Deathsworn Arc: The Last Dragon Slayer

by Martyn Stanley

  ~

  Flight from Trest

  Throughout this episode Brael had remained silent. He had been in the orchard; he’d been intending to ‘borrow’ a few apples. Anything would have done. He’d not eaten for days. The farmer had caught him easily in his weakened state, and handed him over to the soldiers. He thought back to his brief spell in the Trest town gaol. The other prisoners had been fed, and watered, but the hatred and fear he’d experienced... They’d provided him with water; after all, they didn’t want him to die before the spectacle of his execution. He’d resigned himself to death, almost welcoming his fate. Ever since his banishment from Durth Orza, he’d grown closer and closer to giving up hope. Yet now, here he was, lying prone on the back of a horse, watching the ground thunder beneath the horse’s hooves, having been saved from the executioner's axe by a human. Of course, having had his life saved by this ‘man’, he would now be honour bound to accompany him until such a time as he’d be able to return the favour. He sighed mentally. He hoped, he sincerely hoped, that their travels would not take them anywhere near Durth Orza.

  The steeds bearing the companions were from the finest stock in the Empire, and though Silus’s steed struggled to keep up, and Votrex rode at the very limit of his horsemanship, they managed to put many leagues between themselves and the town.  Once deep in the forest, they diverted from the path, weaving through the densely packed trees, eventually dropping down a steep gully to a stream. The horses dropped their heads to drink the moment they were in reach of the brook, their flanks covered in sweat, their breath heavy and laboured. The ones who had suffered most were Silus and his horse. It was obvious Silus was at least fifteen years older than Harald and Korhan, though he didn’t have the appearance of a person fit for his years like Saul. Silus’s horse, purchased from Trest, was also by far the worst for wear following the sudden burst of speed. Still, they’d given the soldiers the slip, and had put themselves far enough from the road and deep enough in the woods for them to not fear being discovered, save by a clever tracker or by magical means, neither of which the Berger of Trest was likely to have at his disposal.

  Korhan lowered himself from his horse and helped the dark elf down after him. Brael wobbled as he landed on his feet and swayed a little as he shuffled forwards, disorientated. Korhan drew a dagger from his belt and cut the ropes tying his hands behind his back. As his hands were freed the gravian staggered forwards and collapsed on the bed of rustling brown leaves, which carpeted the forest floor. ‘Thank you.’

  Korhan pulled a flask from his saddle and removed the cork. ‘Here, drink. What’s your name, and how did you end up in Trest?’

  The dark elf leaned up on one elbow and took the drink with a short gasp of relief. He drew the flask straight to his lips. His face screwed up a little as he drank, he’d been expecting water rather than mead. Once he’d established the contents though, he drank deeply. As he drank, the rest dismounted, took flasks and sat on the forest floor. The group sat in silence for several minutes, drinking and breathing hard, the only other sound - that of the horses lapping at the brook. The dark elf pulled the flask away from his lips. He spoke in the common tongue, though his voice was both deep and unusually sharp ‘My name is Brael Truthseeker of the house “Krazic” and I am in your debt human. Though quite why you took the trouble to save me, I cannot tell.’

  Korhan shrugged. ‘I won’t stand by and watch an innocent person executed as a common criminal.’

  Brael assumed an expression of mild suspicion. ‘Innocent? Only a new-born is truly innocent. You risk your life saving me from the executioner's axe, while you leave your own to die?’

  Korhan gave him a stern look, then took a deep breath before answering. ‘We can’t control the life into which we are born, only what we do with it. Why are you above ground anyway? I thought the gravians dwelt only in the darkest depths of the underdeep.’

  Brael sat up now. ‘I am banished, I have a curse laid upon me,’ he said, sounding defeated.

  Saul raised an eyebrow. ‘A curse? What kind of curse?’

  ‘A curse which cuts me off from the winds of magic, prevents me from whispering and stops me from revealing, certain things. Until I can lift this curse, I will feel more or less helpless. Though I will fulfil my vow and follow you until such time as I can return the favour.’

