Dragon Sword: Demon's Fire Book 1

by Christopher Patterson

The edge of the mining chasm was only five steps away … four … three … two … Bryon leapt. His stomach fluttered, his breath caught, and the ground came up fast. Instinctively, he tucked his knees to his chest and bowed his head. As he struck the ground, he rolled, tumbling head over heels, finally coming to rest on one knee. He would be lying if he said it didn’t hurt, but he knew his movement avoided broken legs or other broken bones.

  Erik bounced off his ass as he reached the ledge, turned, grasped the ledge with both hands, pushed away against the chasm wall with his feet, and landed. The dwarves did the same, all but Nafer, who slipped and fell, crashing into Turk.

  Bryon looked around, sheer walls surrounding them and a dozen cracks in the earth. They were trapped. It’s what the giants wanted. He heard laughter as the giants approached the ledge. They weren’t running anymore. They didn’t have to.

  “Man flesh,” Bryon heard one of the giants say; their language that was almost a copy of Dwarvish.

  “You get the dwarves,” another said. “Boss gets the men.”

  “This was a bad idea,” Erik said, and as if to prove his statement, another dozen giants emerged from the cracks in the ground.

  “By the Creator,” Bryon said, moving shoulder to shoulder with his cousin, “how deep and wide do these cracks have to be to hold a dozen of these brutes?”

  Bryon looked over the edge of one of the fissures as his companions came close to him, and the giants began to surround them, eyeing them greedily. He looked into the crack. It was certainly a mine of sorts, and deep, with scaffolding and piles of iron ore and black rock and firestone here and there. But it wasn’t big enough to hold a dozen giants. It was barely big enough to hold one, maybe two. A green light emanated from the bottom of the mining hole, the gas and steam that escaped these fractures, undoubtedly. But Bryon didn’t see any gas escaping.

  He moved closer, accidentally kicking a rock into the fissure. It fell into the crack, and as it hit the green aura, the light flashed a little brighter, and the rock disappeared.

  “What the …” Bryon gasped.

  He watched the giants move closer, saw a few more emerge from other mining holes, and looked back into this one.

  “It’s a doorway,” Bryon said.

  “What?” Erik asked.

  “These cracks aren’t just mines,” Bryon said. “They’re doorways. Magical doorways.”

  “You’re making no sense,” Erik said.

  “A doorway to where?” Turk asked.

  “More giants if that’s how they’re coming here,” Nafer added.

  “Well, do you want to stay here and become giant dung,” Bryon asked, “or give this potential portal a chance?”

  Turk looked at him and nodded. Bryon jumped in the darkness of a mountain hole. The misty, shimmering green aura of magic raced up towards him. As he hit the light, the world around him began to twist and distort, just like it did when they had crossed the ice bridge. He felt himself falling, but into nothing. There was no sound or smell, and, soon, the world around him was black. And then the space around him swirled and twisted and distorted again, and he fell on his face. Before he could push himself up, someone landed on top of him. And then another, and then another until he had five bodies piled above him.

  “By the Creator!” Bryon grunted. “Get off!”

  He felt bodies rolling off of him, and as soon as the last did, he pushed himself up and breathed deeply.

  “Where are we?” Bryon asked.

  “Judging by the wind I can hear, in a cave,” Beldar replied.

  “Where are the giants?” Turk asked.

  “I don’t see any,” Bofim replied.

  “I’ll take a look outside,” Bryon said.

  With help from the light of his sword, he moved over the mouth of the cave and peered outside. As Beldar suggested, a strong wind howled outside, but there were no trees to flutter and bend; there was only unending, bright white snow. Bryon stepped to the edge of the opening, and his nose immediately turned red from a deep, chilling, biting cold. His hair whipped around his face, slashing at his cheeks, and he knew no amount of bearskins would stop this cold as he involuntarily shivered like he never had before.

  As he looked out on the vast plain, the first light of dawn appeared, and a shape emerged on the horizon. As the others joined him, the sky brightened some more against the frozen tundra and in the distance, rising up from the flat land like a dark, menacing beacon for weary, unsuspecting travels, a tall, black keep appeared.

