Dragon Sword: Demon's Fire Book 1

by Christopher Patterson

  “Think nothing of it,” Erik replied.

  They let a few moments of silence pass between them, just watching the mountain.

  “I don’t know if it is so odd to think about the journey and the fighting,” Erik finally said. “It gave us purpose.”

  “Maybe that’s what it is,” Bryon said. “Maybe I feel like I don’t have purpose.”

  “Well, we have a purpose again,” Erik said, staring out into the darkness of the mountain night.

  Next morning, as they rode slowly along the carved out road that took them through the Gray Mountains, they came to a wide, white tree. It wasn’t a broad trunked pine like most of the mountain’s trees, but an old oak with branches spreading out like the channels of a river but no leaves. The road diverted sharply to the left at the tree.

  “A tree made of stone,” Erik said, more to himself than anyone else, dismounting, “dead, yet, still alive.”

  Erik touched the white bark of the tree. It looked cold and hard and smooth, and Bryon watched him with a furrowed brow. He was speaking nonsense.

  “It’s petrified,” Beldar said.

  “What?” Bryon asked.

  “It’s dead,” Beldar explained.

  “Then how is it still standing?” Bryon asked.

  “It’s made of stone,” Turk explained. “Dead, long ago, and its bark replaced by mineral and stone.”

  “This is the landmark we are to look for,” Erik said, “to take the Forlorn Pass.”

  “I don’t see any other roads,” Nafer said.

  Bryon followed Erik as they walked around the tree. The forest was especially dense, with bushes and creepers and other trees, but just behind the petrified tree, tucked in between two white roots, Bryon saw a wide, flat rock.

  “Look,” Bryon said.

  He pushed aside the bushes that grew over the flat stone to find similar rocks, all lined up one after the other. It was a road, or at least marked as one.

  The way ahead was overgrown with foliage and narrow in most places, as far as Bryon could see, tucked in between broad pines and dense shrubbery.

  “We found it,” Erik said, walking back to his companions. “This is where we must leave the horses.”

  “They’ll die if we leave them here,” Bryon said.

  “The path is too narrow,” Erik said. “We can tie them to the tree and hope that someone finds them before wolves do, or let them go and hope they find their way back home.”

  They opted to let the horses go, Bryon intently watching the animals, their heads hung low. At first, they didn’t know what to do, the one Bryon had been riding nuzzling his hand. He had to push the creature away and finally slapped it on its ass to get it to leave.

  “Unless you’d been told, you’d walk right past this road not even realizing it’s here,” Bryon said as he crouched low to duck under a thick branch and then stepped over a high arching root that was as thick as the branch.

  They had walked only a few paces when the petrified oak was lost to the dense forest foliage. Bryon wondered if there really was a road as they pushed aside thick bushes and creepers, ducked under branches, and crawled through narrow deer paths. But every once in a while, he would see a smooth slab of stone marking a road he presumed was once heavily traveled and guessed that meant they were still traveling in the right direction.

  It felt like they had trekked leagues, but with the density of the forest, Bryon knew they hadn’t even traveled one. But as night fell, which happened early in the Gray Mountains with its tall peaks, Erik decided they would bed down in a small patch of greenery, the ground cushioned by thick knots of vines and fallen pine needles. Nafer tried building a fire, the chill of the mountain air biting them all the way to the bone, but there was nothing for kindling, and the ground was too wet. Bryon leaned back, pulling a bearskin his father had given him around his shoulders, but even that did little to stem the freezing temperature of the mountain night.

  As a wind came up, the bushes and branches around them rattled and shook with the growing shadows, as distant wolves howled, and the growling of predatory cats pierced the air. Bryon suddenly felt as if he was a naïve boy leaving home for the first time, nervous and scared of everything and anything that moved in the darkness.

  “Did you bring your flute with you?” Turk asked, and Bryon looked to Erik, making out his silhouette in the darkness.

  His cousin rifled through his haversack, and, in the blackness of night, Bryon could see him put the instrument to his mouth and blow.

