought the hammer down to crash into the middle of the slab. The stone cracked and split, shooting dust and sparks out at the dwarves, but Brinwal didn’t flinch. He pulled his hammer back for one last swing. He yelled again and slammed the slab once more. The rock exploded inward amidst a cloud of dust and a shower of sparks. The rubble filled the tunnel up to Brinwal’s waist, but he paid it no mind. He trudged in. A loud shriek pierced the air and a pair of atorats tackled Brinwal to the ground. His hammer fell, ringing out on the rocks.
Hermean and his drake rushed in, but Brinwal was finished before they could reach him. One atorat he skewered with a long scimitar, and the other found itself stuck on Brinwal’s armor as the spikes dug into it. Brinwal took a handful of fur in his left hand and began smashing the beast in the face with his right, spike-gauntleted fist. Blood and fur were slung about them and then came a loud snick, snack, crack as Brinwal drove three rapid succession punches that crushed the atorat’s skull in on itself. The beast fell limp and Brinwal stood to dust himself off before retrieving his hammer and scimitar.
The dwarf turned and grinned. “I may not have a drake, but the spikes on my armor usually make up for it,” he said.
Hermean nodded and continued in over the rubble and the dead atorats. “This is definitely the nest,” he said as he surveyed the chamber. Several atorat young were huddling together in different patches of dry grass and fur. They emitted squeaks and crawled around and over each other.
“They are still blind,” Hermean said. “Let’s put them down before any other adults get here. Hermean snapped his fingers and pointed to the left. His drake galloped up to the nearest nest and quickly put an end to each of the baby atorats. Meanwhile, Brinwal and Hermean moved around the right, going from nest to nest and exterminating the vermin.
Chapter 5
“Has it been done?” Siravel asked amidst the trees under the waning daylight.
Hermean bowed low. “All of the atorats have been slain, my queen,” he
replied. “As a precaution, I sent the hunters to the south, to search for any additional atorats.”
“They will find none,” Siravel said confidently.
Hermean drew his brow together and he thought to ask how the queen could be so certain. She lowered her head to catch his eyes. She locked gazes with him and his body jerked a bit as she forced her way into his mind.
“What I am about to show you, you may never utter to another.” A faint tingling in his mind turned hot, like boiling water. He was not accustomed to making the connection. This was usually something reserved for higher ranking dwarves. Beads of sweat formed on his brow as he remained still until the connection was solidified.
He saw images of one of the other queens conversing with a trio of dwarves. He didn’t recognize them or know their names, but he studied their features, memorizing their faces. The queen was honey colored, with blue eyes like sapphires set under a pair of ivory horns that curled upward. The dwarves then left, each nodding to the queen and pledging to fulfill their tasks. The honey-colored queen then looked directly at Hermean. He knew, of course, that the queen wasn’t really looking at him, but rather at whomever owned this memory. The queen cocked her head and an eerie sneer crossed her lips.
“Sent by Siravel are you?” the honey-colored queen asked. The dragon moved forward with blinding speed.
Hermean watched as the image whirled around. He thought perhaps the memory belonged to another dwarf, as the images appeared to be from a similar vantage point as would be seen from a dwarf’s eyes, but he soon realized this was not the case. The image turned to look over the back of a small green skyte as it scampered from the wall to fly through the air. Hermean sucked in a breath. Teeth crashed around and all went dark. The skyte must have blown its flame, for a few puffs of fire and light flashed from within the honey-colored queen’s maw and throat as she swallowed the skyte whole. Hermean then smelled the overpowering odor of sulfuric stomach acid, and knew that the skyte had landed in the dragon’s stomach.
The image stopped, but Queen Siravel held the connection between their minds. “Teratheal has ever been scheming to subvert me. She dislikes being a lesser queen, and has made her final effort against me.”
“I am not sure I understand,” Hermean said with his mind. “I could not hear what she was commanding the dwarves to do, nor did I even recognize them.”
“Of course not,” Siravel said. “Two of the dwarves are from a camp far to the south, and belong to no king. The third is a miner who lives among our halls. Teratheal came to us from the south, and likely has had connection with these independent dwarves since before she came to King Geldryn. She recruited the miner to help her in her plots.”
“My queen, what was her aim?”
“She is the one who brought the atorats,” Siravel said quickly. “With her covert allies she brought the filthy beasts not only into our lands, but also arranged to have them attack the nursery.”
“To what end?” Hermean asked. “Don’t all of the queens have eggs in there?”
“Indeed, but only I have produced the crowned egg.”
Everything fell together for him. “Why not take this memory to the king? Surely he would give justice.”
Siravel paused momentarily. She then sent another image to Hermean’s mind. This time he saw the miner dwarf dead, hanging from a harness with his neck snapped and his head bloodied. “There was an accident in the mines.” The connection broke and Hermean fell forward to his knees, panting for breath. “All I have is the memory of my skyte. While it may be enough to start an inquiry, it is not enough to have Teratheal banished. Nor do I have the requisite proof to challenge her directly myself.”
“But you are afraid she will strike again?” Hermean asked.
Siravel pulled her head back and a thin line of smoke swirled out from her nostrils. “I have taken precautions of my own. I am old, even for a dragon. This may be the last time I produce a crowned egg. It would be disgraceful if it were destroyed before it can hatch. I need you to find the other two dwarves. Kill them both, and bring me their heads.”
Hermean blanched. “I have never spilt dwarf blood,” he said. “I am a hunter.”
