Dragon Sword: Demon's Fire Book 1

by Christopher Patterson

  Of the twenty people who decided to follow Erik and his companions, most were single men or women, former travelers hoping their families were still waiting for them back home or desiring to simply leave a place that held so many horrible memories. Only four of the travelers were a family—a father and his three daughters—and of all of the people, they seemed the hardiest, the girls going out and hunting rabbits and even a white-haired fox one time, but they always had the snow cat’s protection.

  Erik thought they would soon lose one of the men that traveled with them. He had come down with a fever, and the biting cold didn’t help, but he got better after a few days, and the group remained intact.

  The old man whom they followed—Dego Valens from as far away as Finlo— had been making regular journeys up the Giant’s Vein from Finlo and Crom for many years before his capture, and he insisted the lands north of the Gray Mountains were always cold. But never this cold. The one beautiful thing Erik found about this icy place was the sky at night. Lights—Turk said they were reflections from the sun as its light passed through the world’s atmosphere—danced through the sky, and the stars seemed so close.

  “How much longer?” Bryon asked one night.

  “We’ve only been traveling a fortnight,” Dego said, lifting his hand to the sky and looking at the stars with one, squinted eye.

  For a moment, Dego reminded Erik of Vander Bim, his old sailor friend who had originally hired him and his brother and cousin on as porters. He was a good man, even though he liked his homemade apple rum a little too much, and Erik felt a knot in his stomach as he thought of him. He deserved better, certainly better than a knife in the back in a dwarvish alleyway.

  “But I would say we have no more than another week,” Dego added.

  “Thank the Creator,” Bryon said.

  “That is until we reach the road leading to Green Tree,” Dego added. “From there, I would say another fortnight, maybe more, before we reach Eldmanor.”

  Bryon groaned.

  “Will you dwarves be leaving us at Green Tree?” Dego asked Turk as the dwarf stared up at the sky.

  “No,” Turk replied. “We travel with Erik. Where he goes, we go.”

  “Truly?” Dego asked. “What does a man have to do to earn such loyalty from dwarves?”

  “Be extraordinary,” Turk said.

  Erik pretended he wasn’t listening to their conversation, but he couldn’t help smiling.

  “What’s wrong?” Erik said, kneeling next to the snow cat after he heard a low growl rumble through the cat’s throat. She crouched on her haunches, the hair on her back straight and her ears flat against her head.

  “Careful, Erik,” Turk said, but Erik knew the growl wasn’t aimed at him.

  The snow cat stared out at the plain behind them. Erik couldn’t see anything but a wide, flat, icy expanse, but something had spooked his companion. It couldn’t have been food. Over the last two weeks, the thin, almost emaciated cat had found plenty of animals to hunt, and she was now developing, thick with muscle and much needed fat to fight the cold of the northern region. At first, she would pounce at anything she could, from the small, white-haired field mice that somehow made their homes in little holes in the ice, to the occasional, white-tailed deer, but now, she was picky about her food. No, something was out there, even if Erik couldn’t see it.

  They had found the road leading to Green Tree, lined with flat flagstone and marked with a tall, man-made pole every league or so.

  “Come on,” Erik said, standing and tugging gently on the snow cat’s fur.

  She didn’t respond. She continued to stare out at the wide plains and growl.

  “Come on,” Erik insisted, pulling on the fur at the scruff of her neck a little harder.

  The snow cat wheeled on Erik, growling, and he thought that, perhaps, he had gone too far. She was, after all, still a wild animal. But she quickly began to purr, licking Erik’s hand and rubbing her massive body up against his leg, almost knocking him over.

  “What has gotten into you?” Erik asked.

  “She is a wild creature of these northern lands, Erik,” Turk said. “Do not be surprised if we wake one day soon, and she is gone.”

  “I know,” Erik replied, his heart sinking just a little, “but I would be lying if I said a little part of me didn’t wish she would travel with us the whole way home.”

