by TJ Reynolds
He bore no shield, but put his full trust in the destructive potential of a double-handed swing of his great hammer. The dragon swept forward with a talon-tipped paw; its attack was so quick, it nearly ended the fight before it had begun. But Drystan slid forward on his knees, the back of his helmet nearly touching the ground, and felt the wind of the attack pass through the space above him.
Snapping his torso back upright, he used the momentum to smash the beast’s overextended wrist in a fierce counterattack. The sound of bones cracking echoed in the chamber.
Pulling back his swing, Drystan activated Meteor Blow, and the broad head of his hammer glowed an angry red before slamming forward again in a blur. When it landed on the dragon’s shoulder, Drystan could feel the reverberating impact ripple through his arms.
The dragon roared in pain, and clutched its shattered limb to its chest. Blood poured from its elbow where a shard of bone jutted through the skin, splintered by the terrible attack.
It turned, as if to retreat, before spinning around to slam its tail to the ground, hoping to take Drystan off guard. But although this was his first fight with a real dragon, that didn’t mean he wasn’t trained for it.
Timing, he knew, was everything.
He rolled under the thrashing appendage and chopped viciously at the base of the tail with another counter. This time he used Anvil’s Edge, and his hammer sheared off five feet of arm-thick and armored dragon tail.
Another agonized roar reverberated through the chamber. Drystan never felt more alive than in the thick of combat, and his blood thrummed with power. This was what he lived for, and he knew, this was what he’d most likely die for as well.
“Come, dragon!” he mocked. “Have you no fire? No spells to call upon? Or should I crack open the side of your head and end this farce?”
The dragon wasn’t ready to admit defeat, not yet at least. Drystan could see that well enough. He prepared to dart in close, ducking under or leaping over the next attack, and then, when the dragon tried to bite him, he’d land his hammer on the smooth, bone plating at its temple. A Meteor Blow there and it would be over.
Too easy, he thought.
Ending the contest so soon felt like blasphemy.
So instead, Drystan stalked the cowering beast, hoping to draw the fight out a few moments more.
Then the dragon let its jaw hang slack.
Its throat began to glow.
Nodes of ether-blue light lit up at the base of its neck and climbed up its neck to fill the back of its throat. It was using a spell at last. Men used skills, like Meteor Blow, but dragons had spells: a more potent defense.
He waited, knowing again that timing would save him. And what glory to witness a dragon’s spell craft and live to see the day.
A beam of brilliant blue energy exploded from the beast’s maw. Drystan leapt into a roll, avoiding the thick column of powerful ether.
“Down, Drystan!” Sandrey shouted from behind, and the chamber shook with the power of the creature’s elemental attack. A boom, so loud it left his ears ringing, erupted behind him, and chips of stone from the back wall skittered across the floor.
He turned to call his friend off, to demand to fight the beast alone.
But when he saw what had become of his friend, he nearly collapsed.
Chunks of Sandrey’s body lay scattered across the ground. Struck by the beam, he had frozen solid, and then his torso shattered, splintering into a thousand pieces. His great sword, helm, and part of his breastplate were all that remained of Drystan’s brother-in-arms.
It was Drystan’s turn to let out an agonized cry.
Distantly, he heard the dragon preparing another spell. This time, the beast seemed to shimmer with a pale-green light, and even as Drystan looked on, its claws extended, becoming thin and sharp as curved rapiers.
Ignoring the dragon’s obvious power, he ran toward it headlong.
Just as he’d thought it would, the beast struck at him with its good paw. Drystan dove over the flashing talons and rolled back to his feet. He dodged a vicious bite, then pounded his hammer into the side of its skull.
The cry of disorientation and pain that came from the creature fueled his following attacks.
Trying to steady itself, the dragon splayed out its forelegs, its head hovering just before Drystan. Again, it activated its icy breath, the blue nodes lighting alone the length of its neck.
The Destroyer didn’t wait long enough for the spell to be completed. He swung up into the dragon’s lower jaw. His hammer connected, cracking the bone to pieces. Spinning sideways, Drystan dodged a desperate attack and crushed the offending paw.