  Bryon never really figured out how Erik could play this particular flute. He never had an affinity for music. Mardirru, son of the gypsy Marcus, had given it to Erik as a parting gift, and, coming from gypsies, Bryon just figured it was magic. At first, he was a little jealous of the gift. He actually knew how to play the flute and pipes. But after a while, it seemed to fit Erik.

  The tune Erik played was somber. When his cousin did play, which was sparingly these days, Bryon liked to lean back and close his eyes and imagine what the music might be if it were a dream or a vision. This one was a small pond at night, the moon reflected in the dark water that shimmered when the ripples of a fish trying to catch a nocturnal bug spread outwards.

  Crickets chirped, and a frog croaked from a thick patch of grass. A long-legged heron stood at one edge of the pond, while a nightingale sang, its song a rapid succession of chirps and clicks. In the distance, an owl joined in, hooting loudly to add to the clamor of nighttime sounds. It seemed as if all of life was portrayed in this song Erik played … this scene of nature and life and the world around them, unaware of war or death. Unaware of political intrigue and lying and stealing. They sang their song to the water and the grass and the night and the Creator … and it was beautiful. Bryon kept his eyes closed as he leaned back and smiled, watching the birds, watching the tiny ripples of waves in the water, and, finally, watching a bullfrog leap into the pond, barely escaping the sharp beak of a long-legged heron.

  Shortly into the next day, the dense forest gave way to a valley path, cutting through tall peaks that shadowed the gorge regardless of the time of day. Where trees and greenery consumed much of the Gray Mountains they had hiked through so far, this valley was stony and gray. Loose rock constantly slid down the rising peaks on either side of them and, with no trees to provide a shield, the mountaintops funneled any wind right in their faces, causing somewhat permanent pinched expressions as the temperature dropped. Not only had the wind picked up, but so did the light rain they had been experiencing, turning into a downpour, leaving the ground an almost muddy river.

  “I can see where Forlorn Pass gets its name from!” Bryon yelled, trying to speak over the howling wind, rain, and thunder booming overhead. “Not many people have come this way because they choose not to travel it because of this.”

  “We need to try and build a fire tonight,” Erik shouted back as the sky overhead darkened, but the wind and rain made it impossible.

  “Damn this,” Bryon muttered to himself, huddling closer to his cousin and wrapping his thick bearskin more tightly around his shoulders.

  “This is why I prefer the Southern Mountains,” Turk added with feeling.

  “I can’t argue with that,” Erik agreed.

  They all leaned into one another, trying to stay warm and sleep, but it was all for naught. The howling wind, the rain, and the rough ground prevented any hope of rest.

  “To the nine hells with the Lord of the East,” Bryon muttered, his teeth chattering as he shivered next to Erik.

  “I think I could spend the rest of my life in the Eleodum Farmstead,” Turk added.

  “You would be more than welcome,” Erik replied.

  “I bet you’re cursing yourself for leaving a warm bed and a good woman right now,” Bryon said.

  “I miss her,” Erik said, staring at the cloudy sky.

  “We could have stayed hidden in Thorakest,” Nafer said. “King Skella would have protected us.”

  “Or we could ha
ve gone west,” Bryon said, “past Waterton. We still can. It’s not too late. We return home, pack up our families. The Lord of the East isn’t expecting us for another ten months.”

  “He would know,” Turk said. “The Black Mage is probably watching us right now.”

  “I am most certain of it,” Erik said.

  As Erik and the dwarves tried to pass the time by making small talk, Bryon felt the gooseflesh on his arms rise. It could have been an errant gust of wind finding its way through his bearskin, or the rain soaking his hair, but it wasn’t. He leaned forward as if he could see anything in the blackness.

  “Hush,” Bryon said, putting a hand up.

  He couldn’t hear much over the wind and the rain, but nonetheless, he strained and leaned forward. Erik and the dwarves stopped. Beldar sniffed at the air.

  “Do you smell that?” Beldar asked.

  “Something stinks,” Bofim replied.

  “Men,” Nafer said.

  “Look to the slope,” Beldar whispered. “Do you see the shadows?”

