Dragon Sword: Demon's Fire Book 1

by Christopher Patterson

  Eventually, Erik stared at a dozen men, faces drawn and gaunt, and eyes blank and black. Another blue ball appeared above the keep, and when it flashed, the spearmen stopped and stood at attention.

  “You have failed me!” said a voice in Westernese that reverberated through the valley. It was an angry voice, deep and malicious. It reminded Erik of the Lord of the East.

  The robed man threw his hands to the sky and streams of lightning erupted from the ball of light, enough to strike each of the possessed spearmen. They shook and convulsed, their faces still and emotionless, until they fell to the ground, bodies smoking and dead.

  “You as well!” the voice shouted, causing the ground to shake.

  Another bolt of lightning struck the giant leader, still standing up on the ledge. The giant’s hair caught fire, followed by his beard until his while head was a ball of flame. He screamed as he shook, not the deep roar that the giants normally emitted, but a frightened, dying scream. The giant slumped forward and slid down the valley slope. The other giants ran.

  The black keep glowed a faint blue before turning green, then yellow, then blue again. It hummed as the colors pulsed, dimming and brightening as if with a heartbeat. The light began to travel up and down the keep, from the top to the bottom and then to the top again. The ground shook, and Erik lost his footing, going to one knee. What rubble and dirt and snow that was on the ground began to levitate, floating chest high. It all gathered to the keep and all sound disappeared. It reminded Erik of the dragon, just before she unleashed her fiery breath. He knew an attack was coming, a powerful attack.

  Erik cried out in surprise, but his voice might as well have been a whisper as he felt himself lift off the ground and float like a feather on the wind. The same happened to his companions and Bu and his remaining man. There was a crack of thunder as the ground lifted and visibly rolled towards Erik. Everything went dark before an explosion emitted the brightest of lights that burned his eyes as debris was sent everywhere. The force struck Erik like a battering ram and he, his friends, and Bu and his men flew backward. Purple lightning began to strike the ground, causing instant fires, and as cries of pain filled the air, Erik hit the ground, and everything went black.

  Specter knew he should have felt cold. The wind howled, snow seemed to fall horizontally, and the ground was hard with ice. He could see minor tufts of grass in places, and in others, he knew he was walking over frozen water, but he was warm, his skin almost hot to the touch as new life, new power coursed through his veins like lava from a volcano. He was untouchable.

  The blizzard meant he could only see clearly a few paces in front of him, but as he squinted through the white world around him, he could see red specks in the distance as his magical vision picked up on the heat living bodies emanated. He had found one body, its heat slowly dissipating, mauled and opened, half-eaten by some creature. In the distance, moving towards the mountains, he saw something shaped like a bear. Ahead, where the huge black structure dominated the skyline, he saw larger figures, probably more giants, and the smaller shapes of men and dwarfs. He followed.

  As the day waned, and dusk gave way to the night, Specter felt the unmistakable zing of magic, mighty, powerful magic, as it disturbed the air all around. Again, on the horizon, he saw it, flashes of blue and purple and white. Then, in one blinding moment, the intensity grew and grew into a magical explosion that shook the ground and rushed through the air at incredible speed. For a moment, until his own magic righted himself, it tossed Specter around like a fallen leaf. As he regained his footing, he nodded his head in acknowledgment of the awe he felt for such power.

  “Fealmynster,” he muttered.

  47

  Erik surveyed the valley where the battle took place. Dead littered the field. The buildings were nothing but dust. All that stood there was Erik and the black keep, looming over him.

  He saw his companions. The others who fought with them and yet, opposed them. Bu was dead. So were the old, grizzled soldier, and the Hámonian knight. Bofim and Beldar were crumpled together, the shafts of their spears shattered as if they were made from kindling wood. Nafer lay face down, but Erik couldn’t see his back moving with breath. Turk’s head rested on Bryon’s chest as if he had crawled to his cousin, but he too was still.

