Dragon's Fire (Beating Back the Darkness Book 1)

by Tiger Hebert

  “The…the darkness…it’s gone. It’s finally gone!” shouted Elymas as the crowd cheered joyfully!

  The weight was lifted, and the magi were freed from the demonic strongholds that kept them in bondage. The words of truth spoken through the stranger’s mouth had set them free.

  “King Tiereon, the Hand of Horus is bound by code and covenant. We will honor the sacred commitments established long ago. We will join you in battle!” declared Paphos boldly.

  “My friend, what is your name?” asked Elymas with a smile.

  “Theros Hammerfist,” answered the orc.

  “Where did you hear those words?” begged Paphos.

  Theros explained, “Late last night, perhaps even early this morning, I fell into what I thought was a deep sleep. Instead of sleeping, I experienced what I can only describe as a vivid dream. Those were the words that the Lion spoke…into me.”

  “You have truly seen the Great Lion!” exclaimed Paphos with wide eyes.

  Theros responded, “He burned with a fire of the bluest flame.”

  “That is no dream, my son. You have been given a vision,” remarked Paulus.

  Elymas added, “And because of that, we are freed.”

  “We must learn more about this vision,” insisted Paphos.

  “And we will, but first we must celebrate this great victory,” declared Paulus.

  “Magi, what about the very reason we came to you?” begged King Tiereon.

  “Yes, and we will discuss it tonight. I presume that this is not the entirety of your company,” said Elymas.

  “Our company is fifteen hundred in all. It’s about all that remains of our kinds,” answered Ogron.

  “The rest remain on the shores,” interjected Lokar.

  “I am sure a great feast would be a welcomed sight to many of them after everything they have experienced. Gather your brethren to us, that we may break bread together,” invited Paphos before turning to Lokar. “Commander, please order the preparations for the banquet. Withhold nothing and spare no expense. Tonight we revel in this victory, for tomorrow is another battle.”

  With that began the process of moving all of the orcs and humans from the coast to Ferrin da’Dour. As the long caravan of orc and man slowly trickled into her gates, they found centaurs, both young and old, busily preparing for the celebration. The rundown city teemed with activity as new life was breathed into her people. Tents and old wooden tables were set up in the streets. The lighthearted melodies of flute and lyre returned once more. Smells of venison, smoked pheasant, and lamb teased the senses of locals and guests alike. Young calves pranced and galloped through the streets and fields as the excitement mounted.

  The fall day slipped past them as the celebration lasted into the night. Warm fires, hot food, and lighthearted music persisted throughout the impromptu festival. While the locals honored their guests with song and dance, the leaders gathered together under a long tent. As they crowded around a long table, Captain Melgrim unrolled a large leather-hide map. As he spread out the drawing, they could see the full continent of Darnisi stretched out before them.

  “What is your plan?” asked Elymas.

  “We don’t expect the Minotaur to stay in Storm Vale long. They came for one purpose and one purpose alone—to finish the work they started nearly sixty years ago. Once they pillage the city and find that it is evacuated, they will depart for Jasprita,” reasoned King Tiereon.

  “Ambush,” presumed Lokar.

  “Ambush!” answered the king definitively.

  “So what do you propose?” inquired Paphos as he searched for details.

  Pointing to the mountain pass on the map, Melgrim said, “This is where they will depart the mountains. There is no other way for them. The beauty of the mountain road is that the western wall of the pass extends further south than that of the eastern wall, giving us a strategic advantage.” The captain pointed to another area just east of the mountain road and continued, “If we gather our forces here, just beyond the eastern wall, we can stay beyond their sight. Then, when their force has emerged, they will be pinned against the western wall, and we will descend upon them as a hammer striking the anvil!”

  “What kind of forces are we talking about, Captain?” demanded Paulus with concern.

  “The initial force at the onset of the siege must have numbered no less than four thousand,” added Ogron.

  “Four thousand! There is no way we can succeed against that number,” cried out Paphos.

