One of the knights dismounted, grabbed his mother by the throat and pushed her into the house. The din of a roaring fire eventually drowned out her screams, and Erik unsheathed Ilken’s Blade and ran. A horse stopped him, blocking his path, and he looked up to see a gaunt face, green and black with rot, eye sockets vacant, looking down at him. The dead knight smiled, and a millipede crawled from his mouth, up his cheek, and then into one of his eyeholes.
“Come to join in the fun?” the dead knight asked.
Erik brought his sword across the horse, also a creature that was rotting, its hair barely clinging to sagging skin. The creature collapsed on top of the knight. Erik stepped over the dead man, who simply laughed.
“We will have fun tonight,” the dead knight said. “Your sweet wife … we will have fun.”
As he laughed, Erik screamed and brought his blade across the dead man’s throat. Both he and his horse exploded into a million specks of light.
His father’s farm was gone, his home a pile of ash. The bodies of his family were gone, and when Erik thought he was alone, he heard a distant scream.
Simone!
He ran as fast as he could, passing burning buildings, burning fields, and burning animals, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was Simone. He knew it was his dream, and he knew that what happened here wouldn’t happen in the real world—probably—but he couldn’t help it. He saw his own home, surrounded by an army of the undead. He heard another scream and began cleaving his way through the army, each undead soldier exploding into pinpoints of light as he struck them down with Ilken’s Blade. He felt blood flow from his body as they scratched and clawed and bit at him. He didn’t care.
He made it to the front of the crowd, and the soldiers stopped fighting him. Simone emerged, walking slowly, painfully. Her face was covered in blood, her eyes wild, her nightgown torn and all but useless. A gaping wound consumed her belly, exposing ribs and internal organs. Their baby. Blood ran down her legs. She saw Erik but didn’t recognize him. She fell to her knees.
Erik ran to Simone, cradling her head in his lap.
“No,” he cried, nothing more than a croaking, weeping whisper.
“You think this is pain?” a voice croaked. He had expected Sorben Phurnan, but it was the cloaked man from his baptismal dream.
Erik ignored him.
“They can’t hurt you in this place,” Erik whispered. “Do not worry. You will wake, and you will be all right. Our baby will be all right.”
“Are you so sure of that?” the cloaked man asked. “I am not some rotting corpse you killed in life. I am not some pawn the Shadow toys with and sends to haunt you in your dreams. So much more pain. So much more.”
The figure laughed with malicious glee.
“You will be all right,” Erik whispered, over and over again. “You will be all right. You will be all right. You will be all right.”
Erik lifted his head and screamed. He heard more croaking laughter, and he wept, and then he felt steel pierce his chest.
35
“A third of the Dragon’s Teeth have been stationed along the southern border, Your Majesty,” Darius, General Lord Marshal of Gol-Durathna’s armies said, “along with another twenty thousand regular troops.”
“We are on the brink of war, Darius,” King Agempi said. “Two hundred years, and I will be the king to break the peace.”
“You’re not breaking anything, Your Majesty,” Darius replied. “The Lord of the East thinks he can do what he wants. By the gods, he thinks his dung doesn’t stink.”
“He grows more and more powerful, Darius,” the king said.
“We are stronger,” Darius replied. “Our people love you, and they follow you out of respect, not fear. Like before, the other nations will rally around us, and we will shatter the east. Only, this time, we will break them forever, scattering their ruling families, and forcing their cities into submission.”
“And then what, Darius?” the king asked, his face a look of sadness and concern. “Do we then rule the east as well as the north?”
“We could,” Darius replied.
The king shook his head, lifting his cup to his mouth, pausing for a moment, and then taking a hearty draught of mead.
“Then we would be no different than the east,” the king said. “I fear, if Syzbalo gets his hand on something powerful enough to control a dragon …”
“We will stop him,” Darius replied, but he didn’t quite believe his own words.