  Erik walked to Turk and his cousin, and his hands shook, his nerves getting the better of him. The dwarf didn’t move. Bryon didn’t move. Erik rubbed his face angrily as if he could scrub away what he saw.

  “Wake up,” he told himself.

  He crouched next to Turk, placing two fingers to the side of the dwarf’s neck. He felt no pulse. Something caught in his throat as his stomach churned. He looked at his cousin. Bryon was looking away, and when Erik leaned over him, Bryon’s eyes were open. His chest wasn’t moving. Erik reached to him, but then drew his hand back quickly as if the body would burn. He wanted to check his pulse, make sure, but he couldn’t.

  “Wake up, damn you,” he said again.

  He felt tears collecting at the corners of his eyes.

  “Not again,” Erik muttered. “No … no … no …”

  He closed his eyes, sitting back on his heels and rubbing his temples with his thumb and forefinger. He opened his eyes. They were still there.

  “No!” he screamed, his head flung back.

  He stood, his fists clenching so hard his fingernails dug into his palms, drawing blood. He didn’t know what to do. He paced back and forth, breathing quickly, clenching his teeth so hard, his jaws hurt. He rubbed his hands through his hair.

  “It’s just a dream,” Erik said. “Wake up. Wake up. Wake up!”

  But where were the dead? Where was Sorben Phurnan? Where was the laughing and the scuttling and the smell of decay? Where were the mysterious cloaked figure and the shadow that had been in his dreams recently? Someone would pay for this. Pay with their life.

  I need my sword.

  He couldn’t find Ilken’s Blade, but his golden handled dagger was still on his hip. His dagger was never in his dreams. It couldn’t be a dream.

  Why won’t you talk to me?

  Nothing. Silence. Emptiness. Death.

  What will happen if I use you?

  Erik put his hand on the handle, drawing the blade halfway before he stopped. The dagger explicitly told him not to use it. It would be to the destruction of both of them.

  “Use it,” a voice said. “Find out.”

  Erik turned to see a man standing in front of the keep. A cowl covered most of his face, although Erik could see the outline of a chin. As he walked, the black robe lined with silver thread that covered his body dragged along the ground.

  “Who are you?” Erik asked.

  “Your dagger is powerful,” the robed man said. “Use it. Bring your friends back to life. Destroy the keep. Kill Sustenon the Damned.”

  “Can it do that?” Erik asked. “Can it bring a man back to life?”

  “You have seen its power,” the robed man said, stopping only a few paces from Erik. “Do you know what that dagger is? Do you truly know what it can do?”

  Erik didn’t say anything. He heard a distant roar, the flapping of wings, and the rushing of hurricane-like winds. With a great crash, the dragon—his dragon—landed atop the keep, turned her head to the sky, and belched a column of fire that drowned out the twinkling of the stars.

  She looked down at him.

  Pathetic.

  He growled as her voice rang inside his head.

  “You saw what it did to her,” the robed man said. “It can do it again.”

  Erik drew the dagger.

  “Listen to your heart, Dream Walker,” another voice said. This one croaked with age and sounded familiar.

  He looked around and saw no one else. Turning back, he saw the robed man pull his hood back, revealing a young face, one not much older than Erik, with long, wavy brown hair and big, brown eyes. His face was smooth and didn’t look like he could grow any form of beard.

  “Do it,” the r
obed man said. His voice turned hard and angry. “Kill the dragon.”

  You can try.

  Her voice was deep and menacing and condescending.

  “Listen to your heart, Dream Walker,” the old man’s voice said, and Erik knew who it was.

  Go away old man. You sent us on the wrong path. You sent me on a road of destruction.

  “I sent you on the road you needed to take, Dream Walker.”

  “Kill her,” the robed man said, the volume of his voice elevating. “Ignore that old man and kill the dragon.”

  She spat another column of fire again. Erik could feel the heat, the devastating intensity of her breath.

  “Kill her,” the robed man said again, this time his voice harder and deeper.

  Dream Walker.

