Dragon Sword: Demon's Fire Book 1

by Christopher Patterson

  Erik held the stone in the palm of his hand. If he stared intently, peering deeply into the oddity, he could almost see a pinpoint of light, but otherwise, it looked dull. He removed his haversack and retrieved a coin pouch, slipping the new stone in beside the ruby-like stone Mardirru had given him.

  “Erik, come here,” Turk said.

  Erik put away his coin pouch and turned to see the dwarf standing in the doorway of the broken tower.

  “Come see this,” the dwarf added.

  Erik followed Turk outside, and they walked to the other side of the tower. He followed the dwarf’s gaze upwards and stared at a flock of a dozen birds simply floating overhead. Their feathers looked like a rainbow, and their tails spread out like some fancy lady’s fan, fluttering in a small breeze. Their wingspan was wide, wider than Erik had ever seen, and their yellow legs just dangled underneath their bodies. Their beaks were equally as yellow as their legs and long. When one of the birds turned its head and made eye contact with Erik, he could see a flamboyant, crown-like, colorful topnotch. The animal squawked, and the flock flew away, high up into the sky until they disappeared.

  Bearded lizards scurried in front of Erik, chasing each other. Ground squirrels poked their heads out of holes and, when they saw the men and dwarves, ducked back into their shelters. Erik heard a bleating sound and turned to see a giant ram, his wool fluffy and white, standing atop some of the ruined stones of the tower. He eyed the men and dwarves warily, making sure to puff out his massive chest and stamp his sharp hooves against the rock. He brandished his large, curled horns, black and a stark contrast to the brilliance of his coat. Half a dozen sheep milled about, in front of the ram, grazing off the lush grass growing in the meadow. Quail milled about, calling to one another, and Erik saw the shadowy silhouette of a deer, brown speckled with a white tail, at the very edge of the glade, shrouded by low hanging, dark green, broad-leafed trees. That was when something else caught Erik’s eye as Bryon came to stand by his side.

  “Is that …” Erik said, leaning forward and squinting.

  “A wall,” Bryon said, finishing what Erik was about to say.

  As Erik looked closer, he saw a high wall, made of the same white stone that made up the tower, surrounding the meadow. In certain places, thick vines and creepers covered the wall, or leaves and branches hung over the walls, but where the jungle and foliage allowed for it, the wall stood tall and strong. A wide, wooden double door sat in the middle of the wall, more of a gate than anything else, towering statues of mailed warriors standing on either side.

  “Were those there before?” Erik said, pointing to the statues.

  “I don’t know,” Bryon replied. “I guess so. I didn’t see them, though.”

  The statues were tall, rising above the wall, and reminded Erik of the stone images of dwarvish warriors that filled the courtyard of the castle of Thorakest.

  “You’d think we would have seen something that large right away,” Erik added.

  “Elvish trickery,” Nafer said.

  “Is that anything like dwarvish trickery?” Bryon asked.

  Nafer narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brows, but then smiled and gave a quick laugh.

  “No,” he replied. “It’s worse. But that’s just a wall.”

  Erik walked to the wall while his companions wandered off in different directions, each with his mind on something that interested him that warranted further investigation. As he walked closer to the gate, he felt his stomach turn. His chest tightened, and he felt the artery in his neck thump against the collar of mail shirt. Large, iron rings hung from each door, so big it might take three or four people to pull them. Besides the latched lock in the door, three thick iron bars also crossed the space where the gate met, holding it closed.

  The locks and the gate and the wall looked as if they were meant to keep out a military force, not simple intruders or trespassers. Erik’s stomach sunk even lower. What could possibly need such reinforcement?

  That was when he heard them, on the other side of the gate and the wall. The chorus of laughing and cursing. He smelled them and the rot of death. They were there, on the other side.

  “I know you’re there,” Erik said, and they laughed, and a voice hushed, and the sound of their shuffling feet stopped.

  “Is that you Sorben Phurnan?” Erik asked. “I wondered when you would show up.