  “They lost a great deal during the siege, Magi. They probably have just over two thousand now,” quickly replied the chieftain.

  “If that many,” added Theros confidently.

  “What is the composition of their remaining force?” asked Lokar as he attempted to calculate their odds.

  “The remnants appear to be broken into three distinct divisions. There remains a small detachment of filth from the priesthood. Most of them serve as archers in the ranks of their army. There are perhaps, on the high end, two hundred of them. The second division of warriors is quite small, perhaps fifty or so, but they are deadly. These Minotaur are encased in thick layers of the heaviest iron and steel. They carry massive shields and are armed with war hammers. The majority of their remaining ranks are comprised of the basic Minotaur warrior. They wear very little, if any, armor, and they charge into battle recklessly with their massive cleavers, some the size of a man. These crazed warriors are driven into some type of frenzy before they even enter battle. We were fortunate to have the once-great walls of Storm Vale stand between us and their full wrath,” answered Melgrim as he gave a full force estimate of the Minotaur army.

  “This does not bode well for us,” replied the concerned Paulus.

  “What is the number of your forces?” asked Lokar.

  “We have about four hundred and fifty who can take up arms,” answered Captain Melgrim.

  “We have at least another three hundred warriors prepared for battle,” promised Ogron.

  “Lokar, what can we muster?” asked Paphos.

  “I have three hundred men that could ride at dawn,” answered the battalion commander proudly.

  “What are we talking about? Less than eleven hundred against more than two thousand?” asked Paulus as he tried to process the implications.

  “There are…others…who can help us,” suggested Lokar.

  “Who?” begged King Tiereon.

  “They are of no use to us,” snapped Paulus as they ignored the king’s question.

  “They could be a great aid to us,” implored the young commander.

  “Just like they helped when the goblins came?” remarked Paphos bitterly.

  “We have no choice. We need their help,” resolved Lokar.

  “Do you mind telling us who you are talking about?” shouted the king impatiently.

  “The gryphons of Endmark,” interjected Theros, “right?”

  The centaur all turned and looked upon the big warrior. Their eyes showed their surprise, and their mouths hung open.

  “How do you know of the gryphons?” questioned Paphos with curiosity.

  Theros smiled at them and said, “I have a good friend in Endmark.”

  “You have a friend who lives among the gryphons?” questioned Elymas skeptically.

  “Something like that,” answered Theros with a grin.

  28 The Road to Endmark

  The warm moisture spread across his cheek, then to his nose, and finally made its way across his forehead. He wiped his face, and then he opened his eyes and smiled as the familiar face of his friend hovered over him.

  “Good morning, Swift,” answered Theros to the wolf’s wakeup call.

  The wolf growled in approval as he plopped his furry body down onto his friend. Theros gently ran his powerful hands over Swift’s soft fur.

  “I am leaving for Endmark today. Are you coming with me?” he asked his furry friend.

  At his question, the wolf jumped up to his feet and let out a playful ho
wl, as if he were ready to go. Theros smiled back at the beautiful animal and said, “Good boy.”

  The large orc rolled to his side and pushed himself up off the ground where he had slept. Slowly, he walked over to the nearby rain barrel and splashed some water on his face. The cold water shocked his skin and refreshed him. He lifted his eyes up and saw his brother preparing some breakfast. The mutton turned on the spit as it was reheated over the small campfire.

  “Did you have any dreams last night, little brother?” teased the elder Hammerfist.

  Theros looked at his brother and grumbled. He tore a chunk of meat off the spit for himself and stuffed the chunk of lamb into his mouth. As he sank his large teeth into the roasted mutton, the flavorful juices filled his mouth. The savory taste took his mind far from his brother’s remark.

  While he was still enjoying the tasty morning meal, Lokar and the three magi galloped up to them.

  “Are you ready to leave?” Lokar asked.

  Ogron responded with the question, “Where are King Tiereon and Captain Melgrim?”

  “They are waiting for us on the Eastern Road,” answered Lokar.