  Erik looked about, confused. His heart raced. He looked up to the dragon, and he could hear her laughing. He looked at the robed man. He looked to his dead friends. He breathed faster and faster and faster and …

  48

  Erik opened his eyes. He thought at first he was floating, then realized he was being carried. He watched the ceiling pass by, a solid piece of black stone. He tried moving his arms, but they were stuck to his sides. He looked down. There were no chains, no rope, no bindings of any sort. He looked to his left and right. Black walls with torches at regular intervals. He was on a litter carried by four men, their faces pale green, their eyes soulless pools of black. The possessed. The ghost men.

  “Where are you taking me?” Erik asked. He struggled to move his arms and legs, but still couldn’t.

  The ghost men wouldn’t look at him. It was as if they weren’t even aware he was there. When he tried to raise his head, a green hand pushed him back down. The man whose hand it was didn’t look at him when he pushed him back, but he was far stronger than he looked. There was the hint of magic in his touch.

  It seemed like they had been walking for hours, and they finally stopped and set Erik down on the ground. He still couldn’t move.

  “Erik Eleodum,” said a familiar voice, the one Erik heard outside the keep.

  Erik felt himself lift—he was floating this time—then his feet turned to the ground, and he stood, his arms and legs still immobile. The man wearing the silver and black robe stood in front of him. He looked young, barely ten summers older than Erik. Clearly, this wasn’t a wizard who was a hundred years old. Then again, how old was Andragos?

  The man smiled. It was a kind smile. The way his wavy, brown hair silhouetted his face made him look almost ethereal, angelic even. His skin looked soft, almost like a young girl’s and seemed to glow, his jawline more round than sharp. And his brown eyes were large and wide and welcoming.

  The man stepped to Erik, unfolding his hands underneath the sleeves of his robe, now palms up.

  “Where are my friends?”

  “You know where they are,” the man said. “You saw them.”

  “It was a dream.”

  The man shook his head, stepping closer.

  “No. It was no dream, Erik Eleodum,” the man said. “Your friends are gone.”

  Erik’s stomach twisted. His chest hurt. His breathing became sporadic, and he tried to hold back his tears, but he felt them escape and roll down his cheek into his beard.

  “No,” Erik muttered.

  “Yes,” the man whispered. He stood right in front of Erik. His eyes inspected him. “I’m afraid so.”

  Erik looked away and swallowed hard. He would be sad some other time. He would grieve later. He remembered when he wanted to find Ilken’s blade and gathered himself, steeled himself, and looked back at the man.

  “You killed my friends,” Erik said. “That was a mistake.”

  The man clapped his hands and laughed, revealing perfectly straight and brilliant white teeth. This man was not real. He was an image created by magic.

  “You personally killed many of my men,” the man said. His smile was gone, and where he appeared pleasant and welcoming, he now looked menacing. He lifted a hand, forefinger extended threatingly. “That was the mistake.”

  “You killed them,” Erik retorted. “You could have killed us from the very beginning. Why didn’t you?”

  The man shrugged and dropped his hand as if his anger was a pretence.

  “I wanted to watch you,” he said. “See what you could do.”

  “You’re the wizard of Fealmynster,” Erik accused.

  “Sustenon, at your service,” the man said, extending a hand. Erik still couldn’t move. “Oh, my apologies.”

  Erik’s right hand lifted without him wanting it to, and Sustenon took it and shook it. The skin felt cold, like the flesh of a dead animal, handled before it is cooked. Erik’s arm moved back down and was stuck back next to his body.

  “Yes, I am Sustenon of Fealmynster,” he said. “Some call me Sustenon the Damned, but I don’t feel damned. I feel great.”

  Sustenon twirled around, arms lifted up like one of his sisters showing off a new dress. There was something effeminate about the man, but Erik knew he was powerful and his demeanor false.