  “She would be a formidable ally,” Bofim added.

  They camped alongside the road that night, and when they woke in the morning, the snow cat was gone.

  Be well, my friend. I pray the Creator protects you and makes your hunts bountiful.

  57

  Specter’s magic to render himself undetectable worked on men and the like, but animals always seemed to have a different sense. He had drained dogs and cats, cougars and wolves, bears, birds, reptilian predators of the swamp, and sharks even, in an attempt to learn or absorb their almost magical ability to sense his presence when no one else could. On a number of occasions, a barking dog or chirping bird had alerted a target and made his assassinations more trouble than they needed to be. It was about to happen again.

  He had been watched as this Erik and his dwarvish companions and these twenty some odd fools camped along a road with which he wasn’t too familiar. It was dark, and their campfire was small because of the lack of wood. Without alerting anyone, he materialized several dozen paces away and checked all was still quiet. He became ethereal again, but when he materialized a second time, his view of the camp was blocked by the huge mass that descended on him.

  The snow cat pushed Specter to the ground, its foreclaws digging into the flesh on his shoulders. It had been a long time since anyone, or anything, had caused him pain and made him bleed, and he had forgotten the sensation. As a fang-filled jaw snapped at his face and claws dug deeper, pain coursed through his body, he became smoke, floating away from the cat and the party of men and dwarves. Only the giant animal pursued.

  Specter materialized a hundred paces away, only to find the cat chasing after him. He became smoke and floated another hundred paces away. The cat was still there, hissing and growling and running faster than even a large cat should run. In fact, it reminded him of the lean, spotted great cats of the plains of Wüsten Sahil that could chase down anything, they were so fast.

  “Fine,” Specter huffed, “have it your way.”

  Specter produced the Bone Spear. It seemed a pity to kill such a magnificent creature, but he had a job to do. While the Isutan assassin circled with the snow cat, both eyeing one another suspiciously, wondering who was going to strike first, he had another thought: why was this creature attacking him? It was a wild cat and, yet, it was almost as if it was protecting this Erik Eleodum, like some trained dog.

  You’re better than that.

  The cat growled as if it could read his thoughts, and its ears flattened even more before it lunged at Specter. He could feel its strength and power as its claws barely missed his face, digging again into his already hurt shoulders. The attack was so swift, he barely had time to get his head out of the way, but as soon as the cat hit the ground, he jabbed at it with his poisoned blade. It spun on Specter and swiped at his legs, first with one front paw and then with the other. He had never seen a creature of its size move so quickly.

  Before he could gather himself, it leaped again. Specter summersaulted backward, coming to a crouched position with his spear ready, but the cat snapped at his ankle with his fangs. Again, it was too quick, and it bit into his flesh. Specter screamed and jabbed at the cat’s shoulder with his spear, but the animal jerked away. It leaped yet again, and this time, Specter became smoke. He swirled around the cat as it passed through him, and he materialized behind the cat, the bone blade of his spear cutting the cat’s flank, and blood soon stained its otherwise white coat. The animal turned and hissed, its eyes so full of anger they looked like fire.

  Specter’s poison worked quickly … at least, it should have. The great cat stumbled as it t
ook a step forward and looked confused for a moment, but then it hissed again as it regained its composure. It crouched.

  “By the Shadow,” Specter muttered, drawing his bone bladed knife, which he held in his other hand.

  The snow cat came again. Specter missed with the blade of his spear but struck the animal in the ribs with the shaft. It knocked the cat to the side but did little more than to anger it some more. It lunged, and its claws ripped the leather of the armor that protected the Isutan’s legs, and he felt blood trickle down his knee. He had tried becoming smoke and sneaking behind the animal, but it always knew where he would be and didn’t bother leaping anymore.

  Specter looked in the direction of the small campfire. Erik was there, his quarry, and this encounter was sapping his energy and time. The cat gave a low growl as Specter looked in the Dragon Slayer’s direction and jumped in front of the assassin.