He watched the king. He was a man in his middle years, about the same age as Darius. They trained together and, unlike many rulers, Agempi was an adept soldier. It was the pride of the northern kingdom that their king rode into battle with his troops. But that hadn’t happened in over two hundred years, not since Justus Guerus signed a treaty of peace with Rimrûk Aztûk at the Battle of Bethulium and became King Agempi the First.
The present King Agempi was always a lively man and looked young for his age. With a few gray whiskers, his beard still held vibrant browns with streaks of blond and red, and his body was fit and well-muscled. But lately, he seemed to have more gray in his hair, and his shoulders seemed to slump more. His age was beginning to show. Or perhaps it was the stress and worry.
Darius knew anything that might suggest war would weigh on a king’s mind and shoulders; at least, on a king that cared. Darius knew the Lord of the East could care less. He would send tens of thousands of fools into battle and watch them die with a smile on his face. He had been doing it across the Giant’s Vein—in Mek-Ba’Dune—for years.
“What of the Atrimus?” Agempi asked, speaking of the secret army of assassins Gol-Durathna employed.
“Our agent in Eldmanor is dead,” Darius replied. He had gotten word of the man’s death only a few days before. He was one of his best. He had underestimated this Erik Eleodum.
“Call them what they are, Darius,” King Agempi replied. “Assassins.”
“Very well, Your Majesty,” Darius said. “Shall I send more ... assassins?”
“They must be stopped because the Lord of the East must be stopped. Yes, send more assassins. And instruct them … they cannot simply kill this Erik Eleodum and his companions.”
“Your Majesty?” Darius asked.
“They must recover the Dragon Sword,” the King replied. “That is of the utmost importance. They will recover the sword and bring it to me.”
“To what end?” Darius asked.
For a moment, he watched Agempi’s eyes. He was not a power-hungry man. He was a fair ruler. He was a man who enjoyed sharing his wealth. But, for a moment, a flash of something Darius had never seen in the king flickered in his eyes. A small smile touched his lips. The king gave the slightest of shakes of his head and looked at Darius.
“We will take the sword to our smelters,” Agempi replied. “We will have it melted in the hottest furnaces as if breathed on by the very dragons it was meant to control and destroy.”
“What of its magic, Your Majesty?” Darius asked.
“We will hire the most powerful wizards,” the king replied, “if we must. We will find them from the Isutan Isles, the Feran Archipelagos, and Wüsten Sahil if need be. But we will destroy this weapon so that men like the Lord of the East may never use it.”
“As you command,” Darius said, standing up from the table in the middle of King Agempi’s personal quarters and bowing.
The king cleared his throat as Darius was leaving the room. He turned.
“We cannot fail, Darius,” the king said, his face looking drawn and tired. “We cannot fail.”
“Did you really find it necessary to send for Specter?” Andragos asked.
He and the Lord of the East sat on the raised dais in the hall of Fen-Stévock’s keep, facing one another. The Black Mage rarely found the Lord of the East alone, without his witches or Isutan advisor, so he took the opportunity to ask some awkward questions.
“Are you questioning my judgment?” the Lord of the East asked.
<
br /> “He is dangerous,” Andragos replied, “and his magic is something I wouldn’t even touch, not in all of my years.”
“Erik Eleodum murdered my agents,” the Lord of the East said. “He was simply supposed to meet them, travel with them, and deliver the sword.”
“You truly believe Erik murdered them?” Andragos asked.
“They are dead by his hand,” the Lord of the East said. “I have seen it in my visions.”
“I have a hard time believing Erik murdered them,” Andragos said.
“You have a soft spot for the boy,” the Lord of the East said. “It is your weakness.”
“Perhaps,” Andragos replied.
“He has learned the secret of his dagger,” the Lord of the East said.
“How?” Andragos asked. “You took the scroll from him. He cannot, and could not, read it.”
“And yet he subdued the dragon,” the Lord of the East said. “He wants the sword for himself.”
Andragos said nothing. He just sat and shook his head.
“I must have the Dragon Sword,” the Lord of the East said. “And the Dragon Crown. Whatever the cost. Our people deserve it. Our country deserves it.”