  43

  Fréden Fréwin crumpled the letter and let it fall from his hand. More disappointment. His agents had failed in their attempt to stop Eleodum. This Mungrun Flint Toe failed. The letter used his real name—Hragram. Clearly, he wasn’t as great a warrior as Fréden had thought. The letter, sent by another spy, used the term assassin, but Fréden thought of them as freedom fighters, trying to stop the expansion of power that men constantly sought. Assassins were evil, but these dwarves were heroes, killed by this Erik Dragon Slayer.

  Fréden seethed and wanted to hit somebody. King Stone Axe, that fool king of Thrak Baldüukr, had given this man a dwarvish name; a dwarvish clan even! The gall. The nerve. The impudence. Further proof that his people were in dire need of a true leader, a dwarf who respected other races but recognized the superiority of the dwarvish kind. The world was calling this Erik a Friend of Dwarves. Fréden shook his head. No. He was an enemy of dwarves. He needed to die.

  Fréden sensed his seneschal standing there, just behind his throne.

  “What is it Nalbin?” Fréden Fréwin asked.

  “The numbers are in, my lord,” his seneschal replied.

  They kept track of the number of dwarves flocking to their cause every week. When they first left Thorakest, they must have had five hundred dwarves go with them. It was nothing compared to the five hundred thousand that lived in Thorakest, but those that went with Fréden were only the necessary pieces—soldiers, architects, commanders, civil planners, laborers. The rest, the women and children, would come later. Another five hundred would come each week after. They even had two weeks where over a thousand dwarves heeded his call and joined the cause—what he was now calling The Movement. Just under five thousand dwarves had joined them in El-Beth Tordun, but he knew his support was far-reaching.

  Recently, however, less and less had been coming. The previous week a paltry eighty-four dwarves with various useful skills showed up. More had come, but what good were artists and musicians and writers and holy men and entrepreneurs when they were concentrating on building a new nation, a new world? Support had slowed.

  “Tell me,” Fréden commanded.

  “Fifty-three,” Nalbin replied.

  Fréden Fréwin slammed a fist against the armrest of his throne. It was audible enough that the military commanders and politicians in the room turned to look at him.

  “It is better than nothing, my lord,” Nalbin said.

  “Better than nothing?” Fréden roared. He turned to face his seneschal, his vision growing red. “If we wish to build a nation, an empire, a new world, we must recruit ten times that a week, until we are strong enough to first retake lands once held by dwarves.”

  He turned to look at the dwarves in his hall.

  “General Kizmit,” Fréden said, and his commander of his army, armored from shoulders to toes, snapped to attention and bowed. “How many regular soldiers in our army?”

  “Two thousand, my lord,” Kizmit replied. “But we have another five hundred that can fight if the need is pressing.”

  “We need more,” Fréden said, pushing himself to a standing position. “We need to expand our recruiting efforts.”

  “Might I suggest, my lord ...” Kizmit began with another bow.

  “Go on,” Fréden said.

  “If I could train all able-bodied dwarves,” Kizmit said, “we would have a standing force of five thousand.”

  “Are we truly having this conversation again? What would you have me do,�
�� Fréden asked, his voice rich with sarcasm, “train our doctors and engineers?”

  “Yes, my lord,” General Kizmit replied. “It is what we have always done. Everyone is a warrior, and then they specialize in other areas.”

  “Have you not listened when I’ve told you we are creating a new world, Kizmit?” Fréden said, “You need to expand your efforts in recruiting able-bodied warriors or I need to find a new commander of our army.”

  “Your will be done,” Kizmit said with a bow.

  “How are the repairs to the castle going, Bilkath?” Fréden asked his Commander of all engineers.

  “With only five hundred engineers, it is slow,” Bilkath replied. “If some of the soldiers could help in the efforts…”

  Fréden put up a hand.

  “Not you too. It will not happen,” Fréden replied. “They need time to train and prepare. Each dwarf will serve his purpose. A single purpose only.”

  His advisors were constantly trying to get him to let the dwarves that had answered his call help in several ways, but he wouldn’t have it. They were going to do things differently.

  “Leave me,” Fréden said, waving his hand. “Kizmit, send for Long Spear.”

