Dragon Sword: Demon's Fire Book 1

by Christopher Patterson

  Erik looked to his companions as gooseflesh rose along his arms. The voice sounded like it was in his head.

  “Did you hear that?”

  Bryon nodded and said, “That’s not a good idea.”

  “I agree,” Turk added.

  Laughter came from the hut.

  “You are scared of an old man,” the voice said. “Hagmer may have a need to fear me, but you do not, Erik Troll Hammer.”

  Erik looked to his companions one more time.

  “Wait here,” he said and then moved inside.

  The hut was small, and the scent of burning cedar and rain leaf and other herbs filled the air as a thin layer of smoke hung just above Erik’s head, slowly escaping the hole cut in the top of the ceiling. A fire blazed in the middle of the hut, two crossbars and a spit holding a thick cauldron of black iron. The fire flickered, and its shadows danced on the thatched walls of the dwelling. The only furniture in the hut was a small, three-legged table standing against the far wall. Several wooden bowls sat on the table along with a wooden spoon and a dull, rusted knife stuck into half a loaf of bread that had started to mold.

  A man sat on the ground next to the fire. He wore a heavy, dark wool robe that spilled off his thin and frail shoulders. Tatters and tears riddled the edges of the wool robe, and several holes dotted the fabric. A hood hung low on the man’s head, so Erik could not see his face, but he could see the thin, scraggly strands of a white beard, frizzy and frayed like the ends of a cut rope. Two, frail hands, thin and liver-spotted with pronounced knuckles, poked out the robe’s sleeves and held another wooden bowl, stained and warped. The hands lifted the bowl to the hood and Erik heard the slurping sounds and smacking lips of satisfaction. They then set the bowl on the ground.

  “Come in Erik,” a small, shaky voice—an old man’s voice—croaked with a hint of glee, “Dragon Slayer.”

  “How did you know my name?”

  Erik took a step back

  “The wind,” the old man replied, “words on the wind, Wolf’s Bane. The wind speaks.”

  “The fat man, Hagmer, from the alehouse,” Erik said more to himself than to the old man.

  “Tsk, tsk,” the old man clicked. “I thought Erik Friend of Dwarves would have more faith than that. Hagmer will not step within a hundred paces of my house. He fears me, as he fears you. You are a forgiving man, are you not, sparing the life of one who harbors your possible assassin?”

  “I don’t know,” Erik replied.

  “I told you,” the old man said, “you have no reason to fear me.”

  “I am not afraid,” Erik said sternly, taking a few steps forward, farther into the light of the hut’s fire.

  “Just as I thought,” the man said aloud, but not to Erik, “bold, not wanting to show fear, not wanting to show weakness. The Friend of Gypsies wants to prove to me he is not afraid, but who am I? Just an old man.”

  As he said his last words, he squealed with a sort of malevolent glee, as if he understood something, some hidden joke that Erik could not have known.

  “I said I am not afraid,” Erik reiterated, his voice getting louder, agitated.

  “But you are,” the old man croaked with a sneer. “It is not myself I refer to; trouble surrounds you. Misery follows you. You fear what you do not know. You fear what might happen to your friends. You fear never seeing your mother and father again … your sisters … your baby. You fear what they think of you. Have they truly forgiven you for Befel’s death? Such torment. You blame yourself for your brother’s death, don’t you Dream Walker?”

  Erik swallowed, but his throat was dry. He felt a small tremble in his hands and rubbed them together to get rid of it. He stepped forward, dropping to one knee on the other side of the fire to the robed man, his face sweaty and his palms clammy.

  “How do you know these things?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly.

  The old man lifted his head towards Erik, showing a face riddled with wrinkles and tiny, white scars ages old. He stared at Erik from two sunken sockets with blank, milky white eyes, void of pupils. He smiled a wretched, yellow-toothed smile.

  “I only know what the wind tells me,” the man said with a hiss. “I only know what dreams tell me. What do your dreams tell you?”

  Erik did not reply. His hand trembled stronger as he remembered the dream in which the dragon consumed him with fire. Before that, he saw two cloaked figures, and now he couldn’t help but think that this blind, old man, was the one who appeared behind him.