A heart-rending cry of anguish rang through the dungeon. Drystan ran up the broken limb and jumped into the air. In an overhead strike, the man triggered his most powerful skill, Fist of Yugos. His hammer burned with the fire of a coal-heated forge, and when it landed, a ring of crimson force broke outward in all directions, crushing the knobby plate of the dragon’s forehead.
Fragments of brain and bone painted the nearby wall.
The dragon’s long body went slack and slumped to the stone. Drystan hammered at its head over and over until what remained was little more than a puddle of vermillion sludge.
His breath came in sharp gasps and his whole body shook. He was in such a state, he barely noticed the outpouring of ether that emerged from the dragon’s core and surged into him. He only stood, panting, feeling a deep and terrible cold settle within.
After long moments staring at nothing, he remembered the shivving Earth Core.
His friend—the only bloody man in the whole unit that could stand his company—lay dead, because of his arrogance. It was all his fault. Sandrey’s blood was on his hands. He had a job to do, though.
A task both simple and sweet.
Behind the slumped figure of the dragon, he spotted a glowing alcove tucked into the wall. There he found the gleaming Earth Core, ether-blue and pulsing helplessly.
Drystan didn’t use a skill this time, just brought down his hammer in an overhand blow that smashed it squarely. The sound the Earth Core made when it split into pieces resembled both the cracking of an egg and the shattering of a thick pane of glass. It sickened him, but at the same time, granted him an immense degree of satisfaction.
“There! Happy now, you blasted dungeon?” he screamed. “Happy now?”
His rage still writhed inside his body, and he had no outlet for it. Drystan threw down his hammer and smashed his fist into the shards of the core like he was pounding a drum.
His bloodied fists smashed down again and again. As he struck an eighth and final time, Drystan let his hand fall flat, open wide and vulnerable, onto the remnants of the shards. A tiny sliver of the core wove through a gap in his steel gauntlet and buried itself in his palm.
A thread of ice lanced through his body as he felt the sliver pierce muscle and bone.
He cried out in pain and tore his hand free of his gauntlet to inspect the wound. For a moment, a blue light pulsed from the bloody gash in the base of his palm. Then it winked out, and he knew, somehow, that it had been absorbed. A tiny portion of this Earth Core was a part of him now.
And no matter what he did, it would always be there to remind him of his sins.
1
Our Man in Mindonne
Kai
Mindonne was like any other town in Brintosh, filled with quaint and modest people as loyal as they were ignorant of the world around them. Were it not for its proximity to the border of Hintar, an old and bitter rival, it may have remained so.
The seventh bell rang as Kai came back from hunting. He’d spent the day in the Atoli forest to the north, a safe, bright place to go, if one was set on the foolhardy task of becoming a hero. It was the only occupation Kai could ever imagine, and though he lacked the skill and constitution for such endeavors, he continued to try.
Today’s work, or rather the lack of it, had been frustrating, to say the least. He’d set out to hunt the
gray hares that lived among the pine and maples, but only happened upon a few squirrels. Not the bushy-tailed red squirrels that were much preferred for their pelts, but scrawny black squirrels that always, somehow, looked to be a single rotten acorn from death’s door.
He gathered them from the simple but effective snares he’d set the day before. There was no need to be wasteful. Even though the creatures gave next to no ether when killed—a clean knock on the head with his cudgel was all it took—he was grateful for every little bit.
Then he’d skinned them and wasted several more hours searching for gray hares. He’d had no luck; the woods were empty. The squirrel population had been severely diminished, mostly due to his own efforts, and larger game rarely came so close to town.
At least it’s beautiful, he thought to himself, as he trod the endless tracks of hunters' trails.
Back in town, his first stop was to submit his few squirrel hides to the scrutiny of Yelda, the tanner’s wife. The woman was of middling age, and, if seen from a distance, almost looked kindly and approachable. When haggling though, the Hintari tradeswoman was sharper than the javelins her people carried to war.