“Be that as it may, Syzbalo,” Andragos said, shaking his head, “but we need to speak frankly about this Specter business.”
“You dare speak my name,” the Lord of the East said, leaning forward and pointing an accusatory finger at Andragos.
“Please,” Andragos said, opening his hands, “I watched you being born. I tutored you from the time you could crawl. When you fell and cried, who was there to pick you up?”
The Lord of the East’s face changed a little. It softened, and he looked down at the floor for a moment. His eyes, outlined in black paint, usually looked harsh and fierce, but they looked like the eyes of a child at that moment. He sat back, almost slumped in his chair, like he did when he was a child, when he was confused or didn’t know what the answer to something was.
He was a kind boy, attentive to his studies, but not very bright. His father would rage when he didn’t pick things up quickly, whether it was arithmetic, history, writing, or magic, but Andragos knew he would eventually learn, and he was patient with him. Syzbalo was always afraid when he couldn’t figure something out, and Andragos would comfort him and do some simple magical trick for him to cheer him up. Then he would sit him up straight and get him to work a little harder, eventually learning whatever the Black Mage was trying to teach him.
Andragos saw that boy, for a moment, a thin lad with messy, black hair, a little gangly at times, with a snorting laugh and an affinity to animals and, oddly enough, flowers. He had gotten that from his mother, and when his father—Mörken Stévock—found that out, Syzbalo wasn’t allowed around his mother.
Perhaps that was what eventually changed him, the lack of a mother’s love. Perhaps it was watching his father—idolizing a man who was always hungry for more power. The boy that was Syzbalo hated his father for the things he did, the way he shunned his son, and the amount of time he spent trying to become a mighty ruler, but no matter how innocent a boy is, he can only watch a father torture so many people, suck their souls from their bodies using black magic, and be beaten down so many times until he becomes just as corrupt.
Syzbalo sat up and looked at Andragos, who was smiling. He smiled himself, a small, smirking smile and then furled his eyebrows and pursed his lips.
“You forget yourself,” the Lord of the East said. “I am no longer a boy, and you are no longer my teacher. And one day, soon, my powers will be greater than yours. So, watch your tongue.”
“Very well,” Andragos said with a quick nod of his head. For a moment, his heart ached. “My concern is only for you, Your Excellency. There are few in this world that could actually harm you, but Specter is one of them. And his price …”
Andragos shuddered. Who knew how old Bone Spear was; his price was never gold. No, his price was blood, and the younger, the better. Through whatever Isutan magic he wielded, he sucked the life from people to rejuvenate his, and he didn’t care who it was—children, young mothers, nursing babes.
“It doesn’t matter,” the Lord of the East replied. “The Dragon Sword and Dragon Crown are paramount.”
“For the good of the Empire?” Andragos asked.
“Of course,” the Lord of the East replied.
Andragos knew otherwise but worked to block his thoughts from his leader.
Be it on your own head Syzbalo.
“I will continue to follow Erik Eleodum,” Andragos said, “and keep you informed.”
Andragos stood.
“You do like him, don’t you?” the Lord of the East said, looking up at Andragos from his seat. This time his voice showed interest rather than anger.
“I do,” Andragos replied. He knew he answered too quickly. He had to cover for himself. “Under different circumstances, he would make a good pupil. It is a pity he must die.”
“If we are speaking frankly, I always suspected you had a fondness for young men,” the Lord of the East said with a malicious smirk.
Andragos gave a courteous laugh.
“He reminds me of you.”
The Lord of the East’s smile faded. Andragos walked down the steps of the dais. He was halfway through the hall when the Lord of the East called to him again.
“I sent my men to retrieve Ja Sin’s family,” the Lord of the East said. “A traitor’s family should face the same fate as the traitor, don’t you think?”
“Of course,” Andragos said without turning around.
“We couldn’t find them,” the Lord of the East added. “None of them. Nieces and nephews. Even some of his close friends. Strange, don’t you think?”
