“What is going on?” Erik asked himself. “Is the Shadow growing stronger?”
“Yes and no,” a voice said.
Erik turned to see the man who normally sat on the hill standing there. He had never seen the man away from the hill.
“How are you here?” Erik asked.
“What do you mean?” the man asked. He smiled and, as always, Erik couldn’t quite place his face, although he knew he knew it from somewhere.
“You are away from the hill,” Erik said.
“Yes,” the man replied. “I may go where I please. I simply choose to sit under the tree most times.”
“This place has become corrupted,” Erik said, turning back to the black mountain range.
“Not quite,” the man said, standing next to Erik. He folded his hands behind his back.
“Is this place corruptible?” Erik asked.
“Yes and no,” the man said. “What you see is a world man has created. Some, like yourself, are more conscious when they are here. Others simply understand it to be a dream. But anything man creates can, and often times will, become corruptible. Time is short, Erik.”
Erik looked to the man. He smiled again and then pointed to the black mountain range. Erik stared in that direction, and he saw flame erupt into the sky—the dragon. In the distance, a vast shadow crossed the horizon; an army.
“The Shadow is growing powerful indeed,” Erik said.
“Yes,” the man said, “but there are other evils at work in the world, things of the Shadow and things outside the Shadow’s control. I don’t know how much longer this place can last.”
“What can I do?” Erik asked.
“Do as you have always done,” the man said. “Fight.”
An army of the undead sped towards Erik. When he looked to one side, he saw a dwarf. On the other was another dwarf. He had seen a dwarf in this place once before, going through a rite of passage that was part of their baptism.
“You lead,” one dwarf said, “and we follow.”
“It may be to our deaths,” Erik said.
“A glorious death,” the other dwarf replied.
Erik drew Ilken’s Blade and charged, the dwarves behind him. Fire scarred spiders, mutilated tunnel crawlers, decaying mountain men, slavers, trolls, a Durathnan assassin, and Sorben Phurnan … they were all there. The battle would have lasted an eternity, every time one undead soldier burst into oblivion, another replacing it. After a long while, one dwarf disappeared.
He passed his test.
Then, the other disappeared.
Good for them.
The army surrounded Erik, giving him a little space as every nature of creature waited to tear him apart. Laughter came with a clap of thunder and Sorben Phurnan, his skin turning black, stepped into the small circle where Erik stood.
“Your time has come,” the undead lieutenant said.
“So be it,” Erik said. “I’m ready. I’m not scared.”
Sorben must have known he was lying. He laughed, the whole army laughing with him.
Kill him.
It was a thought in Erik’s head, but it was the dragon’s voice, evil and oddly feminine commanding Sorben. How had Erik heard that?
“Know this,” Sorben said. “I will visit your wife in her dreams. I will ravage her. My army will ravage her. And then I will rip your offspring from her belly and feed it to the darkness.”
Erik screamed as he ran for Sorben, and the army converged on him. But, just as every undead hand, claw, tooth, and fang should have reached for him, they stopped and the undead were gone. Despite the snow on the ground, Erik felt warm, hot even as sweat dribbled down his cheek. Off in the distance, he saw a cloaked figure, cowl pulled low so that he couldn’t see the figure’s face. Erik cocked an eyebrow and tilted his head.
“Who are you?” Erik asked, gripping Ilken’s Blade tightly, but the figure only cackled.
Erik held his sword in both hands and grunted, ready to fight. The figure reached into its own robes and withdrew a long, black blade.
“So be it,” Erik said, but as he stepped forward, the world around him shifted. He was waking. He stood tall and sheathed his sword. “Next time.”
His eyes opened to a clouded sky silhouetted by tall pine branches.
18
The Lord of the East sat in his chair upon the dais in his hall. He watched the naked people lounging about in his presence caressing and fondling one another. It bored him. He snapped his fingers, and they turned into monkeys, now climbing the trellises of vines on his walls. That made him laugh. As soon as they reached the top, he snapped his fingers again. The monkeys turned back into people, and they fell, crashing into the stone floor. That made him laugh even louder.