  “Very well, let’s go, little brother,” remarked Ogron as he climbed atop the nearby hrall.

  “One thing you must know. There have been reports of troll sightings in the Rock Wood, and it looks like we will be passing right through the area where they were last seen. Hopefully we can pass through unnoticed,” cautioned Lokar.

  Ogron snarled, “I hate trolls!”

  Theros paid no mind to the conversation; instead he pulled the loaded spit off the fire and took it with him. The small company departed the city from the eastern gate. Theros tossed a chunk of the meat to Swift and then continued to gobble down the lamb as the party of eight departed. Soon the city behind them disappeared as they ventured into the deep forest known as the Rock Wood.

  The wooded road was surprisingly well kept for being in the midst of such a vast forest. Great hardwood trees twisted as they grew around the rocky terrain. The forest was a tapestry of colors that only grew more vivid the deeper they descended. The chilling breeze was the hand that caressed the treetops, leading them in the dance. Docile woodland creatures were busy about their work in preparation for the coming winter.

  The mists that greeted them the previous day still hung in the air. Those ghostly arms crept through the trees, reaching out and touching everything in sight. And because of that, they let the wolf lead the way.

  Perhaps it was the early morning, perhaps it was the dreary and foggy terrain, or maybe it was the apprehension caused by the prospect of possible encounters with trolls—whatever the reason, the party talked little while they passed through the forest. Lokar and the magi seemed to be on edge. In fact, the tension affected everyone but Theros. They scanned their surroundings, surveying everything around them, but the big fella just focused on that tender meat. Truth be told, there were but just a few sounds to be heard—the wind through the trees, the clopping of hooves, and the smacking sound he made as he finished the remaining morsels.

  “Can I get you something to eat?” joked Melgrim.

  “What have you got?” was Theros’ sincere response.

  Maybe it was his innocence, maybe it was his obliviousness, or perhaps just his impressive appetite, but the group broke out into laughter. Melgrim just shook his head as he chuckled.

  They laughed, but the big orc pouted and said, “I wasn’t joking.”

  The laughter carried on for another moment. It was a welcome break from the drudgery of silence. There was an overwhelming tension that they carried, and unfortunately, the laughter was but a small break in the clouds.

  The king broke the silence by asking, “How far is it to this Endmark?”

  “Once we put the Rock Wood behind us, it is only another twenty minutes or so. I would say that means we probably still have another hour, if we don’t run into any delays,” answered the worried commander.

  Then Ogron brought up the topic that had been on his mind all night. “Last night, you mentioned goblins. I didn’t think they lived in these parts.”

  “They don’t. The invasions began in the spring of last year. At first there were just a few night raids. Then their presence in the region grew, and they began to openly attack farmsteads and small villages until eventually attacking Ferrin da’Dour,” recalled Elymas.

  “And it was our own fault,” admitted Paphos.

  Melgrim inquisitively asked, “How is that?”

  “As the chieftain suggested, goblins are not native to the Ferrin Highlands. They hadn’t stepped foot in our lands for over a thousand years. There was something that drew them,” replied Paphos.

  The curious captain asked, “What was it that drew them?”

  “There were those of our order who broke their oath,” answered Lokar coldly.

  Melgrim observed the growing tension that his questions created, so he let it go. However, goblins were always a sore subject around orcs. Many, especially humans, ignorantly thought orcs and goblins to be cut from the same cloth. After all they were distant cousins, but the orcs’ natural hatred for goblins was made apparent, and Ogron’s questions would not go unanswered.

  “Where was the goblin horde?” demanded the chieftain.

  “At first they were here in the highlands, until they realized that we did not possess whatever they were after.”

  “That is when they descended into Duroc’s Refuge,” answered Paphos.

  “Duroc’s Refuge?” asked the elder orc.

  “It is an ancient dwarven hold buried in the Highland Pass, carved deep into the rock. Those filthy creatures turned the dwarven tomb into their nest,” explained Paulus.