“These are strange times,” Andragos replied. “But I suspect they fled the moment you arrested Ja Sin. The citizens of Fen-Stévock know the price of treachery. Surely, they feared what would happen and left.”
“Yes, indeed. Well, keep your eyes out for them, as well. They must be brought to justice.”
Andragos turned, faced the Lord of the East as he watched him, and bowed.
36
Syzbalo sat on the chair on top of his dais, hunched over, hands clasped together, seething. Andragos increasingly irritated him. The man wielded power—more power than any other man in all of Háthgolthane. But he held back his teachings. And the Lord of the East couldn’t help but think the Black Mage scorned him for his harsh tactics, whether it be with traitors, enemies, or the other families of Golgolithul. How could that wizard deride such actions? He had done far worse. One did not earn the names Harbinger of Death and Terror of the East by being peaceful and loving. Andragos was fooling only himself.
Syzbalo stood. He dismissed his soldiers, even his personal guard. He felt like being alone. But as they left, he wasn’t alone. He felt a presence, someone standing behind him. Perhaps the witches? They had a particular smell to them—sweet and musky. It wasn’t them. Melanius? He smelled old. It wasn’t him either.
Syzbalo turned quickly, his hands clenched, green electricity flowing through them and around them. A cloaked figure stood in front of him.
“Before I disintegrate you, tell me how you got in here,” Syzbalo hissed.
A croaking laugh echoed from underneath the low hood of this mysterious figure. Syzbalo growled and threw both hands towards the hooded being, the green electricity buzzing and snapping, but it passed right through the intruder and struck the large, purple curtain that separated the front of the throne room from the forbidden back.
Syzbalo straightened.
“Who are you?”
“You desire power?” the hooded figure asked. “You desire strength? Magic? Authority?”
Syzbalo cocked an eyebrow.
“What ruler doesn’t?” he asked.
“You desire the Dragon Sword and the Dragon Crown?” the figure asked, to which Syzbalo tensed.
“What is this?” he asked. “Whatever magic you are using, mi
ne is stronger.”
More laughter.
“Insolent fool,” the figure said. “You were always so brash and egotistical, weren’t you?”
Syzbalo’s eyes narrowed and his lips flattened.
“How can you give me these things?” Syzbalo asked.
“Not I,” the cloaked figure said, “but my master. He can give you the sword and the crown. He can give you power unlimited.”
“The power to control a dragon?”
“Bah,” the cloaked man said with a wave of a pale, bony-fingered hand. He scoffed. “Dragons. Pittance.”
“Pittance?” Syzbalo asked. “Have you seen what one dragon did to my city?”
“My master will give you greater power,” the cloaked figure said. “All he asks in return is your allegiance.”
“Even if I did believe you, I am beholden to no man,” Syzbalo said with a laugh. He thought this figure was a simple vision, perhaps, not truly there but transmuted there by some powerful magic. Such a thing wasn’t beyond Syzbalo’s capabilities. He turned to walk away.
“My master is no man,” the cloaked figure said.
Syzbalo turned back to the figure, slowly.
“Pledge your allegiance,” the cloaked figure said. “Help with his return to this world. And you will know no end to the power you will wield.”
“Who are you?” Syzbalo asked. “Who is your master?”
The cloaked figure reached up, gripping the edges of the robe’s cowl with his long, pale fingers, and pulled it back. Syzbalo’s eyes went wide.
Specter watched from the shadow of a tree. Two dwarves stood there, ostensibly next to another tree, but the entrance was hidden by the tree trunk. Most would have missed it, but Specter was not one of them.
The guards talked about nothing. Specter had never taken the time to learn to speak their primitive language, but with his powers, he understood them nonetheless. Specter was growing bored, picking at a fingernail and staring at the sky, when one of the dwarves mentioned a man. His ears perked up. He had vanished, along with another man and several dwarves. They were curious. Confused. What were dwarves doing traveling with men? One of the guards scoffed, saying they were southern dwarves so what would you expect?
Dragon Sword: Demon's Fire Book 1 Page 24