“Precisely,” Siravel said. “That is why I have chosen you. This task will require stealth, patience, and skill.”
“And secrecy,” boomed a voice from behind.
Hermean turned to see Brinwal approaching him with his massive hammer in hand. He could tell by the look in Brinwal’s good eye that there was only one correct answer to the queen’s proposal. “I slay them, bring their heads to you, and then what?”
“As I extracted the memories from my skyte after it was excreted in a pile of refuse, so I shall pull the memories from the treacherous conspirators working with Teratheal.” Siravel eyed him for a moment and then added, “Brinwal will accompany you. It will be a dangerous journey.”
“I would be faster if I flew with my drake,” Hermean said.
“Let your drake scout from above while you and Brinwal track from the ground. I don’t want any mistakes.”
“By your command,” Hermean relented. The hunter then turned and left as quickly as possible.
Siravel watched him go and then turned her head toward Brinwal. She formed the connection between them and reached deep into his mind. “Go with him. Make sure he fulfills his duty. Should he falter or fail, take his head as well.” She broke the connection as quickly as she formed it. Brinwal did not stumble forward like others. He was stronger than that.
“By my life, we shall not fail you,” Brinwal vowed. The stout warrior turned and jogged to catch up with Hermean. His black armor jingled and clanked with each step as he disappeared into the forest.
“See that you do not fail me,” she whispered after the dwarves were long gone. “For it is not only the last crowned egg I shall produce, it is also very likely the last thread bonding my husband to me.”
*****
Hermean sat upon a sun-bleached log that stretched up to rest against a gray boulder. He ran his fingers through the velvety green moss which spread its way like a blanket across the whitened bark, and watched the buzzing bumble bee zig and zag from flower to flower in the small clearing before him. Each blossom would flop to one side, nearly toppling over under the bumblebee’s weight. As the black and yellow worker left, the blossom would spring back into place, waving like a minute flag above the green grass.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he turned his torso and head around to see Brinwal emerge from the trees behind him. “So, you will assist me then?” Hermean said.
The black haired, one-eyed dwarf nodded and tugged at his plaited beard. “You have never shed dwarf blood, so you said yourself.”
Hermean nodded. “I do not think it right.”
“Yet you made no complaints when you quashed the suckling atorats,” Brinwal pointed out.
“That is different.” Hermean shook his head and slid off the log. “Those are mindless, feral creatures that will devour anything they can put their teeth to. They are not dwarves.”
“A threat is a threat,” Brinwal stated dryly as he strode up to the log and placed his massive forearms over it so that his wrists rested over the other side near Hermean. “I don’t care if it is a rival dragon, a bear, a dwarf, or a demon, anything that threatens the peace of our kingdom must be crushed down, and not allowed to blossom into its full strength.”
Hermean searched the dwarf’s good eye, trying to find some heart within the captain’s soul. Yet he felt only judgment looking back at him. “You think me weak,” Hermean said.
“You can fight, and you are comfortable in command, that much I have seen. Now we shall see if you have strength of spirit as well as flesh,” Brinwal replied. The dwarf turned his right hand over and gripped the log as if it were an atorat’s neck. He raised his left arm and brought it down with such force that the log split in two and fell to the ground. He stepped through the opening and pointed the way they shou
ld go.
Hermean nodded and clicked his tongue. The drake shrieked from above and broke from his stagnant circle to fly before them, scouting the path. “He will alert us to anything he sees.”
Brinwal grunted and began pushing his way through the brush. Hermean glanced back to the log and then shook his head. He moved a bit to the left, where the underbrush was not as thick, and picked his way through it so as to move without disturbing the forest or make unnecessary noises.
They traveled like that for most of the day. Brinwal stomped and crashed his way through the forest, while Hermean slipped and threaded himself around obstacles harmoniously with nature. Hermean had to wonder how Brinwal had lived long enough to become a captain of the expeditionary forces. While they were not known for their subtlety, surely the expeditionary forces had to travel delicately to avoid losing the element of surprise. How was it that he was so careless, so oblivious to his surroundings?
“Move yer arse!” Brinwal shouted.
Hermean looked up and saw that Brinwal was a good seventy meters ahead of him. He sighed and moved a little faster, sacrificing his quiet for speed. When he reached Brinwal, the dwarf’s good eye glared at him with searing heat. They didn’t exchange any words, though. They just looked at each other and then resumed their travel. Brinwal tore through the forest, cutting a direct path to where he wanted to go and obliterating any obstacle in his way. Hermean followed him for several meters, but the noise grated on him something awful. He eventually peeled off again and disappeared into the brush, skirting around and finding his own way through the forest.
When the sun had finally dropped down into its final descent, the two stopped for a meal and to make camp for the night. Brinwal brought an armload of sticks and logs for a fire and dropped them into a pile. He arranged them so that enough air could vent through the pile and then shaved some wood off of a dry stick to form soft kindling and tinder to gather in the center. Once he had two fistfuls of shavings he squeezed them together and moved them directly under the spot where the other sticks crisscrossed over each other. He pulled a small leather bag from his rucksack and opened it to reveal a tinder set with flints and strikers. He struck the flint with the strikers, shooting orange sparks into the shavings and nurtured the sprouting embers with his breath until the flames rose up to consume the pile. Then he added two sizeable logs to the fire and kicked back to relax against a fallen oak tree. He rummaged through his sack and brought out a hunk of dried meat and some flat bread and began to eat.