  “The world of dreams can reveal much, yes?” the old man questioned and then waited for Erik’s response, but it never came. Erik remained silent, staring at the fire, trying to still his racing heart.

  “Now then,” the man cackled, almost laughing at Erik’s fear. “My dreams tell me you seek something powerful, but for a man you hate. A powerful weapon, but this boy does not know, does he? He does not understand what it is he carries with him already. He does not know what it will eventually lead him to.”

  “Know what?” Erik finally asked. “What do I carry with me? Lead me where?”

  The old man laughed.

  “It is powerful, this weapon you seek,” the old man said, “and the man who protects it is also powerful … very powerful. As powerful as the Black Mage, the Dragon Slayer wonders? Perhaps. Perhaps not. And for what? Why do you seek this weapon? To save your family? To save your friends? You cannot save them.”

  “I can and I will,” Erik replied. “I will save them by any means necessary.”

  “How do you save a man, or dwarf, who has free will?” the old man said. “Foolish boy. He does not know, does he?”

  “Who are you speaking to?” Erik asked.

  “The wind,” the old man said.

  “I am done speaking in riddles,” Erik said, standing up again. “You know why I’m here. I seek the key to Fealmynster. The man who was supposed to lead me there is dead. Do you know where it is? Do you know the way?”

  The man hissed like a snaked and then laughed.

  “Foolish boy,” he said, slowly pushing himself to his feet and whispering in a language Erik had never heard. When he stood, he revealed a crooked, broken man, bent over and hunchbacked. As the man slowly trudged around the fire towards Erik, he stepped back and winced almost, as if the man smelled.

  The cloaked man lifted a shaky arm, pointing a single finger at Erik.

  “The one you serve is mistaken,” the old man said. “There is no need to search for a key.”

  “The Lord of the East lied,” said Erik, his question rhetorical.

  “He is a liar, yes,” the man said, “but he did not lie to you. He does not know. You see, you already have the key.”

  “I don’t understand,” Erik replied.

  “Of course, you don’t,” the old man said. “The key is not to find Fealmynster. No, the key is to reveal the weapon. And then the weapon is a key.”

  Erik shook his head. Too many riddles.

  “Do you know the way to Fealmynster then?” Erik asked. “The map the Lord of the East gave us is incomplete. Worthless without the men who were supposed to lead us there.”

  He retrieved a folded piece of parchment from his belt, holding it out, as if the man, clearly blind, could see it. The parchment caught fire in a bright flash. Erik yelped as he let go of the parchment, floating to the ground, little more than ash.

  “Worthless indeed. Fealmynster, the cursed city, home of Sustenon the Damned, Sustenon the Warlock, Sustenon the Necromancer. Beware, Dream Walker. He is a dream walker too.”

  The old man chuckled, and he looked less evil, now a simple, crooked, blind man. He stared past Erik.

  “You have loyal friends,” the man said. “They would follow you to the ends of the world if you asked them.”

  Erik continued to just stare at the old man. The man chuckled again.

  “This journey you choose to take,” the old man said, “will cause your friends great pain and anguish. They will follow you, and th
eir loyalty will be the death of many of them. They will be glorious deaths, but deaths nonetheless.”

  “They are all adept warriors,” Erik said.

  “I know,” the old man said, “but they will die to save you.”

  Erik just stood there, and the old man groaned as if he had grown bored.

  “The road into the mountains will eventually fork,” the old man said, “at the tree made of stone, dead, yet, still alive. That is called the Forlorn Pass. You will follow the Pass through the Fangs. As the Fangs disappear in the mist, look for the serpent and let it swallow you. Enter the serpent’s belly and beware of its venom. After you pass through the snake, you will find another path. This road is ancient and rarely traveled and brings a giant problem. Cross the bridge of ice, and that road will eventually lead to Fealmynster.”

  “A snake? Venom?” Erik asked. “You mean to kill us.”

  “You must trust me,” the old man said. “You will see when you get there.”