  Korhan laughed. ‘You really don’t need-‘

  Brael glared at him. ‘Do not dishonour me by refusing to allow me to fulfil my vow. The Krazic take honour seriously; if you turn me away, you will eternally shame me.’

  Saul rubbed his chin. ‘You are some sort of magic user? The gravians are renowned for being more adept at conjuration and alteration than other races. Lifting this “curse” from you might make you a valuable ally. Is it possible your curse can be removed?’

  Brael climbed shakily to his feet and approached the wizard, turning at the last moment and lifting his matted black hair up to reveal the back of his neck.

  Saul could see a tattoo just below his hair, but the tattoo was a strange symbol writhing and swirling. Occasionally it remained still, but the language was so complex and alien that Saul, despite his knowledge of elvish, dwarfish and the guttural tongue of the orcs, could not decipher it.

  ‘What is this?’

  Brael lowered his matted hair to face Saul. ‘I bear a power word curse. The word has been said and woven on to me. To remove my curse, it must be unsaid and unwoven from me. Do you understand the language of the gravian?’

  Saul shook his head. ‘No.’

  Brael seemed a little crestfallen at this. Saul’s attire and demeanour marked him as a learned man, and he’d dared hope for a moment that Saul might be able to help him. ‘No matter. I can still swing a sword or nock an arrow.’

  Silus, who had been tending to his horse, chuckled at this and turned to face them. ‘Brael Krazic, you do not know what you’ve got yourself into. We are not riding into battle against bandits or even orcs, we are riding to do battle with a dragon.’

  Brael quivered, wearing a subtle expression of uncertainty. ‘A swamp dragon?’

  ‘No, a Noble Dragon. The Empress has received reports of one at the edge of the Sky-Cleaver Mountains. Our task is to find the beast and defeat it.’

  Brael looked confused. ‘I had the impression the true dragons all lay dormant, their time having passed?’

  Harald leaned forwards. ‘You were not the only one. We all believed the same, we still question the story, but we have to assume the worst.’

  ‘Hah! No matter, better to die with a blade in my hand than lying prone on a chopping block, waiting to be butchered. Even if death is certain, I still thank you. Death in battle is better than being executed by black-toothed peasants.’

  Silus shook his head. ‘You all talk about death so romantically; I suggest you change your attitudes before we meet our foe. Going into battle to face such a powerful opponent, being so accepting of defeat is not a good idea.’

  Korhan snorted. ‘You are wrong! A man who goes into battle unafraid of death has a clear mind and is focused; his thoughts are on the task at hand, rather than constantly worrying about self-preservation.’

  Saul raised his hand. ‘Enough, let us get our introductions done with, then let us move on. The Berger of Trest may still be searching for us. I doubt he will take kindly to Korhan interrupting his circus. Brael of Krazic, my name is Saul Karza, licenced magic user and emissary to the Empress. This is Silus Mendelson, dragon slayer, my two northmen friends are Harald son of Korvak and Korhan son of Brian. The dwarf is Votrex Vaughn of the Vanguard clan, Gorthok of Durgheim Holt. We shall procure a horse and weapons for Brael when it is safe to do so; for now we must ride.’

  Just then, the thunder of horses reached them through the trees. Saul rushed to his horse. ‘Into your saddles! Now!’

  As they scrambled onto their mounts, a line of horses - soldiers from Trest, lined the top of the embankment. They were all wielding crossbows. There were over twenty
soldiers, each training a crossbow on the companions; the Berger was at the centre. ‘Well, well, what have we here? You couldn’t leave well alone could you? I don’t take kindly to having strangers storm into my town and ruin my entertainment. How would you all like to die? Here, now, by a crossbow bolt through the head, or would you like to spend a night in the town gaol before laying your necks on the chopping block for me tomorrow?’

  The companions glanced nervously at each other, as they did more soldiers rode to the line. Escape would not be possible without taking casualties, and fighting would be even less plausible. Saul turned his horse to face the Berger. ‘The Empress shall hear of this!’

