Unconsciousness prevented Ibram from replying.
SEVENTEEN
Dakeb
“Much about your quest is not what it appears,” Dakeb said to the anxious group. “The attack on your friend tells me much and I fear you have the right of it. Time is now your enemy.”
Grelic rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Time was never in our favor, but what new ill can possibly befall us? We know of the treachery in the palace. We’ve been followed since leaving Kelis Dur and now these monsters have come out of some childhood nightmare to haunt us. What do you know of the future you’re not telling?”
“The future or the past? A very difficult topic. Both are forever linked, inescapable of each other. Tell me, Grelic,” he paused to smile at the big man’s shock. “Where does good end and evil begin? Is there resolution or just an odd, grey matter? Even the most evil deeds can be wreathed with good intentions.”
Pregen slapped an aggravated palm to his forehead. “That’s all well and fine, old man. Now explain to us what your little diatribe has to do with our quest. We want to know what attacked Ibram.”
Dakeb looked hurt. “It has everything to do with the future. Dark armies are preparing for war. Listen closely and you can hear the drumbeats. The creatures that attacked your friend are the first sign of an old power rising. They are the Dwim, a twisted ruin of human flesh created in the charnel pits of the dark Mages. The Dwim have but one purpose, to kill. They revel in the feel of fresh blood and the vibrancy of fear. They will not stop until their prey is destroyed.”
“I thought all of the dark Mages were killed long ago,” Kialla said. Not even her normal rugged façade masked her growing fear.
Dakeb slowly shook his head. “No. One remains. His name I shall not speak here for the enemy has many eyes and ears.”
Fitch stared nervously at the old man. That familiar sadness, ever present since the night Gend was destroyed, threatened to consume him. He wanted to find a cold place to hide.
“You make it sound as if there is no hope,” Grelic said.
Dakeb smiled. “There is always hope so long as the heart remains true. That’s the reason I’ve come. Yes. To bring you hope.”
Pregen bit back a laugh. “What hope can you bring, grandfather? You’ve seen too many winters and not enough sun.”
Dakeb closed his eyes and began muttering in the old tongues. He stamped a heavy foot and the fire in the room went out. Darkness stretched out to consume them. Then a blinding flash, forcing them to shy away and shield their eyes. When their vision finally cleared, Dakeb stood in the center of a ball of blue light. His eyes were red and foreboding, almost lost in the centuries of wrinkles and wild-looking hair. He had become power. Slowly the magic faded, leaving him simply Dakeb.
“Now that I have your undivided attention I will introduce myself. My name is long and old like the wind blowing across the Jebel Desert. Those who know me call me Dakeb.”
From places he didn’t know existed, Fitch asked, “Dakeb the Mage?”
Dakeb stared at Fitch, an unreadable look quickly turning into a smile. “The same. There was a time when I was the head of my order. Much has changed since then. Dark times have fallen upon Malweir.”
“You speak of hope and doom in the same context,” Grelic said suspiciously.
“The eye of the beholder,” Dakeb said and shrugged.
He looked old again, an unassuming grandfather trying to see another winter. Heavy lines crackled his face. Shoulder-length grey hair fell loosely from his thinning scalp. He had the look of a man unaccustomed to eating. Not very tall, Dakeb was well known across the face of the world. From Averon to the dragon kingdoms across the sea.
“Where am I?” Ibram asked unexpectedly from the small cot across the room.
Dakeb grinned and ambled over. “Fear not, young follower of Harr. The world is yet in order. Your mind heals and the poison of the Dwim has left your body. Rest now.”
Ibram stared up at the half-crazed man and felt calm. Could it be the same man from my dreams? “Who are you?”
His throat was dry, his voice hoarse and scratchy.
“Rest now,” Dakeb insisted. “We shall speak later.”
Ibram nodded, finding the similarities between this stranger and Father Seldis uncanny. When he dreamed, he was back in the monastery.
“Why did the Dwim attack him?” Grelic demanded.