  “How can I trust you?” Erik asked. “I don’t know you, and you speak in riddles and talk of my friends losing their lives.”

  “Search your heart, Troll Hammer,” the old man said. “You know you must trust me.”

  Erik waited a moment, squinting and watching the old man.

  “How do I save my friends?” Erik asked.

  “You cannot,” the old man said.

  “I will try,” Erik said.

  “I know you will,” the old man said.

  “Should I even be seeking this sword?” Erik asked.

  The old man laughed.

  “What choice do you have, Dragon Slayer?”

  “None, I guess,” Erik replied.

  “Then your choice is simple. Take care Wolf’s Bane. Guard your heart, guard your soul.”

  Erik emerged from the hut, his companions waiting for him, and as he took his horse’s reins from Beldar, he heard laughing coming from the hut.

  “I will see you in your dreams,” the old man’s voice said.

  6

  Andragos sat at a table in his home, a large but simple cottage located in a meadow hidden away, no other dwellings within many a league. He preferred his other house, one closer to Fen-Stévock, and surrounded by stone walls, but he was sure this one was unknown. He stared into a bowl filled with water that showed him visions. First, he watched a middle-aged man—a former soldier from Golgolithul—ride into the coastal city of Finlo. To what end, Andragos couldn’t tell. The city was under martial law, but he watched the man frequent taverns and whorehouses until he grew bored. He shook his head.

  “Fool,” Andragos muttered.

  The Lord of the East’s assassins would find him eventually, assuming some other assassin didn’t. His spies told him that the General Lord Marshall of Gol-Durathna had dispatched the Atrimus. The Northern Kingdom hated admitting they had such assassins, but they did, nonetheless. King Agempi must have truly been worried to dispatch his Shadow Men.

  This man in Finlo, Wrothgard was his name, was a good soldier, but he would not die in battle. His demise would come through poison, or a slit throat, or a blade in the belly in some coastal city alley. Such a waste of good fighting talent.

  His vision turned to a young man from a small farmstead in Northwestern Háthgolthane. Four dwarves and another man accompanied Erik Eleodum as they traveled along a road leading into the Gray Mountains. He saw Erik step into a hut on the northern edge of a town called Eldmanor. He knew that place, and when Erik stepped into it, the vision disappeared.

  “Bah, you old witch doctor,” Andragos huffed in irritation, but then he heard a cackling laugh, and the candles in his cottage dimmed, causing Andragos to smirk. “You’re nothing but a riddler and trickster.”

  Looking at his bowl of water again, the liquid swirled, and he saw another man—Bu Al’Banan he called himself as well as being the self-declared King of Hámon —leading armored horseman into the Gray Mountains.

  “Another fool,” Andragos muttered. He sat back. “We’re all fools.”

  A knock came at his door.

  “Enter,” Andragos said.

  Raktas entered.

  “They are here,” his manservant said.

  Andragos stood and walked outside. Terradyn stood behind two dozen people. Ja Sin’s wife and their children. The man’s brother and his family. His nephew and two nieces. A few more friends.

  “The Lord of the East had his whole unit executed, my lord,” Raktas whispered.

  “That’s a hundred men,” Andragos said, “a hundred good soldiers.”

  “An example of what happens when men betray their country,” Raktas said.

  “Stupidity,” Andragos whispered. “Please tell me he at least gave them an honorable death?”

  “He had them burned at the stake,” Raktas replied.

  Andragos just shook his head. A waste of resources. A waste of good men and good soldiers.

  “My lord,” a woman said amidst sobs.

  “Be quiet!” Andragos said, his voice hard and stern. “No harm will become you as long as the Lord of the East doesn’t know you are here. Pray it stays that way. You will stay inside. You will do as you are told. Failure will result in your discovery and the death of you and your children. Do you understand?”

  The woman nodded, tears still streaming down her face.

  “I have much to lose keeping you and your family here,” Andragos said, his expression flat as he looked over the several dozen people before him, “and if you are discovered, I will have no choice but to hand you over. Terradyn, take them inside.”

  Terradyn did as he was asked, and Andragos turned to Raktas.

  “Any other news?” Andragos asked.