  The general bowed as those who were in the hall left. Only a moment later, Belvengar Long Spear walked in. He was one of the first to hear Fréden’s call, disenchanted with the dwarves’ acceptance of man encroaching into their lands and stealing from their people. He was as trustworthy and loyal as they came.

  “My lord,” Belvengar said with a bow.

  “I need you again, Long Spear,” Fréden said.

  “Anything, my lord.”

  “Erik, Enemy of Dwarves must die,” Fréden said, “as do the dwarves that have aided him. They are traitors to their people.”

  “My lord,” Belvengar said with another bow.

  “Will this be a problem?” Fréden Fréwin asked.

  “No, my lord. Like you said, they are traitors to their people … Skull Crusher worst of all.”

  44

  Bu stared at the black structure that dominated the horizon, sensing the evil that resided within. He shuddered, wishing he didn’t have to go there, and then glared over his shoulder. Andu’s short beard had frozen, turning a bright shade of white, and he shivered uncontrollably, as did the remaining four knights. One of them, Sir Reginald, leaned against another, Sir Caleb. They were both cowardly men, and Bu suspected they enjoyed each other’s company a little too much at night. The other two knights, Sir Garrett and Sir Alster, had proven themselves a little more worthy, and Garrett had actually started to show he recognized Bu as his king and assisted with leading the Hámonians. In fact, the fat lip Sir Caleb wore came from Sir Garrett, the back of his hand in response to the knight’s disrespectful response to the King of Hámon. Still, they, along with Andu, shivered, shielding themselves as best they could, the cold freezing the iron of their hauberks.

  Bao Zi stood next to Bu, motionless. Bu wondered if the old, grizzled soldier had frozen to death and become a statue, but the steam coming from his nose said otherwise. He simply dared the cold, challenged the weather to do its worst, and he would stand there and take whatever the environment had to offer.

  Finally, the old soldier turned to Bu, slowly.

  “Your orders?” he asked in his croaking voice. Bu sometimes wondered if Bao Zi’s voice had been gruff when he was a child.

  “We move,” Bu said.

  “You heard your king,” Bao Zi commanded, “move.”

  They walked down to the bottom of the small hill on which they had stood and began to cross the vast expanse of ice and snow. Bu had never seen a place like this—tundra was what Bao Zi referred to it as. He looked down at his feet and, at times, saw frozen grass or dirt and, at times, saw nothing but ice. The idea of walking on frozen water unnerved him, but he would not show it or let his step falter.

  “By the gods,” Reginald said, having slipped yet again. “What are we doing in this place?”

  “Shut your mouth!” Garrett yelled, lifting his hand like a father ready to discipline a petulant child.

  “But it’s so cold,” Reginald whined, tears freezing on his cheeks. “I’m chilled to the bone.”

  “If you keep talking,” Bao Zi said, turning hard, “I’ll flay you alive and use your damn skin as a coat. Then you’ll truly be chilled to the bone.”

  Garrett put up a hand.

  “My lord,” Sir Garrett said, “let me handle this.”

  Bao Zi looked like he was going to draw his sword, but Bu caught his hand.

  “Let’s see what he does,” Bu whispered in Shengu.

  “We’re going to die out here,” Sir Reginald said, fear in his voice as he cried as well.

  “Perhaps,” Garrett said. “Regardless, your composure as a knight of Hámon is pathetic and without honor. And the way you speak to your king should warrant your immediate death.”

  Bu saw the look that Reginald gave Garrett. Just a week ago, Garrett argued with Bu any chance he had. It was a look of pure confusion.

  “Why don’t you remember the vows you took as a knight and,” Garrett said, “if you die out here, die with honor so the gods might bless your family.”

  Reginald hung his head, and Caleb gave the knight a disgusted look.

  “Did you see that?” Sir Alster asked.

  “What?” Bao Zi snapped, his irritation and anger evident.

  “Over there,” Alster added.

  Bu looked in the direction of where Alster was pointing. There was a short mountain range some distance away, but that wasn’t what caught Alster’s attention. It looked at first like the snow was moving, but then they could see the color was slightly darker.

  “What is that?” Bu muttered.