  As Sustenon did his display of vitality, Erik finally looked around the room. It was circular, and like the halls, torches were placed at regular intervals on the wall, which was also made of black stone. A round, single-stepped dais stood in the center of the room. An altar, a singular, square piece of white marble stood in the middle of the dais, a blue light emanated from the top and extended upward to the ceiling, which must have been twenty paces tall.

  “Your men are possessed,” Erik said.

  “Only because they want to be,” Sustenon said, standing still again.

  “You killed them,” Erik added.

  Sustenon’s smile was gone again. He straightened both his arms next to his body, clenching his fists. He looked very different, and his youthful appearance could not mask the true person beneath the façade.

  “Failure!” Sustenon shouted, his voice a deafening roar shaking the room and cracking the floor under Erik’s feet.

  As quickly as the anger arose, Sustenon relaxed again and noticed the damage to the floor. He tutted, and he snapped a finger. The cracks were gone.

  “I don’t like failure,” Sustenon said, but it was as if he said he didn’t like a particular color.

  Erik said nothing.

  “You failed, didn’t you,” Sustenon went on, smile still on his face. He leaned in close to Erik. “You failed your mission, didn’t you?”

  “What I did …” Erik began, but Sustenon held up a finger and shook his head with a muttered, “Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

  “You shouldn’t interupt,” Sustenon said. “It’s not polite. The Lord of the East is not as powerful as he thinks. But you failed him, didn’t you?”

  Erik looked away, looked at his feet. He didn’t care about failing the Lord of the East. That was the least of his worries

  “You failed King Skella, too,” Sustenon said. “He trusted you, didn’t he? He let you give the Lord of the East the Dragon Scroll because he believed in you. He thought you could save his people … maybe even the world.”

  “He knew the risks,” Erik said, tilting his head back and looking at Sustenon, trying not to reveal the immediate pangs of regret.

  “Yes, he did,” Sustenon replied. He folded his hands behind his back and smiled, took in a deep breath, and sighed slowly. “But did Befel? Did your brother truly know what dangers lay before him when he left home? And when you went with him … well, you just saw it as confirmation that he was doing what was right. You failed your brother.”

  Sustenon leaned forward, hanging on the final word before he shrugged and turned around, facing the altar at the center of the room.

  “But, of course, it wasn’t just him you failed,” Sustenon continued. “You failed Drake and Vander Bim, Mortin, Threhof, Thormok and Demik. All dead ... because of you.”

  Sustenon turned back around.

  “So you see, my dear Erik Eleodum, I know more than you think,” Sustenon said.
“I know that you’ve now failed your cousin and your friends. All so willing to give their lives for you. And you let them, didn’t you? They pledged themselves to you. You were their leader, Erik, and you returned their loyalty by leading them where?”

  Sustenon shrugged his shoulders again, closed his eyes, and shook his head, a look of disappointment spreading across his face.

  “To … their … deaths,” Sustenon added. “And let’s not forget your parents. All they ever wanted was a son who would love and obey them. Have you done that, with your adventures, letting your brother die, ignoring your duties on your father’s farm?”

  Sustenon waited as if expecting a reply.

  “Did you, Erik?”

  Erik did want to, but he slowly shook his head.

  “No,” he said, his voice a whisper.

  Sustenon then unfolded his hands and steepled his fingers in front of his face, pressing his index fingers against pursed lips. He breathed deliberately, thinking, contemplating. He dropped his hands.

  “Simone.”

  Erik looked up at the mention of his wife’s name.

  “Now there’s the biggest failure of them all,” Sustenon said. “You left her. She could have had a life, a family, and you left. And because she is a loyal and good person, what did she do, Erik? She waited for you.”

  Sustenon turned and started walking the circumference of the room.

  “She is the most beautiful woman in the free farms of Hathgolthane, and she waited ... for you.”

  Sustenon was on the other side of the altar. He looked at Erik, the blue light casting odd shadows across his face, and pointed at him as he spoke.

  “She waited, and you show up, asking her to marry you, and, of course, she accepts, thinking this man who she had been loyal to would return the favor. But were you? Are you?”