  “The Lord of the East has summoned the Bone Spear,” Raktas replied.

  “Specter?” Andragos asked. Then he shook his head.

  Specter was an assassin from the Isutan Isles, the same homeland of Melanius, the Lord of the East’s new advisor. More commonly known as Bone Spear for his main weapon of choice, the shaft of his spear was made of the vertebrae of his victims. It was tipped with the tooth of some poisonous creature—some assumed a dragon—and when he was tasked to killing someone, he never failed. He protected his name and reputation well, but his price was high … and always in blood. He was also called Specter for several reasons: his white hair, his wistful ways, but mostly, his ability to move like a ghost. Many from the Isutan Isles were adept in such magic and other arcane arts.

  “That Isutan warlock has poisoned his brain. Now, he summons an Isutan assassin. To what end?”

  “Something to do with the Eleodum man, my lord,” Raktas said, and Andragos gave him a questioning look. “A mistranslation with the Dragon Scroll. Melanius thought it said they needed a key, and I guess they do, but they now believe Eleodum already has it.”

  “Already has the key?” Andragos asked, as much to himself as his manservant.

  He thought for a moment, and then his eyes went wide.

  “The dagger,” Andragos said.

  “I would believe so, my lord,” Raktas replied.

  “What is Specter tasked with?” Andragos asked.

  “Follow Eleodum to Fealmynster, wait for him to retrieve the sword, take it and kill him and Sustenon,” Raktas explained.

  The name of the wizard of Fealmynster made Andragos shudder. He knew the man, once, and might have even called him a friend. Now, he was a shadow of his former self.

  “What do you want to do?” Raktas asked.

  “Nothing for now,” Andragos replied. “For now, we wait.”

  7

  Sitting in a throne-like wooden chair that suited his ego, Fréden Fréwin watched his warriors—His warriors—train in the courtyard of an ancient castle in El’Beth-Tordûn. Men had bastardized the name and started calling it The Wicked Spire. There was nothing wicked about this place. Fréden ignored the fact that part of this place’s name was Elvish. He contemplated renaming it, making it a bastion of everything that was dwarv
ish.

  The castle had been abandoned centuries before and, when they found it, was in drastic disrepair. It still had a long way to go—crumbling walls, gates nothing but rusted dust, and unsteady defenses—but they were well on their way to restoring its former glory. They were the true dwarves. The patriots. The nationalists. Those who believed in everything dwarvish. They didn’t necessarily believe they were better than everyone else. No, they simply believed they should concern themselves with their own kind first.

  A time of isolation was needed to repair a lost culture and, when the time was right, they would make themselves known. They would join in the leadership of the world, and they would help everyone else—men, goblins, ogres, antegants, dwarves who had lost their way, even elves (if they still existed)—be a better version of who they were. And if they didn’t accept the dwarves’ help … Fréden clenched a fist. Every other creature—trolls and giants to name a few—would feel the wrath of dwarvish steel and bravery.

  He didn’t really understand what his warriors were doing. He wasn’t a soldier or even a fighter. He never was because he didn’t need to be. Others took that mantle upon themselves. He was a politician, born to be a leader, and that’s what the dwarvish people needed right now. They needed someone to lead them … not into battle, but into the future.

  Fréden thought it was foolish how his race prized the leadership of generals and military tacticians. They knew how to lead people in battle, but what about times of peace? Those were the people who had gotten them to where they were now, lost, disenchanted, and forgetful of who they really were. It was time for a new era, a time when those born and bred to lead should take charge and others would follow. Sure, the warriors and generals and tacticians had their place. Fréden would need capable dwarves to lead them into battle when the time came, advise on military matters, construct defenses and defensive plans, but what did they know of infrastructure and diplomacy? They were not visionaries as Fréden was.

  He watched, pretending to know what his newly appointed generals were doing and saying, but really not caring. He could have been doing something else, but his advisor, Nalbin, suggested he watch the army’s training for a while. The warriors’ morale had been low. They had begun questioning their motives for leaving the north and the south and joining Fréden Fréwin in his conquest to a new, dwarvish future.