Ascension: The Dragons of Kendualdern

by Sam Ferguson

  No sooner had he taken his third bite than Hermean appeared, carrying a slain and gutted deer over his shoulders, holding it around the ankles. He moved to a large rock and draped the carcass over it. “Thought we might enjoy a bit of venison,” he remarked. He bent down to the pile of sticks and sharpened two of them into skewers.

  “What took you so long?” Brinwal grumbled, eyeing Hermean with his good eye while the dead, gray orb looked directly ahead and reflected the orange heat of the fire.

  Hermean snorted. “With all the heavy-footed stomping you do, I had to travel out quite a ways before I could find any game.”

  “Ha!” Brinwal chuckled and he took another bite of dried meat. With his mouth full of the stuff he pointed his left hand at Hermean and shook a finger at the hunter. “You don’t care for me much, do you? I bet you think me nothing more than a knuckle-dragging oaf with an insatiable bloodlust.”

  Hermean shrugged and moved to skin the deer. He placed the two skewers nearby and hung the deer by the rear legs with a bit of rope hanging over a low but thick oaken branch. “I would not have thought so earlier,” Hermean said. “But after seeing how quickly you rush to spill kindred blood, it has called your character into question.”

  Brinwal nearly choked on his food and slapped his knee as he coughed and managed to swallow the last bit of his bite down. “Well, look who decided to bring a backbone to dinner!” he exclaimed heartily. Brinwal brushed the crumbs from his lap and then relaxed against the log, draping his arms over it. “We are not so different, you and I,” Brinwal claimed. “You provide food and hunt animal threats to the kingdom. You exterminate vermin, and protect our home. I may dress different from you, and my methods might be more direct than yours, but I have much the same purpose in life. I am sent out to destroy any and all opposition to the king.”

  “But our current assignment does not affect the king,” Hermean pointed out as he slid his knife in between the tough hide and the meat, tugging and severing the sinews that held it in place.

  “Does it not?” Brinwal asked. “If there is discord among the queens, I guarantee it has a direct correlation to the king, and how well he can rule over his kingdom. A house without a solid foundation quickly crumbles.” Brinwal huffed and took the final bite of his bread. “Most dwarves have a hard time keeping one wife happy, imagine what it must be like to have several queens, and a brooding harem besides that. I would wager it is a very delicate balance indeed, especially if any of the lesser queens sense any weakness or inadequacy in the high queen.”

  “I suppose I have to cede that point to you,” the hunter admitted. Queen Siravel had appeared more worried than he would normally imagine her. It was hard for him to say though, since he dealt mostly with other dwarves, and usually received his orders through the officers. “I hadn’t really thought about politics between dragons,” Hermean admitted. “But, I can see how a disturbance in the balance could disrupt the king’s ability to govern the land.” Hermean pulled and tugged his knife through an especially rough patch of sinew that ripped and cracked as his blade tore through. “Are you married?” Hermean asked.

  “I am,” Brinwal said.

  Hermean stopped and turned around with raised eyebrows.

  Brinwal pulled a cherry wood pipe from his rucksack and filled it with tobacco. He chuckled a bit to himself. “You didn’t expect that answer did you?”

  Hermean shook his head and went back to work.

  “Well, I have a wife and seven sons. It is for them that I do this work.”

  Hermean sliced a pair of strips of meat and set them to the skewers. Then he turned and moved to the fire. “How do you like your venison?”

  Brinwal looked to his pipe and set it on the ground beside himself without lighting it. “I suppose I could go for a bit. Just scorch the outside a bit and then I’ll take care of the rest.”

  The hunter positioned the skewers over the glowing embers, letting the flames only occasionally lick the meat to sear the outside. “Wouldn’t you prefer to be with them?” Hermean asked.

  “Better that I serve outside the home,” Brinwal admitted. “Love them, I do, but I am not much for a soft hand. I find it hard to trade the gauntlet for kid gloves. Besides, I am out here for them. I fight so they may have a better future, one of peace and of prosperity.”