  Bryon was sure the dwarves with their keen eyes saw them better than he did, but in the darkness of the mountain night, he saw shadows, darker than the surrounding environment. There were two dozen of them. Men.

  Bryon put a hand on the handle of his elvish blade, slowly. He felt a shadow just behind him. He smelled it as he closed his eyes and listening intently he heard the man breathing.

  Bryon stood, unsheathing his blade, the purple steel flashing and brightening, and bringing it across the man’s chest all in the same motion. The leaping attacker’s legs failed him, and he crumpled to the ground in an ungainly heap, letting out a gurgled scream before he fell silent. All at once, shadows appeared across the valley. There were audible gasps from several of them, presumably as they saw the magic sword, and then, as if under instruction, each man yelled an animalistic cry.

  “This is going to be a hard fight,” Turk said, readying his battle axe.

  “We’ve had harder,” Erik replied.

  Both Beldar and Bofim produced torches smeared with pitch. They flared up, despite the rain and the wind, and revealed at least two dozen men—seemingly mountain bandits that looked ragged and hungry. With gaunt faces, barely more than clubs as armaments, and little more than thick furs for clothing and armor, it almost seemed as if screaming wildly was seen as their greatest weapon and show of strength. There were no speech patterns to the cries, simply squawks and screeches that made Bryon think of demented birds.

  He threw Erik his hunting bow who deftly killed two of the bandits while Nafer used Demik’s broadsword to kill two more. Bryon brought down another man, his steel easily passing through makeshift armor and flesh, as did Beldar and Bofim with their long spears. Turk took on yet another two bandits, dispatching them easily.

  “They’re little better than animals!” Bryon yelled, the rain hissing as it struck his burning blade.

  “Hungry animals!” Turk added.

  “They mean to eat us?” Bryon gasped, almost taking his eye from the fight.

  “Most likely,” Nafer replied.

  “Oh, by the Creator’s beard,” Bryon said, cleaving one man in half and then removing another’s head, “I think not.”

  They only had to kill a few more of the wild men before they started to retreat.

  “I know our supply of resin is sparse,” Nafer said, “but I say we keep these torches burning tonight.”

  “I wholeheartedly agree with you,” Bryon added.

  Erik turned a dead man onto his back with his boot. Bryon looked over his shoulder, staring at a thin and sickly looking fellow. Dirt smeared his face. His trousers were tattered, and he wore a heavy bearskin over a vest made of wood and rock—a makeshift shirt of armor. Bryon patted his dwarvish mail shirt.

  “Not so hard,” Bryon said, patting his cousin on the shoulder.

  “You’re right,” Turk said, looking at Bryon. “They are little better than animals.”

  “We did them a favor, then,” Erik said.

  “Perhaps,” Turk said.

  “Does this remind you of the slavers from the Blue Forest?” Bryon asked.

  Bryon thought, for a moment, of a gypsy caravan they had traveled with, once. That hadn’t been half a year ago and, yet, it seemed so far away. A troupe of slavers had attacked the caravan and had managed to kill its leader, a mighty man by the name of Marcus. Bryon hadn’t liked Marcus at first. He hadn’t liked the gypsies in general, but looking back on that group of people, and their leader, they were good and kind, and he shook his head as he thought about how poorly he had treated them, especially Bo and his wife Dika. Life on the road—especially recuperation in the dwarvish city—had taken the edge off his temper, and he liked to think of himself as more tolerant and easy-going. If he hadn’t changed, he probably wouldn’t have survived.

  “Not really,” Erik said with the shake of his head. “Like you said, these men were animals, driven by hunger and, possibly, madness. Let’s keep moving. We don’t know how many of them are out there.”

  The sun had finally crested the tall peaks of the valley. Bryon looked up and saw one, gigantic peak extending towards the sky so high, that its top disappeared into the clouds, which had stopped depositing rain for at least a moment.

  “The Fangs,” Erik said.

  As they walked, Bryon felt his foot catch on something, and, looking down, he saw a piece of cloth hooked around his boot. The cloth clung to what looked like flesh, and following it, he saw it was the remains of a horse, most of the muscle and tissue gone. What remained was black and covered in dirt, and the cold had staved off the normal beetles and maggots that might aid in consuming rotting flesh, so it had decomposed more slowly than might be expected.