The door into his hall opened, and a man in tight-fitting black leather armor entered, preceded by the Lord of the East’s personal guard. The man’s hair was pale white and fell to his waist, all tied back into a tail. He was a lean man, but the Lord of the East knew he was strong. He was tall, too, a half head taller than the Lord of the East. A large, oval shield hung from his back, and he carried a spear that was made from vertebrae. This was a legendary weapon of the Isutan Islands, and he was Specter, wielder of the Bone Spear. It ended in a wide-pointed blade made of tooth, its edges sharpened, and its tip poisonous.
“Specter,” the Lord of the East said, standing as the Isutan approached his dais.
Melanius had recommended the assassin, a fellow Isutan. The Lord of the East knew this man—if that’s what he was—and had used his services before. He needed him now, more than ever. Erik Eleodum had killed the two agents he sent to travel with the young man, and he—the Lord of the East—had read the Dragon Scroll incorrectly. Gods be damned, so had his witches and his advisor. Part of him wondered if he should have let Andragos read it, but he shook the idea off. Andragos was growing annoying and even a little soft.
The Lord of the East remembered something about Erik Eleodum, the man who had dispatched a dragon and saved Fen-Stévock, something magical. He carried an elvish sword. He admitted that much. It was a fine sword, with powerful elemental magic. But this magic was different. He couldn’t place his finger on it until Erik had left. He had something hidden. He had the vision of a weapon, a golden handled dagger encrusted with jewels. And when Melanius came to him with their mistake, a mistranslation: “One must use a powerful weapon to find a powerful weapon,” or something to that effect, he knew what Erik possessed. But how? Surely, the young man knew it too, had somehow figured out what he possessed and what it meant? A remarkable young man. It was too bad he had to die.
A part of the Lord of the East wanted to send his whole army after the man, but the moment Erik stepped foot from Fen-Stévock’s keep, he was a hero. How would that look, the Lord of the East chasing down and killing the man who saved the capitol of Golgolithul?
When word of the Lord of the East’s agents—the ones that were supposed to meet and lead Erik to Fealmynster—being murdered reached the keep of Fen-Stévock, its ruler raged. Who else could have killed his agents but Erik Eleodum? He must have realized what it was he had and now intended to keep it for himself. Traitor. The Lord of the East’s Isutan advisor told him that fortune was smiling on them as Bone Spear was in their country. The Lord of the East had sent for him, right away. That was weeks ago. Arriving in a timely manner wasn’t a strength of the assassin. That was the way of Specter. He thought so highly of himself, and such an ego annoyed the Lord of the East intently.
“Syzbalo,” Specter said, standing in front of the dais, slamming the butt of his spear into the stone floor.
Specter had many striking features: his long, white hair, his lean and strong frame, his yellowish-tan skin, his almond eyes, and even the paint he wore around them, but the most striking feature about the assassin were his pupils and irises. His pupils were almost a translucent gray, and his irises practically white. The Lord of the East knew the man could see, but he had the eyes of a blind man.
“If you are in my hall, the least you could do is address me with some respect,” the Lord of the East said. He felt his face growing hot; he hated people using his name.
“You are the one who called me here ... Syzbalo,” Specter replied.
As the Lord of the East inwardly seethed, the Isutan looked at the nails of his left hand with lazy eyes. His smooth face belied his age, a result of the magic of the Isutan Isles. He rubbed his fingernails on the front of his leather breastplate, shining them. He blew gently on them, and then began shining again. When Specter finally looked up at the Lord of the East, he rolled his eyes at the man’s pained expression.
“Fine,” Specter said with a mocking bow, “Your Majesty, what can I do for you?”
“I need someone killed,” the Lord of the East said.
“Clearly,” Specter said, “if you are summoning me. You couldn’t have just sent me a name or a description of the man. I had to come all the way to Fen-Stévock for you to tell me that.”
