Dragon Sword: Demon's Fire Book 1

by Christopher Patterson

  “I am sorry, brother,” Erik whispered, tears filling his eyes.

  He rested his head on the bed and closed his eyes. He remembered words Demik told him as he died, jumping in front of Erik when a spear was meant for him.

  “There is no greater love than for a friend to lay down his life for another friend,” Erik whispered. “I would trade places with you, Nafer, if I could.”

  Truly?

  The voice running through his head startled him; he hadn’t heard from his dagger in a while. Erik stared at the dwarf lying so still. If it wasn’t for his chest, he might already be dead.

  I would. He and his people have given me so much. His best friend gave his life for me.

  But what about your wife? Your child?

  Erik considered that for a moment. The thought of Simone and his unborn child hadn’t even crossed his mind as he spoke to the unconscious Nafer. The idea of a child—boy or girl—bouncing on his knee, running away as he playfully chased after them, and laughing as he tickled them seemed too hard to comprehend, but he knew they would be precious times. The thought of watching a boy grow into a man or a girl grow into a woman filled him with a sense of pride. Was that how his father felt? Would Erik want to miss out on that? That thought triggered another.

  Could I look at my child with honest eyes, knowing I didn’t do everything I could to save my friend? Could I ask my child to be courageous and brave, upright and honest, knowing I hadn’t been any of those things?

  Erik felt a strong tingle at his hip.

  You amaze me. I wish I had known you before.

  Erik’s mind was silent for a while as he watched Nafer again. Then he questioned what the dagger had said.

  Before what?

  His dagger didn’t reply.

  “Are you there?” Erik asked aloud, looking down at his dagger and touching the hilt.

  Unsheathe me and place me on your friend’s chest. Leave me there, and do not touch me.

  Erik did as he was told. He’d learned not to question the dagger’s instructions.

  If we do this, you will not be able to use me until we get to Fealmynster. Do you understand? Is this your choice?

  Yes.

  This will not be like before. I will not just be tired or drained. If you attempt to use me until I say you can, it will destroy us both.

  “I understand,” Erik said aloud.

  Erik sat there and waited. His dagger began to glow, faintly at first and then with a mixture of colors as it started to hum. The whole room seemed to vibrate as the dagger glowed brighter and brighter until what looked like multi-colored flames danced on the blade and then along Nafer’s blankets, but nothing burned. The humming turned to more of a screech, a low moan at first and then louder, its increasing pitch forcing Erik to cover his ears. Now, the whole room shook, and knocking and shouting came at the door, but it seemed it was now locked the way the handle rattled.

  Nafer levitated, floating just above his mattress as magical fire consumed him. The light was so bright, Erik could no longer see his dagger and could barely keep his eyes open. The noise became even louder, and the room shook so violently Erik thought the ceiling and walls would cave in.

  Nafer opened his mouth and screamed, and as he did, so did Erik. The sensations of the light and the sound and shaking became so intense he felt like he was going to lose his mind. And then it was over.

  Erik looked up as half a dozen dwarves burst through the now open door, all ready to fight someone, but they all froze on the spot in astonishment as Nafer sat up in his bed. He looked to the physicians and then to Erik, and then to his lap.

  “Erik, why is your dagger here?” he asked. He looked around, his eyebrows scrunched, and his lips pursed. “Where are we? Who are they?”

  “What do you remember?” Erik asked.

  Nafer rubbed his brow and then scratched his chin.

  “I remember the tunnel crawlers and the ártocothe,” Nafer replied. “I remember fire … the ártocothes burning. And then all I remember is white.”

  Nafer shivered.

  “And cold,” he added as he lifted his left arm.

  “I thought my arm was broken,” Nafer said.

  Erik laughed.

  “It was,” he replied.

  “Have I been in a coma for several months?” Nafer asked. “It doesn’t feel like my arm was ever hurt … ever.”

  “You were dead, my friend,” Erik replied. “Well almost, but now you’re alive.”

  As the dwarves sheathed and belted their weapons, Erik slipped the dagger back into its own gold scabbard. It felt cold, and he didn’t sense the presence of whatever entity dwelt in the blade, as he normally did. For a moment, his stomach knotted, and his heart sank.