“A good question. Perhaps they sensed something significant about him. I don’t know. The more pertinent question would be whom do they serve? My mind is clouded of late. Whatever brews remains just past the edge of my vision.”
“Perhaps they merely saw an opportunity and took it,” Kialla suggested.
“Either way we must be cautious in the coming days,” Dakeb replied.
Pregen jerked his head out of his hands. “We?”
“Maybe he can help,” Kialla offered before Dakeb had the chance to reply.
“Or maybe he’s one of the enemy. Am I the only one who finds this entire scenario too convenient? We barely trust each other and this old man wanders into Ibram precisely at the moment he’s being attacked by supernatural forces? Let’s not forget his claim of being the last of the Mages.”
Realizing his point, they turned and faced Dakeb.
“He has a point,” the old man said.
“That’s it?” Kialla asked.
“What else needs to be said? If you recall, Mage-kind did their best to help all of the races of Malweir.”
Pregen muttered, “Before nearly killing them all.”
A flicker of annoyance passed his face like fast-moving clouds. “I am the last man who needs to be reminded of the past, thief. Oh yes. I know you all as surely as I know myself. I have been drawn here for reasons I have yet to discover. Forget the Mage Wars. Ipn Shal is in ruins. The grandeur and elegance of that time has long faded. What you see is all that remains of a better age.” Sadness draped his words.
“I don’t know or care about Ipn Shal unless the ghosts of your brethren plan on helping,” Grelic cut in before matters escalated out of control. His patience was quickly waning.
Dakeb’s eyes turned hostile. “You don’t want that sort of help. The dead are best left to themselves. There is enough evil already at work here. Regardless, I can help. I know the secret ways and the ancient words. Young Ibram can attest to that. There is no promise I can give you of life, however. Such decisions are beyond my grasp. What I can offer is a better chance of success.”
“You’re not telling us everything,” Kialla accused. “This is supposed to be a simple reconnaissance job. Even the king said…”
“King Rentor has no idea of the true danger he’s in. Don’t you see? The Dwim are being recreated after all these long years. Only a dark Mage has such power.”
Pregen was tired of talk of Mages and their ilk. Valuing his life over the others, he threw up his hands. “I didn’t sign on this adventure to fight magic or monsters. I’m leaving now.”
No one moved to stop him. He swore the old man actually smirked. No matter. I’m not going to throw my life away for a cause I don’t believe in. Let the fools have their day. I want no part of it.
“Leave or stay, the choice is yours. Though I will not guarantee you survive the night. The Dwim already know you are here. They will hunt you just as surely as they tried to kill young Ibram here,” Dakeb cautioned.
Pregen reluctantly sat back down.
“How many Dwim are there and where do they come from?” Grelic asked.
“Difficult to say. The furnaces of Druem have not been active very long.”
“Druem?” Fitch asked, overcoming his fear. He’d heard that name before, but where?
“The dead mountain in the heart of the Deadlands.”
Grelic frowned. “Men do not go into the Deadlands, Dakeb. Nor do they return.”
“We must continue on to Gend first. The secrets we need to discover are there,” Dakeb answered.
Grelic rose abruptl
y and reached for his riding cloak.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Pregen asked with undisguised suspicion.
Grelic headed for the door. “There is someone I need to talk to.”
The door slammed shut behind him.
By noon all of the poison was out of Ibram’s system. The numbing sensation from being touched by the Dwim slowly faded. Color returned to his face and, after a hearty meal of lamb stew and bread, he was ready to ride again. The others went about their tasks, each eager to be off. No one went alone for fear of another Dwim attack. Dakeb sat alone in their room patiently awaiting their return.
Dusk arrived and there was still no sign of Grelic. They went down to the common room to eat their meal in awkward silence. The Mage watched each, studying their mannerisms and behavior. Mistrust threatened to ruin them. Disappointed, he recalled an earlier time when he was faced with similar divisions. He needed to find a way to bring them together quickly, before it was too late.
“I don’t like this,” Pregen said, breaking the silence. “He’s been gone for too long.”