  “Oh,” Specter said with a smile, “you truly are protecting him, aren’t you? That will be to your undoing.”

  Specter began to turn ethereal. It was taking a lot of his energy, but he had a plan. The cat crouched and turned, thinking the man would materialize behind it, but Specter stayed where he was, becoming whole again as the cat looked the other way. He jammed the blade of his spear into the cat’s ribs and it yowled and spat. Hissing, it leaped, taking Specter by surprise as he thought, surely, the cat would have succumbed to his second successful attack. It landed squarely on his chest and shoulders, claws digging into his flesh again. He flung his face away from the snapping teeth and he raked his dagger across the animal’s chest and ribs.

  The snow cat jumped off Specter, now clearly hurt as it wobbled, staring at the assassin. But Specter was hurt too. He had used much of his energy fighting this animal of the north, and blood poured over tattered leather armor. He looked over his shoulder, at the campfire, and the cat hissed. He would have to heal his wounds and find blood to replenish lost energy.

  “Perhaps another time,” Specter said, nodding at the cat, still surprised and wondering how the animal wasn’t dead yet.

  In his current state, he was still confident that he could kill this Erik, but to attempt it when he was surrounded by several dwarves and twenty other men? That would be folly, and he was all about self-preservation. Specter became smoke and floated away, and as he did, he watched the snow cat limp off into the cold darkness of the northern reaches of the world. They would both retreat to fight another day.

  58

  Green Tree was a small town of some two hundred citizens as well as a trading post, complete with its own guards, comprised of some men and dwarves as well as several resident ogre families. A supply depot was run by a pair of goblin brothers, and alongside a few stores, a longhouse had been converted into an alehouse and brothel. Tucked away in the forests of the Gray Mountains, but just off the main road leading from the icy northern tundra, it was a place of ingenuity and adaptation. The trees were so plentiful and thick in these parts of the mountains that the people of Green Tree used them however they could. Some people had built their homes around a tall gray-barked or red-barked pine, while others simply built their homes in the trees, and as Erik looked up, he saw a network of bridges and ladders leading from one tree house to another.

  “Where’s the damn brothel?” Bryon asked, pushing past Erik.

  “We’ve almost died, once again, this time at the hands of a mad wizard before we lifted a hundred-year-old curse, and all you can think about is sticking some whore?” Erik asked.

  Bryon turned hard on his heels, glaring at Erik, and it had been a long time since his cousin had given him that angry, steeled look.

  “Yeah, it is,” Bryon said. “You have Simone to go back to. Your own little family. Your farm. I just want to feel needed just for a short while.”

  Before Erik could say anything else, Bryon turned back around and walked away, towards the brothel. Erik just shook his head.

  “What’s wrong?” Turk asked.

  “My cousin is a fool,” Erik replied.

  “We all are from time to time,” Turk said.

  They hadn’t been in Green Tree more than an hour before the place buzzed with gossip and talk of the curse of Fealmynster being lifted. As Erik and his dwarvish friends sat in the alehouse, eating breakfast and drinking spiced wine, they could hear snatches of several different conversations as the townsfolk sneaked glances in their directions.

  “Elk’s piss,” one man said.

  “No, it’s true,” another replied. “We have men and women from Fealmynster in the town right now.”

  “It’s true,” Erik said, not taking his eyes off his plate of bacon and eggs.

  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” another naysayer said.

  “You should establish trade with Mayisha Maythia—that’s the town’s new name—it would be good for you and them. They’ll have furs and possibly black rock and firestone.”

  “How would you know this?” the naysayer asked.

  “Because we are the ones who lifted the curse and killed the wizard, Sustenon,” Erik replied, looking at the man and smiling.

  A murmur of awe spread through the alehouse, and soon, Erik found his breakfast and drinks paid for.

  “Please tell me you didn’t do that for free food and drink,” Nafer said, his face flat and disapproving.