  “Erik,” Nafer said, and Erik looked up at his friend. He looked the pinnacle of health. His bruises and cuts were gone. His color had returned. He looked strong and vibrant. “Are you alright?”

  “I am now,” Erik said with a smile.

  25

  Erik spent most of his time in Bryon’s room over the next four days. The dwarvish physicians couldn’t stop talking about what had happened to Nafer, and Erik decided he would rather avoid any incessant questioning. Bryon was getting better, staying awake for longer, and his color returning.

  “I see you are doing much better,” Lieutenant Güthrik said, hands crossed behind his back after stepping into Bryon’s room.

  “Yes, thank you,” Bryon replied.

  “Your friends are healing quickly,” Lieutenant Güthrik said to Erik, “quicker than any of our physicians expected. It seems we misdiagnosed Nafer Round Shield with a broken arm … and a broken nose … and broken ribs. Bones do not heal that fast.”

  The lieutenant didn’t look especially upset, more curious than suspicious of strange happenings.

  “I suppose so,” Erik replied.

  “Well, I am happy your friends are healthy,” Lieutenant Güthrik said. “Captain Khâmuth has returned and would like an audience with you, Erik.”

  Erik looked to his cousin.

  “I’ll be fine,” Bryon said.

  Erik followed Güthrik, and the two guards that had watched them when they first spoke in the halls of Stangar, once again to the dining hall. Erik recognized Yolli and Tûkgad and Yora from among the dwarves who had saved them from the giant. They stood next to another dwarf, his hair uncommonly dark for a northerner, but it was splashed with white in places. It fell back into a braid as his beard followed suit, parted into four such braids. Captain Khâmuth stood armored in decorative plate mail, a red cape attached to his pauldrons pooling on the floor around his feet. His right eye, white and useless, stared in one direction while he watched Erik with his left. The long handle of a sword poked over his shoulder, and the dwarf wore two short swords on his girdle, one on either side.

  “Erik Eleodum, Friend of Dwarves,” Khâmuth said in Westernese with a quick bow.

  “Captain Khâmuth, I am honored to make your acquaintance,” Erik replied, speaking in Dwarvish and returning the bow.

  “It is I am who is honored,” Khâmuth said. “Word by way of raven reached me while I was in Ghrâg that you were here, a letter from Lord Balzarak himself.”

  “Isn’t he in Fornhig?” Erik asked.

  “Aye,” Khâmuth replied. “That he is.”

  “How did he know we are here?” Erik asked. “Can a raven really travel that fast?”

  “We have other ways of communicating across long distances,” Khâmuth replied with a smile.

  “I would like to speak with Balzarak,” Erik said.

  “That will most likely be impossible, but we can try,” Khâmuth said. “Such communication is draining on our resources and is often used only in rare circumstances. Erik Dragon Slayer finding his way to our front doorstep happens to be one of these circumstances. I would be honored to seek to send a message via raven to Lord Balzarak for you.”

  “I would appreciate that,” Erik replied.

  “
The Most Respected Lord Balzarak said he does not know when he will see you next, Erik,” Khâmuth said, folding his arms across his chest, “or if he will ever see you again. For this, know that he is sad. But he has given me a great honor.”

  “Oh?” Erik said.

  Khâmuth looked to another dwarf standing to his left and nodded. The dwarf retrieved a large, round shield. Where most shields were made of wood, this one looked metal, and on the front, etched above the domed boss that centered the shield, Erik saw dwarvish runes. Pictures of a mounted knight fighting a fire-breathing dragon, also expertly etched into the metal, ran along the circumference of the shield, four images in all—north, south, east, and west.

  “Thank you, Hragram,” Khâmuth said to the dwarf, took the shield, and presented it to Erik. “This is yours. Made of Dwarf’s Iron. A gift from Lord Balzarak.”

  “This is a great, great honor,” Erik said, looking at the shield. “I don’t recognize the runes on the front,” he added.

  He had studied and knew the dwarvish alphabet, but their ancient languages didn’t use an alphabet, rather runes that Erik had only begun to learn.