  ‘Oh I doubt it. Soldiers of the Empire haven’t been this far north in years, and who is to say what happened to her emissary and his escort? Lay down your weapons and dismount, now!’

  Their situation seemed hopeless, but as they stood and watched, a white stallion rode up from the rear, the rider clad all in black. Before anyone had a chance to react, the rider leapt off their horse and landed neatly behind the Berger. In a fluid motion they unsheathed a thin curved blade and placed it under his neck.

  Saul, Harald, Korhan, Silus, Brael and Votrex were speechless. The soldiers turned too late to see their leader under threat of having his throat cut. The mysterious rider appeared far too slender to be a man, yet when the Berger tried to struggle, he found himself in an iron grip. His attacker was now gently teasing his throat with the curved dagger; they wore black from hood to boots. One black velvet gloved hand closed over the Berger’s mouth, the other held the blade against his Adam’s apple. When the rider spoke, the words sounded silken and fluid, almost kind. ‘Shhh, don’t struggle, or I will open your throat for you.’

  The companions gasped; the voice and figure were unmistakably female, yet the Berger had been subdued as easily as if he were a child. The rider’s face was hidden under a large hood, but her next call was clearly addressed at the soldiers. ‘Drop your weapons, dismount your horses and begin marching back to Trest. I will not give you a count of three to comply. If you do not do this immediately, your Berger will die.’

  They heard a snap and a quarrel flew towards the Berger's attacker, but she just leaned back a little, languidly, and it flew past where her head had been. She laughed, her light voice showing no concern. ‘I’ll assume that was a nervous trigger finger. Any more bolts fly my way, and I will cut his ears off. Now some of you are still on horseback and some are still holding weapons... I do apologise for this Berger.’

  As she spoke she began drawing her blade into his throat. He was struggling, but she held him fast. He looked paralysed in his saddle. As the blade drew across the front of his neck, the soldiers started to throw down their weapons en-mass and fairly leap from their horses. This terrifyingly strong and agile person might be supernatural in nature and it looked like the best chance they had of saving the Berger was to flee.

  The companions couldn’t help but smirk at the disarray of the scattering soldiers. The hooded figure released the Berger's mouth and he spluttered at her. ‘How did you-‘

  She giggled, her laughter melodic and light, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. ‘Oh, your mage has been taken care of. I didn’t kill him, but he won’t be performing any magic for some time. I suggest you find him, take him back to Trest and let him recover for a few days.’

  A look of comprehension grew on Saul’s face. ‘So, a mage, that’s how you tracked us. It matters not. All this is costing us time. The sooner we’re rid of you and on our way the better.’

  The Berger was fuming, but helpless. He growled. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Oh, that’s none of your business, but now I think it’s time I dealt with you properly, I’ve already taken your coin purse, now I’m going to take your memories. Then I shall send you on your way.’

  ‘How? You wouldn’t dare-’ before he could speak she leaned in and whispered something in his ear, too quietly for the companions to hear. As she did she withdrew the dagger at his throat and leapt gracefully back onto her horse. The Berger sat where he was, looking completely bewildered. He examined the group, from dwarf to dark elf. It was as if he’d never seen this strange collection of travellers before in his life, almost as if he didn’t know who he was himself.

  As they all watched speechless, he turned his horse around and rode slowly away in what seemed to be a random direction. He vanished over the brow of a hill, and Saul smiled at their rescuer. ‘Who are you?’

  She dipped her hood, hiding her face. ‘Your saviour, that’s all you need to know. An expression of gratitude with coin would be appreciated.’

  Harald started riding towards her slowly. As he spoke his eyes lit up with recognition: the stables outside the Trolls Head alehouse! ‘How did you...? You were trying to rob us last night!’

  She held out a hand, palm facing him. ‘That’s close enough, barbarian. Yes, I was going to rob you last night, but I was only looking for coin, and your saddlebags held none. Now are you going thank me with a gift of gold for saving your miserable lives or not?’

  Chapter 4