  “No,” Erik replied with a short smile. “I did it for the looks on their faces.”

  “Our travel home should be as unassuming as possible, Erik,” Nafer said.

  “Too late for that,” Bofim added, pointing to a group of people huddled together and just staring at them.

  They returned to their food, and Erik eventually looked up and saw Turk staring at him.

  “Erik, are you alright?” Turk asked. “You have a troubled expression on your face.”

  “I don’t know,” Erik said and, then, shaking his head added, “No.”

  “You can tell us,” Turk said.

  “I haven’t dreamt in days,” Erik replied, and even though his friends knew he had fevered dreams almost every night, they didn’t know he now welcomed his dreams. He thought he might see Beldar, one last time, in his dreams and have a chance to thank him for his sacrifice. He relished the time he spent under his tree with the man he knew but didn’t know. “I can’t stop thinking about Beldar.”

  “There’s more,” Nafer said. “I can tell.”

  Erik smiled. His friends knew him too well.

  “True,” he replied. “I worry about my family. What will happen now I have disobeyed the Lord of the East?” Erik rubbed the scabbard of Dragon Tooth, resting his hand on the pommel of the golden handle. “And then there’s …”

  “What, Erik?” Bofim asked when Erik didn’t finish.

  Erik just shook his head. They wouldn’t understand. His dagger. Its presence. Its voice. The elf in his dagger, now the Dragon Tooth, was gone. They certainly didn’t speak regularly, only when necessary, yet Erik always felt its presence. It was comforting, coveted even. He remembered speaking with Ilken Copper Head when he confessed to the blacksmith about the weapon’s conscience. The dwarf had warned him to be careful. He had said that others, in the past, had become addicted to their weapons, forgoing daily duties, friends and family to simply converse with their sentient weapon. Was that it? Had he become addicted to his dagger’s presence?

  Erik shook his head again. No. It was a friend, as close a friend as the dwarves and his cousin. And like so many of his other friends, it … he had given his life for Erik.

  “Nothing really,” Erik finally said. “I just want to get home.”

  When he’d finished eating, Erik said he wanted to go for a walk, and the others knew he wanted to be alone. He wandered the streets, stopping here and there, and he bought a thick, leather coat lined with bear fur. Eventually, he found himself standing next to an ogre’s cart, full of fine and exotic cloths and leathers, along with a few other intricacies like gold flatware. The ogre was a massive creature, al
most twice as tall as Erik with broad shoulders and a thick jaw and arms and legs knotted with thick muscle. The ogre’s hair was gray and long, although his bald face showed youth.

  “Would you like something?” the ogre asked, his voice deep and slow.

  Erik would have suspected the ogre of being stupid, his speech so slow, but through stories and tales of the creatures, he knew better.

  “No, thank you,” Erik replied. “Just people watching.”

  The ogre nodded slowly as a man handed him several coins and retrieved a belt from several hooks drilled into one of the cart’s tall poles.

  “People are interesting, aren’t they?” the ogre said, and Erik was a little surprised the ogre could speak Westernese that well. And, as if the ogre knew what Erik was thinking, he added, “We ogres must know many languages in order to sell our wares everywhere we do.”

  “Makes sense,” Erik replied.

  “You seem troubled,” the ogre said, handing a woman some fabric she had apparently paid for earlier in the day.

  “No,” Erik said with a shake of his head, and the ogre stared at him with dull, gray eyes that seemed to bore into him.

  “You do not lie well,” the ogre said, turning slightly towards Erik.

  “I’m not …” Erik began to say, but the ogre pursed its lips and squinted its eyes. “I miss several friends.”

  “To lay down a life for a friend,” the ogre said in his slow, methodical way, “is the greatest sacrifice … the greatest gift.”

  How did he?

  Erik cut the thought off. Perhaps this ogre had heard of his exploits in Golgolithul, and the many who had sacrificed their lives fighting a dragon?

  “I am worried about going home,” Erik added.