Kialla wiped the drop of sauce from the corner of her mouth. “Don’t worry about him. Grelic’s been doing this for a long time. I trust him with my life.”
“That’s not what I doubt,” he replied.
“Then what? Speak plainly, man,” Grelic boomed from behind.
The thief dropped his gaze down to his cup of wine.
“Don’t be shy now. I heard your words. Say them to my face.”
Pregen slowly raised his gaze until he was staring directly into Grelic’s steel eyes. “Fine. Where were you all day? We accomplished our tasks and returned yet you’ve been gone since dawn. Alone. We’re being hunted and you disappear for an entire day. That doesn’t sit right with me, Grelic.”
He exhaled sharply. Pregen was a thief and assassin but no fool. Grelic, on the other hand, was the most dangerous man in Thrae, if not all of Malweir. Death rested in his massive hands for any foolish enough to invoke it.
Grelic laughed in response. “If that is your only fear you can relax. I was out getting information about recent happenings in the area.”
“What did you find out?” Fitch asked.
“Strange tracks in the forests. Whispered movements in the night.” He would say no more. Not here.
Dakeb leaned closer. “How long have they been going on?”
“Only a few days. It looks like they started the day we left Kelis Dur.”
The Mage quickly recognized the implications. “I didn’t know the situation was already so perilous. We must depart at once.”
“Travel at night? With those things out there? You’ll send us all to slaughter,” Pregen protested.
“No,” Ibram said. “I’ve seen his power. Dakeb can protect us.”
“Protect? No. But I can certainly help. We must leave before dawn. I have a terrible sense of foreboding for this night,” he replied.
“When?”
Dakeb glanced at the frosted window. “As soon as possible.”
Grelic nodded. “Pack your things. We leave at the mid of night.”
* * * * *
The thunder of hobnailed boots echoed angrily across the valley. Heavy undergrowth hindered the Goblin troop’s march, forcing them to run to avoid being entangled. Whips cracked. Goblins snarled and spit. They uttered foul curses in their broken language as the whip master howled with delight. Soon enough they cleared the outer edges of Qail Werd, the lone mighty forest in northern Malweir and skirted the shores of Vorshir Lake. In ten days they would follow the Sibit River south and be at the gates of Kelis Dur. Their enemy wouldn’t be able to react in time. But Kelis Dur wasn’t their goal. Their master had another, better target in mind. Smaller, softer. The Goblins continued to run with murder in their hearts.
A rank odor gagged the night where they passed. Crows and buzzards followed their course, lusting for a fresh meal. Laughing at the birds, the Goblins ran faster. There’d be time enough for a feast of flesh, but not theirs. Somewhere to the south was the ripe and fertile flesh of a small group of men who needed to die.
“Faster, dogs! There’s killing to be done,” growled the whip master.
The sharp leather cracked again, lashing their armored backs. The Goblins picked up the pace.
EIGHTEEN
Gwarmoran
A bank of heavy clouds rolled in just past dusk and covered the northern kingdom in stifling darkness. Warm winds ground freshly budding branches together with a vile scratching sound. The Elves whispered how forests laughed at the arrogance of men. The trees had seen generations of mortals come and go without lasting effect. Fire and axe, malice and necessity drove the trees away from lands long theirs. Here, in the far north of Malweir, did they finally find a home.
Tonight they watched the small group of men and one woman steal between their trunks. The band moved with deliberate haste. The looks on their faces suggested fear, apprehension. Enemies could be anywhere. According to both Ibram and Dakeb the Dwim moved like wraiths in the blackness. The horses snorted, feeling the wrong sensation lingering in the air. Grelic knew the game. He’d been a veteran player for decades. Tonight the giant warrior watched the darkness with mistrust. The hair on his arms stood on prickled flesh. He swore the trees were laughing.
Kialla pulled her cloak tighter to keep the chill out. Unease grew thick around her. Frowning, she asked Grelic, “Can you see anything?”
Grelic didn’t respond. His eyes never stopped moving. The muscles on his chest tightened reflexively. One hand held the reins while the other danced over the hilt of his broadsword.