“Your insolence is trying my patience,” the Lord of the East said through clenched teeth. “Besides, Melanius said you were already in my country.”
“And you are wasting my time,” Specter replied.
The Lord of the East felt his temple throb.
“I want you to kill a man who I sent out to seek the Dragon Sword of Fealmynster.”
Specter laughed.
“A myth.”
“So are dragons,” the Lord of the East said, “but clearly, you saw what was once South Gate.”
Specter shrugged. The Lord of the East walked down the steps of his dais so that he stood right in front of the Isutan.
“He was supposed to meet my agents in Eldmanor, to receive instructions from them concerning a key to finding the Dragon Sword, and then locate it in Fealmynster. I now realize, as he must have, that he already has the key, and he is on his way to the lost keep. When he retrieves the sword, you are to take it from him, take a golden-handled dagger he also carries, and then kill him and anyone with him.”
“In that order?” Specter asked with a smirk.
“Damn it!” the Lord of the East screamed, and his voice echoed around the walls of the hall. His guards shook with fear, but Specter didn’t move.
“Is this the man named Erik Eleodum?” Specter asked.
“It is,” the Lord of the East replied.
“Why didn’t you kill him when he was here?” Specter asked.
“I didn’t know then what I know now,” the Lord of the East replied, “and, besides, he was being heralded as a hero.”
“And what is it that you know now?” Specter asked.
“A dagger that he carries,” the Lord of the East said, balling his hands into fists, “is special. He hid it from me. If it is what I think it is … I must have it.”
“This will cost you,” Specter said.
“You know I will pay,” the Lord of the East said.
“You had better,” Specter said, pointing the Bone Spear at the Lord of the East’s face.
No one dared talk to the Lord of the East in such a way, but Specter wasn’t anyone. If the Lord of the East wanted someone dead, Specter would do it without question. He never failed. But his payment was always steep, and never in gold. Blood—Specter’s fees were always paid in lives.
“I need his family dead as well,” the Lord of the East said.
“Sure,” Specter replied. “What do I care?”
Specter turned to leave but then turned around again.
“Dragons and such,” Specter said. “These are dangerous times.”
The Lord of the East nodded.
“After this, do not call on me again,” Specter said. “I think I will spend some time away, let this dragon ravage Háthgolthane, and reappear in a hundred years after its over. If you’re still around, then, Syzbalo, I’ll call on you.”
The Lord of the East watched as Specter left his hall and fumed silently; he could not remember when he’d been so angry. He pointed a finger at one of the naked men, and immediately a knife appeared in his hand. He looked at the woman he was with and then grabbed her hair and slit her throat. As the other women screamed, Syzbalo’s expression softened, and he began to laugh.
19
Erik awoke to five mounds of snow—his companions. As he brushed the white stuff from his hair and beard, he nudged the mound closest to him. A dwarvish grunt came from underneath the icy blanket, and Turk sat up.
“At least it’s stopped snowing,” Erik said with a shrug as he awoke Beldar.
“I think the snow actually kept us warm during the night,” Turk added.
“Aye,” Erik replied.
Bryon barely woke, sitting up and then promptly falling backward. Nafer wasn’t much better. His arm didn’t hurt as much anymore, the icy cold numbing it, but his face was pale and sickly, with sunken cheeks and red eyes.
“I don’t know if they can keep going,” Erik said, whispering to Turk. “Isn’t there anything you can do?”
“I don’t think so,” Turk replied, rifling through his haversack and retrieving a bottle of sweet wine.
“What good will that do?” Erik asked.
“We’ll have to carry them,” Turk replied, “but the sleep will be good for them. Beldar, Bofim, help cut down one of these trees so we can make a litter.”
All three dwarves went to work on felling one of the giant redwood pines. It was an arduous process, the bark not only iron-hard but toughened by the cold and ice.
“What … what are they doing?” Bryon asked, his teeth chattering as he lay next to Erik, his arms wrapped around his own body.
“Making you a litter,” Erik replied.