  No one answered.

  “You’re not being sneaky,” Erik added. “I wonder what you look like now? Certainly uglier than before. Has your member fallen off yet?”

  Still no response.

  “I’m here now,” Erik said. “Come in and get me.”

  “Open the gate,” a voice said. “Come see us.”

  “You can’t pass through it, can you?” Erik asked. “The elves enchanted this place, didn’t they?”

  He laughed.

  “You think you are so clever, Sorben, don’t you?”

  “Are you so worried about that worm, Sorben?” the voice asked, and it was clearly not the voice of the dead lieutenant.

  Erik didn’t smell the typical dead, rotting smell of the undead. He smelled fire and burnt wood, the smell of charred flesh like Aga Kona and the memory twisted his stomach. He felt sweat trickle down the side of his face as the temperature rose.

  “Who are you?” Erik asked, leaning forward, placing a hand on one of the iron rungs of the doors. It was warm—almost hot.

  “All in due time, Erik,” the voice said, just on the other side of the door. “Although, you could come out right now. Find out who I am. Open the door, Erik.”

  Erik gripped the handle, gently tugging on the iron. The heat intensified, the smell of coal filling his nose, and his hand dropped.

  An audible hiss filled the air.

  “Who are you talking to?” Bryon asked.

  Erik turned. He didn’t realize his cousin was there.

  “No one.”

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

  “What do you mean?” Erik replied.

  “Are we leaving?”

  Erik shook his head.

  “I don’t know,” he replied, and when Turk walked up to them, he added, “I say we stay here the night. This seems like a safe place.”

  “As safe as any place can be north of the Gray Mountains,” Bryon added.

  Erik looked up to the sky again. There, amidst the welcomed sunlight, he saw green waves in the sky, faint and almost invisible. But if he squinted, they were there, the green glow they had seen at night. Turk joined them as they walked back towards the tower.

  “Erik?” Turk asked.

  “I believe it will darken soon so we’ll find something to eat—there are plenty of animals around here—and sleep for a few hours. Then we follow the green light; we continue north.”

  The others nodded and he looked over his shoulder, at the doors in the wall. The air had cooled and the sweet smells of grass and flowers filled the air once again, but whoever the voice belonged to was still there and the slightest hint of burning wood touched his nostrils.

  40

  Specter stared at the long bridge supposedly made of ice. He could see the magical aura emanating from it. It was strong, almost blinding in the darkness of the tall mountain peak and the clouded night, a white and bluish hue.

  “Elves,” Specter grumbled.

  He saw the creature as well. Drakes were common on the Isutan Isles. Some even viewed them as pets, but they disgusted Specter, dragon kin that were about as intelligent as a dog. They took up too much space, ate too much, smelled worse than dogs, and had bad tempers. This one cleverly disguised itself as a mound of snow. Specter laughed, but then his jollity disappeared.

  “How did Erik Eleodum make it past you,” he whispered.

  This man he was supposed to follow, rob, and then kill was becoming more than just a simple job.

  Specter had no doubt his target and his companions passed this way. He had no doubt they somehow made it past the ice drake and then
over the bridge. The tracks, the residue of their essence told him that much. As stupid as drakes were, they were formidable fighters. That was the reason elves trained them. They hadn’t the will or intelligence, dragons had but possessed the same ferocity.

  Specter, despite feeling tired and drained from the fight with the dwarves, turned himself ethereal and floated close to the ice drake. The creature lifted its reptilian head and sniffed, icy mist puffing up from its nostrils. It shook the snow from its head the way a dog shakes water from its fur and looked about, its eyes cold and blue. The animal must have smelled him, as it rose from its slumbering position to all fours, its white scales and ice-like protrusions along its spine and at its joints shaking as it growled.

  The drake walked around in a circle, sniffing and nudging its snout against the ground. It looked in every direction, but as Specter floated down to the beginning of the bridge, his ethereal form touching the ice as a feather might touch the ground, the drake turned hard and breathed flame-like ice specifically in his direction. It knew he was there.