  “Is that a horse?” Erik said.

  “One of ours?” Bryon asked, his voice giving away his concern.

  “No, you fool,” Erik said with what was becoming a rare hint of laughter, “they’re probably almost to Eldmanor by now if they found their way back. This is fresh, though.”

  Bryon crouched and gingerly touched a bit of muscle still clinging to a bloody femur.

  “The cloth looks like a tabard,” Erik said.

  “What fool tried to bring their horses through this valley?” Bryon asked.

  “I don’t think they did,” Turk replied, looking up the steep slope leading into the valley in which they traveled. High above them, they could see tall trees peeking over the ledge. “I suspect the horse was traveling up there and lost its footing. I don’t see any sign that it slid down the slope, but it has been raining and probably would have washed away any evidence of a fall.”

  “Its femur is broken,” Beldar said, crouching next to the horse.

  Erik inspected the cloth that had caught Bryon’s foot. It was tattered, but as he held it up, they seemed to realize, at the same time, it was a tabard, one that someone would drape over their horse. Even though there were only bits and pieces of the tabard, Bryon saw yellow triangles.

  “Hámon,” Erik said.

  “What was that?” Turk asked as Bryon nodded his head in agreement.

  “It could be something else,” Erik said, “but if this tabard was all white and covered in yellow triangles, it might have belonged to a Hámonian knight. A white flag with four yellow triangles is the standard of one of the lords of Hámon. I don’t know which one.”

  “What would Hámonian nobles be doing in the Gray Mountains?” Bryon asked.

  “I don’t know,” Erik replied.

  “The man who calls himself King Bu Al’Banan, who is really a former soldier of Patûk’s,” Turk said. “Could he have seen the Dragon Scroll? He might have even been one of the men we fought when Erik killed Patûk. It is possible they copied the scroll, and if they did, it’s likely they know as much as we do about the sword and all it is supposed to offer.”

  “Are you saying Al’Banan is in these mountains too?” Erik asked, sounding as incredulous as if Turk had said the dragon
was there.

  “I would suspect so,” Turk replied. “At least, those he commands.”

  “If he is anything like Patûk Al’Banan, he is with them,” Erik said.

  Bryon shivered. Patûk Al’Banan—a name that struck fear into men … once. The former general of Golgolithul’s famed Eastern Guard defected when the Stévockians took control of the Eastern Empire, launching an all-out underground war against the Lord of the East’s family. There were others like him, but he was the most powerful, the most cunning, the strongest, and he led the largest force of resistance fighters … and Erik killed him.

  “This horse has not been dead for long,” Bryon said, “and it must have had a rider. How did it decay so quickly in the cold? And where is the knight it carried?”

  “Wolves,” Erik replied with a shrug, “or a cougar.”

  “I think we fought what happened to them,” Nafer offered, “a day ago. Remember, they were hungry and little more than animals.”

  A sour look crossed Bryon’s face, and he looked as if he was going to gag.

  “We need to be cautious,” Turk said. “The man who took Patûk Al’Banan’s place would truly be a ruthless and cunning man.”

  10

  “What now?” Bryon muttered, staring at boulders stacked on top of one another.

  “I suppose we climb over,” Turk said with a shrug.

  “Looks like the leftover of some landslide that happened recently,” Erik said.

  “Be careful,” Turk said, sliding a finger over one of the larger rocks. “These are icy.”

  Erik nodded, stepping onto a smaller rock and then climbing up a boulder. He looked over his shoulder, nodding for his companions to follow him, then he took a wrong step. The rock below his feet moved, and he slipped and fell backward, landing with a thump on his back as he hit the ground.

  “Damn it,” Erik muttered, standing and rubbing the back of his head.

  “Are you all right?” Turk asked.

  Erik nodded and looked up. The rock that had moved under his foot sat underneath a boulder that jutted outward and upward. The top boulder had formations on it that looked almost like … teeth. As Erik looked closer, he could see that the two rocks looked like an open mouth … an opened, snake’s mouth.