She saw Kai approaching and her eyes narrowed to slits. Somehow, he knew he would always disappoint this woman. “Hares for me today, Kai?” she asked, hand already on her hip.
Her disdain stung more than he wanted to admit.
Yelda was the only other person in town with Hintari blood, and he’d assumed, quite foolishly, that because they had that in common, she’d take a liking to him. Her face was as golden brown as the polished leather her husband produced, and if truth were told, Kai thought her beautiful.
Yet when she looked at him, her features drew into a scowl of incomparable potency.
He managed to respond without sarcasm, “Sorry, no, not today, ma’am, just some squirrel pelts.” Kai placed the three bedraggled skins on the table and cringed when Yelda practically boiled with frustration.
Finally, she snapped, “Did you flog the poor beasts before you killed them?” Kai bit his tongue, remembering the one he’d had to strike several times before it had ceased thrashing in the snare. “Shivving gods below, boy. I’ll give you 2 coppers is all.”
He winced, and held up a hand to complain.
She cackled, her teeth flashing yellow. “Three, then. If you haven’t noticed, you’ve killed near every squirrel in these damn woods, and few want their pelts any longer. Three, or nothing at all.”
And so Kai relented, watching another day’s labor swept disinterestedly into a sack. He picked up the three misshapen coppers she tossed his way and turned to see to his growing hunger.
The next merchant in town he needed to see was Winford, the town baker, a man as generous as Andag himself. It was with a smile and a grumbling gut that he walked through the streets. Yelda and those damned gray hares could go and choke on Yugos’ mighty spear for all he cared. It was time for food.
The bakery stood at the far end of market square, yet the miraculous yeasty smell of rising bread filled near half the town. Kai whistled an old tune he’d learned in childhood, ignoring the casual insults and scowls thrown his way.
This close to Hintar, war had taken a toll on Mindonne and its people. Nearly twenty years had passed since a shaky peace settled things down, but hatred and distrust remained. Anyone with even a drop of golden Hintari blood was treated like pond scum.
As he approached the square, Kai saw the two people he hated more than anything. Roarke and Karsen were young men with vinegar in their veins and heads harder than a winter turnip. They’d found him the other day practicing attacks with his cudgel at the edge of town. No hero can gain skill without practice, after all, but it had prompted the troublemakers to pester him.
Thankfully, a few too many townsfolk were around for things to get ugly, so they’d settled on the usual insults instead of giving him the drubbing they’d have preferred. He knew a confrontation was inevitable; he only wished to be well-fed when it happened.
Kai jogged around the back of the bakery and ducked behind a fence. He watched the two boys pass from a distance. “Shivving bastards. Give me another year and I will best you both,” he cursed.
“I’m sure they look like creeping slimes, but they’re barely men, Kai. Just like you,” Winford said from the back door.
Kai attempted to look casual, but it was obvious the baker knew what he was about. “I know. I just don’t want any trouble,” he explained. “Besides, I’m tired and hungry.”
Winford laughed easily and gestured for him to come inside. “I’m sure you are. Come and have your meal, Kai.”
Wanting to change the subject, Kai held up his prize. “I have three squirrels for the pot if you’ll have them. A bit scrawny,” he admitted, “but good enough to eat.”
Winford nodded agreeably. “Sure. Sure. My stew is already done, but I know just who’ll need these for tonight. Here.” The baker tossed him a brown bundle. “Figured these’ll help you on your next outing.”
Kai caught the burlap sack and thanked the man. Regardless of what had been inside it, Kai knew he probably needed it. After all, a handful of seeds to a poor farmer is as good as gold, they say, Kai thought, weighing the gift speculatively.
“Thank you, Winford. I appreciate the help.”
The baker approached, palming a skinny shoulder in his big hand, and peered into Kai’s eyes. “I know your heart is set on slaying wild beasts and ascending your core, but there are other ways of living. You could make a life here in Mindonne, become my apprentice. Hell, boy, you could have yourself a wife before harvest. I made my vows when I was seventeen, and you’re what, almost twenty?” The man chuckled. “Nothing like warm sheets to make you feel content.”