  Specter threw up his hands, and when the stream of ice struck the invisible shield in front of him, it splashed away. The cold from the drake’s attack bit at Specter’s face, and he quickly changed into his physical form. The drake growled again and gave an ear-piercing shriek. The ground before the creature shook, and figures arose—ice golems.

  “Damn the gods,” Specter hissed.

  He produced the Bone Spear. Dodging two long shards of sharp ice, he thrust the bony blade of his weapon against the blank, smoothed, icy face of one of the golems. The animated soldier exploded and became snow. Another one, attacking from Specter’s side, almost surprised him, but he put a hand out and an unseen force pushed the ice golem into the ravine over which the bridge crossed.

  There were now four ice golems, and Specter made quick work of them. The drake screeched and, before Specter could rush the animal and drive the Bone Spear between its ugly, blue eyes, eight more golems rose from the snow. When he dispatched them, sixteen golems rose.

  “What? Is this a fight of mathematics,” Specter hissed, spitting a bit of blood on the otherwise pale snow. “Leave it to the elves to devise such a trap. This whole place bears their stink.”

  He slammed Bone Spear’s butt into the head of one golem and then pierced another where its heart would have been if it were a real man. Specter looked to the clouded sky.

  “Elves!” he shouted. “Elenderel! I hate you! I know you are watching this from somewhere in your cursed forests! Get ready to watch me shove the Bone Spear up your pet’s ass!”

  Just then, the earth shook, and Specter had to put out a hand to steady himself. He heard cracking and, looking over his shoulder, saw a piece of the mountain falling away into the void of the ravine.

  Maybe I went too far.

  As more forms rose from the snow, Specter turned and looked to the bridge.

  “To the nine hells with this,” he said.

  Specter tried turning himself ethereal, but couldn’t. It felt as if someone bound his magic, holding it, chaining it, almost like an invisible force holding his arms to his side. He felt empty, a feeling he hadn’t felt in hundreds of years. He ran. The golems didn’t follow him. As he reached the halfway point of this ice bridge—clearly an elvish construction— he thought he was free, staring at a small tunnel at the other end of the bridge. But then he lurched backward, his back hitting the icy floor hard and the breath rushing from his lungs.

  Specter stood, legs wobbly, vision blurry, and head hurting. He tried to step forward, but something pushed him back. He put his hands out, and a shock ran from his hands to his shoulders.

  “Elves,” Specter said and then spat, spitting at the force field. Even that was expelled.

  He leaned forward as much as he could and squinted, trying to peer past the invisible barrier holding him back. The other side of the bridge was hazy, distant and shadowed, a silhouette more than anything, but what he saw, on the other side of the unseen obstruction, wasn’t a nighttime, icy, mountain bridge. It was green and bright and warm.

  Specter turned. More golems than he could count ran towards him, followed by the ice drake.

  “I guess I really pissed them off,” Specter said with an insincere smile.

  He tried again to change into his ethereal form, but his magic still wouldn’t work. He was feeling tired and, even with Bone Spear, without his magic, he would be no match for countless golems and a drake. He looked to the side of the bridge. The magic of this place, restricted him, but what if …

  As the first golem reached him, Specter ran to the edge of the bridge and jumped. As he fell, the wind whipped past his face, stinging his eyes. All around him was dark, a black abyss. He still felt his magic restricted, even though, as he looked up, the bridge became smaller and smaller. He had no idea how deep this ravine was, but this was a chance he had to take. Death was certain on the ice bridge.

  He tried his magic again and felt a tingle in his fingers and toes. His head hurt a little less, and his magical vision, that allowed him to see even in the darkest of places, began to illuminate mountainous features around him. It was working. The farther he was from the bridge, the less restricted he became. His enhanced hearing heard water and rocks breaking from the mountain wall as he saw the valley floor—a mixture of craggy protrusions and a winding river—coming up to meet him quickly. He closed his eyes and concentrated. He felt his stomach flutter, his heart race, the wind … and then he was shadow.