  “They say Clan Dragon Fire,” Khâmuth said. “It is your clan. King Stone Axe has decreed that Erik Eleodum, Friend of Dwarves, would be given a proper dwarvish clan, one that you may pass down to your descendants, in essence, making them dwarves.”

  “Truly?” Erik said, and Khâmuth nodded. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “As you said of the shield, this is a great honor,” Khâmuth replied. Erik couldn’t tell if the captain approved or not, his face the visage of stoicism. “Across our long history, there are only a few men who have received such a gift from the dwarves.”

  “I will wear the name proudly,” Erik replied.

  “I have also been instructed to baptize you,” Khâmuth said, “as Erik Dragon Fire, if you wish to receive this offering.”

  Erik thought for a moment. He had seen dwarves in his dreams when the field of grass was brown and dead and the sky was red and the distant, black mountains were looming and thundering. And he knew of the mark all dwarvish warriors wore on their left breast.

  “Yes,” Erik replied, “I accept.”

  “Good,” the captain said, “And I hear your friends have healed up well … and rather quickly.”

  “Yes,” Erik replied. “Thank you. I guess there were several misdiagnoses.”

  “Surprising,” Khâmuth said. “Our physicians are some of the best.”

  The dwarf gave Erik the same look Güthrik had given him, but now there was a hint of a wry smile.

  “No matter,” Khâmuth added. “I am just happy they are well. Lieutenant Güthrik.”

  The lieutenant stepped forward.

  “We will prepare Erik Dragon Fire for baptism tomorrow,” Khâmuth said.

  “Yes, my lord,” Lieutenant Güthrik said with a bow.

  Erik Dragon Fire.

  Erik couldn’t help but smile. Gooseflesh rose along his arms, and he felt a quick shiver of excitement. Then, his smile disappeared. He remembered the dwarves in his dreams. The dead. The feeling of evil and the presence of the Shadow. It would be nothing new, but Erik wondered if, this time, it might be different enough.

  26

  Belvengar bowed before Fréden, handing him a rolled piece of parchment.

  “A raven brought this today,” Belvengar said.

  Fréden Fréwin grabbed the piece of parchment and unrolled it. It was a long letter, and the seal had been broken, so he knew Belvengar had already read it.

  “I am pressed for time, Long Spear,” Fréden said, rolling his eyes at one of his construction officers. The dwarf hid his laugh, and Fréden chanced a smile. “Just tell what is in the letter.”

  “As you wish, my lord,” Belvengar said. “I have several spies in the north. They are not in prominent positions, but they are there watching, nonetheless.”

  “Yes, yes,” Fréden said, rolling his eyes again, “all things I know. Please, get to the point.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Belvengar said, standing. “Erik Eleodum is in Stangar.”

  “What?” Fréden said, standing faster than anyone could have expected him to.

  “He is in Stangar,” Belvengar said again.

  “What is the nature of his stay?” Fréden asked. “Does he have the Dragon Sword?”

  “I do not know the answer to either question, my lord,” Belvengar replied.

  “Well, what do you know?” Fréden demanded with a scowl.

  “He is there, and he is being heralded as a hero,” Belvengar said.

  “A hero,” Fréden hissed.

  “Yes, my lord,” Belvengar said and paused, just staring at Fréden.

  “What is it?” Fréden asked.

  “King Stone Axe has decreed that this Erik … well, he ... he is …”

  “Spit it out,” Fréden said.

  “He is to be baptized. In the ways of the dwarvish warrior,” Belvengar said, his eyes wide and full of worry as if Fréden would think it Belvengar’s idea.

  As Long Spear spoke, the council around Fréden gave an audible gasp and then went silent. Fréden was never baptized. He wasn’t a warrior. But Belvengar and Kizmit and many of the other dwarves who served in his new army were. It was a sign of passage, the ritual all warriors went through to join the ranks of others. Fréden didn’t know what happened after a dwarf was branded and fell into a coma. No one spoke of his or her baptism; it was a warrior’s code. But what Fréden did know was that not everyone survived his or her baptism. If they didn’t, they were deemed the unworthy, better to die in their coma rather than bring dishonor to their family and clan on the battlefield.