Kai stared down at his feet, shaking his head. “I can’t tell you how much that means to me, sir, but I could have had the same life at my uncle’s farm. I came here because it is close to the mountains and close to the swamp. I will win a wife when I have made a heap of gold and gathered enough stories to last a lifetime.”
Winford smiled and then clapped Kai on the back. Before the man left with the squirrels, though, he added one more piece of advice. “Kai, the thing with young men like Roarke and Karsen … find a way to earn their respect and they’ll not only accept you, but they might become friends. Give it a try, okay? I promise, they aren’t evil.”
Kai nodded and watched the man leave, then ducked into the kitchen, breathing in the rich scents of potato, herbs, and grease that perfumed the air. Though he’d always had plenty to eat on his uncle’s farm growing up, Kai hadn’t tasted proper cooking until Winford had given him a portion of his daughter’s stew.
Sorcha stood kneading dough for the next day’s bake. When she saw him enter, she pointed to the small table in the corner. “There’s yours. Be quick with it too. I’ve got lots to do and don’t need your creeping eyes about.”
Winford’s only child was not nearly as kind and warm as he was, yet Kai knew she had a good heart. If not, then surely her bread wouldn’t taste so good.
The young man sat and ate, barely allowing himself time between bites to breathe. The rich flavors of rosemary and red peppers danced upon his palate. He suppressed a moan, knowing his company wouldn’t at all approve of such vocalizations.
Each evening, he received a bowl of Sorcha’s stew and a roll of day-old bread in trade for whatever meat he brought or a few copper coins, whichever he had to spare.
Once, Kai had managed to bring in three fat hares and had gone to the butcher instead. He’d sold each coney for five coppers. But when he brought in smaller game, Winford would take it to one of the widows he looked after.
Kai stole a glance at Sorcha. The woman worked with the tenacity and vigor of one who’d repeated the same motions a thousand times. He noticed the hitch and sway of her bosom as it tested the limits of her blouse. By Briga’s sweet breath, and her hips! Stout enough to hold back the coming of winter itself.
Clearing his m
ind, Kai forced himself to view her in a way his aunt would’ve approved of. Her hands were callused and strong, and she had a fierce determination about her brow that would ensure she finished preparing for the next day’s bread a thousand times to come in the future as well.
Plain and simple, Sorcha toiled away harder than many professionals and Kai knew why her father was proud of her.
Sure enough though, Sorcha caught Kai in the middle of his appraising thoughts, and her eyes bulged in a flash of anger.
“Quit your creeping!” she snapped and Kai dutifully studied the wall, stifling a laugh.
She wasn’t much older than himself, perhaps twenty-one years old. It wasn’t simply that Sorcha’s face was pleasant, nor even the cream of her skin or the bounty of her magnificent chest that pulled his eyes in as surely as the clutches of a miremog. It was also how she snapped at him as she would any other man in Mindonne.
Unlike most of the other girls in town, Sorcha never pretended he didn’t exist.
Kai left the bowl on the small table and scooped the bread into the bag Winford had given him. When he looked inside, he saw four small apples, a bit discolored but shining up at him like rubies. Those would account for dessert, as well as breakfast and lunch on the morrow.
“Thanks, love. I’d be dead from hunger twice over if it wasn’t for your stew,” he said, dodging a well-aimed slap.
Sorcha growled like a feral mountain cat, but continued her work. Kai giggled to himself and headed back outside the bakery.
Dusk fell over Mindonne town, and the few people who scurried about last-minute chores threw dubious glances Kai’s way. He had grown used to their suspicion and mostly ignored such attention. Since he’d arrived here nearly six months ago, little had changed. If you weren’t born in Mindonne, you were never truly welcome.
Cheered by the warm stew in his belly, Kai went looking for his friend. Besides Winford, Jakodi was the only friend Kai had made here. It smarted that both of his acquaintances were older men. His peers didn’t give him the time of day, and the girls in Mindonne weren’t as friendly as those he’d grown up with.