  “You fight to bring peace?” Hermean asked skeptically.

  Brinwal nodded emphatically. “When all threats have been subdued, and the kingdom enjoys no opposition, then my family can live in a better world than I. For that goal, I am more than willing to live in the trenches, caves, and battlefields.”

  “But all threats will never be subdued,” Hermean said as he turned over the meat. “We can destroy one atorat nest, but there are always others.”

  “Spoken like a soft-bellied, empty-headed philosopher,” Brinwal chided. “Threats may always exist, but that is no reason to sit on our widening arses and do nothing to improve our lot in life. I would expect you to understand that.”

  “I do,” Hermean said quickly. “It is just that I don’t think I could abandon my family for a dream that is as unobtainable as the stars above our mountain. I chase the same thing you do. I work to protect the mountain and keep her safe, but I didn’t take a wife. I didn’t think it fair when I knew that I would be leaving her behind in the den while I live in the forests and valleys without the mountain.”

  Brinwal reached forward and took the nearest skewer. He blew on the meat a couple of times and then tore a hunk out. “Mmm!” he moaned with his eyes closed. He relaxed back into the log behind him and nodded. “Well, at least you can cook.”

  Hermean took his skewer from the fire and took a small bite. The savory meat burst, spilling its searing, delicious juices over his tongue. The two ate in silence for a couple of minutes, and then Brinwal took up his pipe and offered it to Hermean. Hermean shook his head.

  “The tobacco is flavored of pumpkin and spice,” Brinwal said. “One of the few pleasures I allow myself to take.”

  “You don’t worry the scent will give you away?” Hermean asked.

  “I suppose we are different,” Brinwal said. “I permit a few luxuries. They remind me of home. They call to mind my family, and everything I hold dear. I fight for them, so what good would I be if I forgot about them entirely? You live out here, and permit yourself to wallow more like an animal than a dwarf. What is it you fight for? You have no wife, no offspring, and you have no ties to home that I can see, except for the red beard that makes you look like a dwarf.”

  Hermean’s mouth twitched to the side and he snorted at Brinwal’s remarks. He clicked his tongue, almost inaudibly. His drake landed a moment later on the opposite side of the fire from the two dwarves. “If anything comes close, he’ll alert us to it.”

  Brinwal shrugged and took the first drag of his pipe. He blew out a rich smoke that danced in the air above him. The last light of the sun faded and the dwarves had only the light of the fire to chase away the cold shadows of the night. The aroma of pumpkin and spice filled the camp. It wasn’t altogether unpleasant, but Hermean couldn’t help but think that it was unwise, and could attract predators or unwanted attention.

  He turned over and closed his eyes. His skin felt almost hot from the nearby fire. His ears twitched with the crackling logs and splitting embers. His consciousness started to drift. His last thoughts before giving in to the land of dreams revolved around Brinwal’s words. If only Brinwal had known the truth of it. No. Hermean knew it would mean little to the gruff, brash, spike-armored pipe smoker. How could he expect a dwarf like Brinwal to comprehend the truth of the situation?

  Sleep came over him, creeping upon him as a snake in the grass. Then it struck, suddenly and swiftly, dragging Hermean to the dream world while the dwarf’s mind was still arguing within itself the merits and flaws in Brinwal’s arguments.

  The first scream pierced the air, as it always did. Hermean opened his eyes suddenly. He was no longer in the camp. His drake w
as nowhere to be seen. Brinwal and his obscene pipe were also gone. A second scream erupted through the air. A horrid, blood-curdling shriek immediately followed it. A flash of brown fur flew over Hermean. He sat up and reached for his axe, but it was not there. He looked around and saw numerous atorats tearing through the forest. Blood and bodies covered the forest floor. No, it wasn’t the forest. It was the mountain. His eyes regained their focus and he realized he was inside a mountain den. He jumped to his feet and ran to find something, anything, to use as a weapon. Why were there no axes or swords? Didn’t they know about the atorats?