  Theros finally joined the conversation. “What do you mean it was a tomb? I thought the dwarves left.”

  “No one really knows what happened within the depths of that keep. But Duroc and his people did not abandon the keep, even when perhaps they should have. No, something bad happened down there,” concluded Elymas.

  “If no one knows what happened, how can you be so sure that they did not just leave?” questioned Melgrim.

  “Quite simply because of the contents of the mountain itself. The gold deposits that still lay beneath that keep are beyond compare. Rich veins of gold run throughout even now. The sheer volume of the precious metal was far more than even the dwarves could mine in a quarter-millennia,” taught Paphos.

  “It is also rumored that deep in that mountain, they found something of far greater value than gold,” added Elymas.

  “Their borders shrank, and they grew distrusting as they tried to guard whatever treasure they had found. It was over two hundred years ago when that pass grew dark. Communications stopped, and the dwarves were no longer seen within the region. According to written records, it all happened rather suddenly. There had been no activity in the pass until the goblins infested the keep,” stated Paphos.

  “Have you ever sent an expeditionary force into the keep?” asked King Tiereon.

  “The greed of the dwarves is legendary. Whatever force is great enough to separate them from their gold is something that we want no part of,” admitted Elymas. “The goblins appear to have learned that lesson the hard way.”

  Up ahead of them on the road, Swift halted abruptly. The wolf remained still as he studied the forest ahead of them. Just then, new voices caught their attention. The travelers stopped in their tracks and were quiet, trying to listen. As they waited and listened, the noise of the squabbling grew louder. The voices were coming toward them.

  “Stoopit ’n’ selfich, Bolegg. Thaat’s wut you are,” grumbled the whiney voice.

  The second voice broke through a fit of coughing and hacking to shout, “Shut it, Molegg, or I’ll pop, stuff, an’ roast ya!”

  “Not stops. Stoopit ’n’ selfich,” rambled the first voice. “I wants to eats. Give me, you big stoopit face!”

  The shapes of the bickering fools started to come into view as the squabbl
ing continued, and they were huge!

  The fat troll unleashed a tremendous blast from his behind before barking, “You’re goin’ ta be a big meal if you dunt shut yer mouth!”

  The thinner of the two unsuccessfully swiped after the game that was carried by the first. His multiple attempts failed to secure the pheasants that hung from the hands of his counterpart.

  “Share it, stinker!” squealed the taller troll in desperation.

  “’S goin’ ta taste soooo good,” teased the short and fat one as he swatted at the flies that swarmed him.

  Lokar motioned the elders to get behind him as pointed his halberd toward the trolls. Melgrim and the king both slowly drew their swords from their sheaths. The Hammerfist brothers were one step ahead of them all, though, with their weapons already prepared for battle. Then the portly troll turned his big round head toward them, where, to his surprise, his big eyes locked onto the travelers.

  “You can haz deez. I wants dem!” growled Bolegg as the cesspool that was his mouth dripped and drooled nasty oozing stuff.

  The other troll turned his head and spotted them as well, and a sickly-looking smile came over his face as he started to run his tongue over his lips and jagged teeth.

  “Let’s eats,” howled Molegg wickedly before the gaunt troll’s dark brown body crashed through the brush.

  He moved toward them with a leather-wrapped bone dagger in hand. Wearing only a small girdle of fur about his waist, his body proudly displayed the troll’s protruding ribs and a litany of scars. Splotches of black and brown hair sprouted from seemingly random parts of his body, which perfectly complimented the thick tuft of matted black hair on the top of his narrow skull.

  Bolegg, the short and stout troll, was an ogre’s behind. The smell of soured milk would have been a reprieve from his breathtaking aroma. His corpulent body was mostly bare, including his bald head, save for the worn hide of some beast that fortunately covered his loins. Bones dangled low from his neck and rested on that bouncing bulbous gut. He carried a crude stone axe that was held together by dried leather and sinews. As he barreled forward, that fat sausage of a nose bounced in the middle of his face, right between the big round eyes.