  In truth, Fréden thought baptism a pointless ritual, but as silly as it was, it was reserved for dwarves, not men. King Stone Axe had lost his mind.

  “He is to be given the clan name, Dragon Fire,” Belvengar added.

  “Kizmit,” Fréden said, and his general stepped to his side. “Send for Mungrun.”

  Shortly, Mungrun knelt before Fréden as he dismissed all of his advisors save for Kizmit and Belvengar.

  “I know your true name isn’t Mungrun,” Fréden said, “but I don’t care. You keep your real name secret for a reason. I am sure, with time, you will see you can trust me.”

  Mungrun simply looked up at Fréden.

  “I need you to travel back to Stangar,” Fréden said.

  “My lord,” Mungrun said, “may I ask why?”

  “There is a man there,” Fréden said. “His name is Erik Eleodum. I need you to kill him.”

  Fréden looked at Kizmit and Belvengar with a wide smile, but neither one of the warriors returned the gesture. Was it such a complex concept? This so-called Mungrun was from Stangar, so he could move around freely and kill Eleodum. If he had the Dragon Sword, Mungrun would bring it to Fréden. If not, Mungrun would bring the directions, and Fréden would find it himself—at least, he would send his best warriors to do so.

  “Consider it done, my lord,” Mungrun said, and Fréden dismissed him.

  “My lord,” Belvengar said, “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “You don’t serve me to offer your thoughts on such matters,” Fréden said, his brows furrowed. “You elicit information, spy for me, and carry out assassinations.”

  “I happen to agree with him, my lord,” Kizmit added. “We know nothing of this Mungrun.”

  “I will hear no more on it,” Fréden said, standing, wanting to retire for the day. “It is a good plan, and we will carry through with it.”

  “Let me go with him,” Belvengar said.

  “Out of the question,” Fréden said. “Relax, Long Spear. In a fortnight, Erik Eleodum will be dead, and I will either have my hands on the Dragon Sword or know where to find it.”

  27

  Bu clapped his hand roughly over Andu’s mouth.

  “You fool,” Bu whispered. “You gave away our position.”

  The dwarvish patrol—six
dwarves, all armed with spears, bows, and armored in leather, scouting breastplates—stood back to back, in a circle, peering out into the forest. Bu, Bao Zi, Andu, and his remaining men crouched behind an especially large, oval-leafed, purple-flowered bush that dared the cold, as it grew wider and taller. It was all that divided the scouting party from Bu.

  Bu squeezed his hand further against Andu’s mouth, digging his dirty and broken fingernails into the skin and on his cheeks. He could feel his sergeant’s groans against his palm, but Andu made no attempt to stop Bu. He was little more than a broken dog, and now he’d messed up royally.

  They had been traveling due north, towards a strange green glow in the sky. The green light eventually disappeared, leaving Bu nothing to follow, so he just remained on the same course, until they came to a tall and steep range of mountain peaks made of black rock. They spent two days looking for a way over, through, or under them but found nothing. Bu knew the keep of Fealmynster was towards the northeast, but so were the giants, so they searched for a path to the west. They searched and searched, and had traveled for the better part of a week—the hiking slow going through the heavy snow and thick forest of the Gray Mountains—when the black-rocked range finally subsided and gave way to a more gentle mountain slope that allowed them to continue north at a better pace.

  Bu had even found traces of several roads, following one until it ended at an abandoned trading post, finding another that just disappeared without any obvious reason.

  They had seen the dwarves—at least, Bu did—a half-day before and decided to take a wide birth. They seemed to be moving in the same direction, and dwarves were good trackers and scouts, but Bu was better. He didn’t think they were actually after them. He knew the northern dwarves patrolled their lands with an almost zealous diligence, and after running into giant spiders and giant men, he could see why. As Bu instructed his men to move out, Andu relayed the command to the Hámonian knights, but Sir Garrett just stared at Bu’s sergeant rather than move.

  “Didn’t you hear what I said?” Andu had asked.