  A dwarf fell two meters away onto his back. He thrust his fists up into the air as a great, black atorat pounced upon him and ripped his throat out. Hermean ran forward to help, but the atorat lunged from its victim to drag down a dwarf woman with its wicked claws before Hermean could reach it.

  “Hermean, come here boy!” a familiar voice shouted.

  Hermean turned to see his mother, looking no older than she had when he was a young lad. She was frantically running toward him, her skirt held up in her hands and dirt and soot smeared upon her front. An atorat jumped in between them. Hermean shouted and went for the atorat, but a large hand shoved him back. His father came out of nowhere, holding a broken broom handle in his hands. He speared the beast in its eye and then wrestled it to the ground before pulling the makeshift spear out to run it through the atorat’s neck. The monster twitched and wiggled, but the strength was gone.

  “Get him out of here!” Hermean’s father shouted.

  “No, give me a weapon!” Hermean shouted.

  If they heard him, they didn’t show it. His mother scooped him up in her arms and ran for the back of the den. The shouts and screams grew more frantic now. Hermean saw a few dwarves run with torches. They passed by them, one nearly knocking his mother to the ground. She grunted, but corrected herself and kept running toward the back. At last, they dove into one of the hearths, spewing soot and ash everywhere.

  “Rub some of it on you,” his mother said.

  Hermean looked up, shaking his head and fighting to push her away. “I can help, stop, and let me help!”

  His mother’s eyes went wide and a warm liquid burst out over her shoulder and landed on Hermean’s face. He frantically swiped at the blood, but it only mixed with the ash and soot to create a stinging goo that clumped in his eyes, burning and scratching them. He heard his mother scream, then a high-pitched squeal ripped through the air, piercing Hermean’s ears. A strong hand grabbed him by the arm and then he felt himself flying through the air. He spun over the clamorous din and landed atop a stone table. His left arm exploded in pain at the shoulder and Hermean howled out as he bounced from the table to hit a corner. He whimpered and shivered, his body’s strength was leaving. Through it all he could smell the overpowering odor of raw sewage, and a faint, cold draft pushed up into his face.

  “Go down the chute, Hermean!” his mother cried out in a panic. “Go down the chute!” She screamed again and Hermean knew she was gone. He called out for her, but she didn’t answer.

  A rough, gritty thumb wiped Hermean’s left eye clear and Hermean looked up to see his father. His father offered a quick smile from behind a blood-smeared face. “Be brave, my little rock biter,” he said. Then his hands roughly pushed him into the narrow chute. Hermean slipped and slid through the steep shaft until he plopped into a lumpy pond of muck and refuse. He struggled to grab onto a rock and pull himself out of the slop. It was in his hair, in his clothes, and in his mouth, eyes, and ears. He retched twice before he could manage to pull himself out and pull his tunic over his head and use it to wipe himself somewhat clean.

  The screams above echoed down the chute.

  “Father!” Hermean shouted up at the hole he had fallen from.

  A hand gripped his left shoulder and shook him violently. “Wake up!” Brinwal growled. An open-palm slapped across Hermean’s face and the dwarf awoke to see himself lying in the camp. A moment later his drake moved in and forced itself between Brinwal and Hermean.

  “What in the Pits of Morinda was that?” Brinwal asked.

  Hermean shook the sleep from his mind and looked around. He knew it wouldn’t be the case, but he half expected to see the corpses around him from the attack. When he finally gathered himself together he shook his head. “Must have been bad venison,” Hermean said.

  “Frog bellies,” Brinwal retorted. “You were mumbling about the screaming and saying you could help. Who was it? Did you lose someone close to you then?”

  Hermean shook his head and scooted close to his drake. The drake wrapped its tail up and around Hermean to comfort him. “It was nothing,” he said. “Just a dream.”

  “So that’s it then,” Brinwal said. “I fight for those who are still alive, and you fight for those who died. We are simply two sides of the same coin.”

  Hermean shook his head. “You don’t know me,” he snapped.