“Here we go again,” Bryon said, “me infirmed and you having to take care of me.”
“We’re all hurt,” Erik said, “just you and Nafer more. It’s not your fault. We’ll make you a litter and you’ll drink some sweet wine, and then maybe you’ll regain some of your strength.”
Turk took a quick break from chopping at the hard wood to retrieve some water. Even in the cold, he sweated.
“They will die if we continue,” Erik said, looking to both Bryon and Nafer, who had both fallen back asleep.
“The only other option is to leave them,” Turk said. “Beldar or Bofim could stay with them, find an old wolf’s den or cave, and just watch them and wait for our return. One of them could go out each day and look for a dwarvish outpost or small village, although I doubt there are any near here.”
“Watch out!” Beldar cried as the creaking of wood turned to the thunderous sound of a trunk breaking and snapping.
Erik looked up to see a tall red-wooded pine falling, snow and ice trailing after it. It was taller than he had thought and seemed to fall for a long time. When it finally struck the ground, falling in the opposite direction of where they had slept the night before, the ground shook.
“It will be a good source of wood as well,” Turk said.
The dwarf picked up his battle-axe, ready to join their dwarvish companions as they chopped wood for both a fire and a litter, when the ground began to shake, just as it had when the tree fell. Erik heard more cracking and rock, from a peak far away, breaking.
“Avalanche!” Beldar cried, rushing back to Turk and Erik, Bofim just behind him.
Erik didn’t have time to think. He grabbed his cousin, hoisted him over his shoulder, and looked to Turk. The dwarf did the same with Nafer as the sound of crashing and smashing neared. He didn’t know to where they would run, and, as he looked to Beldar, he saw defeat in the dwarf’s eyes.
The ground shook harder and faster. A wave of cold wind hit Erik’s face. The snow under his boots shifted. Beldar stopped and looked over his shoulder. He turned back to Erik and smiled.
“Get behind a tree!”
And then he was gone.
It was really only a few moments, a dozen maybe, but it seemed like hours as the white wave of rushing snow and debris burst past them, taking everything with it that
lay in its path—trees, rocks, animals … friends. Erik felt a force stronger than he had ever experienced before hit him from behind as he tried to find shelter in front of a tree. Bryon flew from his shoulders and then felt the weight of snow as it piled on top of him. It was freezing. It was dark. He was lost.
20
The new crop of recruits walked in front of Fréden as Kizmit, one of his new generals, and Belvengar led them on a march. Only two dozen had shown up—the reason why Fréden continually chewed on his lip—but as much as the number of dwarves coming to his call of unity dwindled and irritated him, one of these new recruits, a stout and experienced warrior and leader, had access to the northern kingdom of Thrak Baldüukr.
The vast majority of Fréden’s forces hailed from Drüum Balmdüukr. Some came all the way from the Black Mountains east of the Giant’s Vein, and very few came from Thrak Baldüukr, and those that did were hardly useful, dwarves that were once criminals, lowly birthed, unskilled, or destitute and poor. As much as it pained Fréden to see impoverished dwarves, he had little use for them in his planned new world. But this dwarf was a skilled practitioner of the martial arts, and obviously a soldier.
The name he had given General Kizmit was false. Fréden couldn’t prove it, of course, but he suspected as much. Fréden wasn’t sure why the dwarf would give a false name—perhaps to protect his family back home or his reputation—but it worried him at first. The dwarf warrior who called himself Mungrun Flint Toe—the name of a famous dwarvish assassin dating back to the Elf Wars—quickly proved himself to Fréden’s liking.
When Fréden had asked him his usual prospective questions—why are you joining the cause, why have you left home, what do you feel about the current leadership in the dwarvish kingdoms—Mungrun grew red-faced, his rage almost uncontrollable. Fréden was a little perturbed that Kizmit didn’t catch the faked name—he was never known for being an overly well-read dwarf—but this new dwarf seemed zealous. Now, it was time to test his skills in battle.
Dragon Sword: Demon's Fire Book 1 Page 15