  41

  They had expected the sun overhead to have faded, but it blazed down all the while they established a camp, cooked and ate, and settled down to get some sleep. Restless, Erik leaned against a wall in the broken white tower of this strange, clearly magical glade. Bryon lay next to him, trying to sleep, eventually covering his head with his haversack while Turk continued to explore the ruins of the circular keep. Bofim and Beldar sat cross-legged near Erik, whispering to each other; Nafer was the only one who had actually fallen asleep.

  Erik reached into his haversack and retrieved his wooden flute, the one Mardirru had given him when the gypsies left Erik, Befel, and Bryon in Finlo. It was an odd gift at first and, truth be told, Erik was never very good with music. Bryon was the one that seemed more musically inclined. But whenever Erik would put this flute to his lips, he would imagine something, a scene, and that was what he would play. How could someone play an image, a vision from their imagination? Erik didn’t know, but if someone could turn nature into a song, that is what he did.

  Erik closed his eyes. He stood in a wide, green meadow, a tower in its center, and surrounded by a wall, both made of alabaster stone. Women sat and worked and talked inside the tower; all ages and from all corners of the world, but they were all human. Some had pale skin and almost white hair while others had very dark skin with black hair that fell in ringlets to their waists. Some girls were barely five summers old while others were grandmothers. The girls that looked to be adolescent and younger had their heads shaved, while the older girls and women wore their hair in whatever fashion they wished. Some girls read and studied; others washed and cleaned. A few trained in combative arts in the meadow with wooden staffs or with their hands.

  All around the busy women and girls, the sounds of a peaceful glade filled the air with blue jays and robins offering up joyful songs to the sun. Squirrels and rabbits scurried about, chattering at one another while they looked for food. Erik couldn’t help but smile. The temperature was perfect, the grass soft under his bare feet, and he felt as if he could simply lay down and rest wherever he pleased. The scent of lavender and summer flowers filled the air, along with the familiar buzz of honeybees, collecting their treasure for their queen, hidden away in their hive somewhere. But then the ground shook, and Erik looked north.

  The horizon was dark until it flashed with purple lightning. The darkness was far away, but it felt constricting, and there was a pervading sense of evil. He looked to his left and saw a woman
standing there, her dark, brunette hair falling past her knees, streaked with gray and white. Her jaw was stern and strong, belying her obvious age, and she wore a thick, white robe. She watched the growing darkness. He looked to his left, and there stood the elf from his baptismal vision. He didn’t wear armor, just a white robe as well, the golden hilt of a sword poking through the opening in the front. He watched the north as well. Hesitant joy mixed with worry, that’s what Erik felt … and that’s what he played.

  The sun was out when Erik opened his eyes.

  “Is it always day in this place?” Bryon asked, grumbling.

  “It would seem that way,” Erik replied, sitting up, yawning, and stretching.

  “Elves,” Beldar said.

  “We need to leave,” Erik overheard Bofim say.

  “I think I wish I could stay here a little longer,” Erik said, more to himself than anyone else.

  “Truly?” Bryon said. He looked down at Erik with a raised eyebrow.

  “This place is safe,” Erik replied.

  “Safe?” Bryon said. “This place is a ruin. It is broken and dead.”

  “It is broken,” Erik said, “but it isn’t dead. No. It’s very much alive. Death lies outside those gates on the far side of the meadows. That is what we must face, that is where we need to go first, through those gates before we move further north.”

  “You speak in riddles, cousin,” Bryon said, walking away towards the trees to take a pee.

  “That’s because my dreams speak in riddles,” Erik whispered.

  Erik stood, readied Ilken’s Blade, and patted his golden-hilted dagger, wishing he could feel its presence once more. He put his haversack on his back and strapped his shield over the top. He had the sense he’d need the shield before the haversack.

  “Are you ready?” Turk asked.