  Brinwal nodded and pulled his pipe out again. “I know the type. You fight to silence the screams.”

  “The screams are never quiet. They cannot be silenced.”

  Chapter 6

  Brinwal and Hermean both woke just before the first rays of light peaked over the mountains in the east. Brinwal ate a small piece of flatbread for breakfast, and a strip of venison. Hermean collected a few berries from nearby bushes and ate those along with some meat. What was left of the deer, he gave to his drake. Then the drake launched into the air and flew off before them.

  The two dwarves started out separately, as they had ended the previous night. They crossed through the valley forest, forging large brooks and traversing hills and flat clearings until they finally emerged from the forest and found themselves on the yellow plains. Hermean bent down and scanned the amber grass, running his fingers along the dry stalks. Above he heard a sharp whistle. He looked up to see his drake veering sharply east.

  “From here the trail leads us that way,” Hermean said as he pointed out to the east.

  “Are you sure?” Brinwal asked.

  Hermean nodded. “There are prints here in the grass that lead that direction. My drake also signaled from above.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Most likely that he caught a scent. If he saw them he would have given a different signal.” Hermean motioned for Brinwal to follow him. Brinwal surveyed the field and then jogged to keep up with Hermean. They crossed the field to enter the rocky foothills that marked the edge of King Geldryn’s borders.

  “Have you ever been outside the king’s lands?” Brinwal asked.

  Hermean shook his head. “Hunters never have reason to go outside. At least, none that I have heard of before this.”

  Brinwal grinned. “Out there be wilds like you can’t even imagine.” He pulled his hammer loose in its harness and scanned the brown and gray rocks leading up to the nearest peak. “We should make our way to the top of this hill. From there we can scout the ridge. Be on your guard hunter, there are things bigger than atorats in this world.”

  “My drake will alert us to any danger,” Hermean countered. “He has the sight of a dragon.”

  Brinwal chuckled. “Not every animal hunts above ground,” he said dryly. The one-eyed dwarf forged on, picking his way up the hill carefully and pulling a knife out with his left hand.

  “At least he is finally being quiet,” Hermean whispered to himself. He kept one eye on Brinwal, and the other on the ground, trying his best to silently climb the slope. A brown and black checkered viper slithered harmlessly nearby. Its crimson tongue flickered in the air, but if it noticed the dwarves it paid no mind. Hermean watched it wind side to side and then turn to go back up the slope. Suddenly a knife whirled into view and sunk deep into the snake’s body just behind the head. Two seconds later Brinwal had his boot down on the serpent’s head. He removed the knife and then severed the body from the head.

  “Got you, filthy dust-muncher,” he said as he pulled the body up and flung it carelessly down t
he slope to slap against a large tan stone.

  “He wasn’t hurting anything,” Hermean said.

  Brinwal looked back and grinned at the hunter. He put a finger up to the side of his head and poked it slowly. “But he could have,” he said as if the threat should have been obvious. The armored dwarf then moved on up the hill.

  Hermean stepped over to the severed head and sighed. Was danger all that Brinwal could see? Could he not understand that these snakes killed rats, which themselves would bring disease? He bent down and took the head carefully in his right hand. He pulled a knife with his left hand and pried the mouth open. The front fangs flipped out into position, one of them broken down to a jagged nub, the other fully intact.

  “What are you doing?” Brinwal shouted from above.

  Hermean ignored him. He excised the intact fang, careful not to poke himself as he removed it and severed the venom gland from its root. Once he had the fang, he placed it into a small leather pouch on his belt. “Every animal has something useful,” he told Brinwal when he eventually caught up to him. Brinwal’s good eye glazed over almost enough to match his dead eye.

  “Doesn’t mean you need to harvest everything,” Brinwal said. “Or are you going to go back for the skin too so you can fashion a boot?”

  Hermean smiled and patted the leather pouch. “You can do more things with a fang.” He then walked by, slapping Brinwal’s shoulder. “Don’t kill things unless you want to eat them or have me stop and use the materials they offer.”