“They are close,” he whispered after a time. “Yet when I think I’m about to find them I can feel them pulling back. Hiding in the night.”
“I don’t understand how they discovered us so quickly,” she confessed through an exaggerated sigh.
Grelic paused to look back at the blackened shapes of his comrades. “One of us is a spy. I’ve been warning it from the beginning.”
Which one? Kialla wasn’t bothered so much by that as she was by the Dwim and whatever else Dakeb’s tales of crafted monsters managed to plant in her psyche. Images of wicked claws stretching out from the night to steal her from the saddle mocked her. She saw her body being ripped apart, her flesh devoured. Kialla suppressed a shudder. Foul thoughts served no purpose. She needed a clear mind if she expected to retain her wits for the coming struggle.
“The enemy has many eyes. We must be cautious.” Grelic stiffened. An unfamiliar scent caught his attention.
“I think it’s past time for caution. We need to move faster and stick to the sunlight,” she whispered.
He was about to respond when he heard it. The faint howling on a distant wind. Wolves! There was still time, for the call was yet far away.
Fitch immediately snapped awake. Growing up in the wilderness, he’d seen his share of wolves. By no means an expert, he knew enough to tell that this call was unlike any wolf he’d ever encountered. Fitch edged closer to Grelic, still unsure whether that would be any safer. The howling sang again, much closer and from the opposite direction. The group was being surrounded, the circle drawing tighter.
“Mage,” Grelic called.
Dakeb came up alongside. A thoughtful look twisted his face. “They’re not wolves. It’s much worse.”
“As long as they don’t have Dwim with them,” Kialla said bravely.
The old Mage half smiled. “Be careful what you ask for, dear. The night is full of many horrors. We’re being stalked by Gwarmoran. Dark wolves from ancient Straedor.”
“There are no dark wolves in Thrae,” Grelic said.
Dakeb shook his head. “The way is closed to me. Something sinister drives the winds. I feel it coursing against us.”
Another howl. This time from their right. One of the horses snorted in fear. The trap was ready. Grelic instinctively drew his sword, prompting the others into action. Danger prickled him like a long lost friend.
Grelic felt the familiar rush of adrenaline spark to life and take hold. This was the single most defining moment of his life. When sword met flesh in the unmistakable test of wills. He could pick out massive shapes moving in the trees. The dark wolves were upon them.
“When I give the word, flee,” Grelic ordered.
A shadow darted by, darker than the night itself. Then another. He heard the first snarl almost directly in front of him. Then he saw the eyes. Dark red and baleful, gleaming hatred from the night. The dark wolf leapt. Grelic’s sword was faster, if barely. Hot blood splashed horse and rider as he sliced through the wolf’s belly. Razor-sharp claws raked across the top of Grelic’s thigh as the wolf dropped dead in a heap of dripping viscera.
He grunted in pain and bellowed, “RUN!”
The rest of the group dashed forward. Kialla took the lead. Her auburn hair flowed behind her, giving an eccentric wildness. A final cry rose from the surrounding darkness. Grelic wasn’t sure but he counted at least a dozen echoes. The pack burst into action, rivaling the speed of horse. Fear drove both horse and wolf. A wolf darted past Kialla with an easy stride, forcing Grelic to frown. They were being herded.
Onward they ran, unable to stop without risking being torn to shreds. The wind picked up. Bloodlust boiled. Branches slapped riders while vines and underbrush tripped horses. Spider webs caught on their faces. They ran harder, lashing out at the wolves when one got too close. The terrain began to shift. Trees thinned out. The ground became rockier, threatening to hobble an unlucky horse. The remnants of last year’s leaves crunched underfoot.
Grelic cursed his decision to leave at night. He was unfamiliar with this part of Thrae. A moment later he recognized what was happening. The dark wolves were forcing them into a steep ravine. Instinct screamed for him to stop and turn while there was still time. Dark wolves lined the ravine walls, prowling along the banks as the group kept running.
“Mage!” Grelic shouted again.
Dakeb urged his mount forward.
The Dragon Hunters Page 12