  “Bear,” Bao Zi simply replied. “Snow bear.”

  Bu’s question was also answered by a deep and reverberating roar, carried to them on the strong, icy wind. He had never heard a roar like that; it could only be described as being full of hatred.

  “We need to move,” Bu said.

  As they started to run, they heard more roaring. Closer now.

  “Wait!” Sir Reginald cried. “I can’t keep up.”

  Bu looked back over his shoulder. It seemed the wind was howling all around them, and he saw a shadow behind them. It lumbered forward with a long, loping gait as it got closer, and grew bigger.

  “Faster!” Bu cried.

  “I can’t,” Sir Reginald said again.

  “We must wait for him!” Sir Caleb called.

  “Then stay and die with your lover,” Garrett said as the distance between him and the two other knights grew. “At least die fighting. Die with honor.”

  Sir Reginald fell to his knees and cried. Caleb stood over him, a look of genuine worry on his face.

  “Stay with me,” Bu heard Reginald say. He looked over his shoulder again and saw Reginald reach up and grasp Caleb’s hand. “Please.”

  The snow bear was closer, and it roared again. Caleb looked up and pulled his hand away, turned and ran. Reginald cried after the other knight, but Sir Caleb didn’t look back.

  “He’ll slow down the bear,” Bao Zi said.

  The other three knights and Andu caught up to Bu and Bao Zi. Sir Caleb had tears in his eyes, all of them freezing on his cheeks and in his beard.

  “We’re running out of men,” Bu said as a long scream almost drowned out the bear’s roar.

  “Reginald was a poor excuse for a knight, Your Majesty,” Garrett said.

  “We’ll need as many men as we can when we get to Fealmynster,” Bu said.

  “Understood,” Garrett said.

  Bu stopped.

  “We can rest for a moment,” he said.

  As the others took a breath, Bu grabbed Garrett’s arm and pulled him close.

  “What are you about?” Bu asked.

  “Your Majesty?” Garrett asked, his brow furrowed, and his lips pursed.

  “Don’t play with me,” Bu said, pu
lling him even closer. “A week ago, you fought me at any chance, and now, you serve me like a lap dog.”

  “You are my king,” Garrett said with a shrug.

  “Lies,” Bu said. “What’s changed?”

  Garrett looked over Bu’s shoulder. Then he stared at Bu, his mouth flat, his eyes emotionless.

  “I am starting to realize you are a strong warrior,” Garrett said. “Clearly, stronger than any of these other knights. I am an opportunist. Firstly, I will not survive this mission if I continue to oppose you. Secondly, I can see that you are loyal to those who serve you. When we return to Hámon, I would expect you might bless me with more land and titles as I have served you loyally. I am a vassal to Count Alger. I wish to be free of him and have vassals of my own.”

  “I see,” Bu said, releasing his grip a bit. He remembered having almost the same conversation with his seneschal, Li, when Patûk was still alive. Li knew he would be a powerful man one day. And rather than hate the man for his opportunistic tendencies, Bu actually respected it. “And your feelings on having an easterner as your king?”

  “Do you want my honest reply?” Garrett asked.

  Bu nodded.

  “It disgusts me,” Garrett replied.

  Bu expected as much. At first, he felt a tinge of anger in his gut, but he pushed it away. He wanted this knight to be honest. Garrett thought that Hámonians were superior to all others, much in the same way most easterners believed they were better than anyone else.

  “But your wife is Hámonian,” Garrett added, “and of noble blood, which means your children, as long as the gods see fit to give you offspring, will have Hámonian blood coursing through their veins. Over time, your eastern blood will slowly fade away.”

  Garrett gave a quick shrug. He was haughty but confident, and Bu was starting to like him.

  “Besides, you will have to learn our ways—become Hámonian—if you wish to earn the favor and loyalty of the nobles and rule my people,” Garrett replied.

  Anger flashed across Bu’s face. He stepped closer to Garrett.

  “I appreciate your honesty, Sir Garrett,” Bu said, “but let’s understand one thing … they are my people. And unless they wish to find their roads decorated with the crucified, they will obey. I will learn the ways of Hámon, but you had better hope the nobles support me. Otherwise, I will simply find new nobles.”