“This is a trap. Do something,” Grelic ordered.
“We must stop running or I can do nothing!” Dakeb shouted back.
“If we stop we die!”
Left without choices, Grelic pushed them harder. He looked back, surprised to find the wolves with almost casual indifference. Gradually the dark wolves backed off, as if trying to catch their breath before the slaughter began. Grelic struggled to imagine what the others were thinking. Fitch was obviously scared to death. The thrumming bow string and successive scream broke his thoughts. A dark wolf dropped with one of Kialla’s arrows in its heart. Two down. But how many more are left?
“Hold them back for as long as you can. I only need a few moments,” Dakeb called once they came to a halt at the large bowl marking the end of the ravine.
Grelic wheeled about and prepared to attack just as another wolf knocked Pregen from his horse. Wolf and man landed in a bruised mass. Teeth, claws, and the occasional glint of steel in the moonlight could be seen. Two more wolves, easily the size of ponies, darted in to finish Pregen. Blood spattered their black fur. Another arrow feathered the nearest wolf’s back as it ripped its muzzle out of Pregen’s horse.
Unsure if Pregen was dead, Grelic slipped from his horse and entered the fight. His first blow nearly severed the first wolf in half. The smell gagged him, tears clouding his vision. Blinding pain lanced the side of his head. Grelic staggered. Three wolves moved in before he could recover. Grelic’s horse bolted. He shook his head furiously in an attempt to reduce the pain and dropped into a fighting stance. His muscles loosened, fingers flexing on his sword. The three wolves circled at a distance, unsure of who was the true predator. Grelic shifted his weight and lunged. The nearest wolf shied away, giving him the opportunity he needed to attack.
Grelic dipped low and lashed out to his right. The second wolf charged and he stepped into it. Sword sliced through flesh and bone, hacking off one of the wolf’s hind legs. The dark wolf’s scream was high-pitched and long, reminiscent of a baby. The third wolf attacked before the rope of arterial blood splashed across the ground. Talon-like claws ripped through Grelic’s cloak and tunic, slicing into his back. Grelic fell under the weight of the leaping wolf. Hot breath burned his neck. Saliva dripped like acid. He never saw the arrow whistle into the wolf’s neck. The dead weight crushed him, knocking his breath away. It took all of his strength to throw the corpse off and rise on one knee.
Moonlight broke through the steadily thinning layer of clouds, illuminating the battlefield for the first time. Grelic’s blood ran cold as he counted the number of wolves surrounding them. If the Mage didn’t do something soon they were all dead. Dakeb had reined in his horse and dismounted. The old Mage drew his walking stick from the saddlebag and began tracing obscure patterns in the mud. The sounds of battle heightened, more ferocious. Dakeb worked faster.
Steam began to rise. A sulfuric odor tainted the night sky, mixing with the iron smell of blood. Dakeb chanted under his breath. He waved his arms in centuries’ old rituals. Patterns and movements rehearsed, choreographed in a forgotten time. The ground beneath him took on a chilling glow. One by one the symbols charged to life, becoming lines of power. A throbbing hum vibrated the length of the ravine. High winds flared, instantly replaced with complete stillness. Malweir itself answered Dakeb’s plea.
His old eyes rolled over white. Dry lightning crackled across the horizon. A distant volcano spit ash and brimstone. Dakeb chanted louder. All around him the air dried. Moisture evaporated into artificial lifelessness. Fitch staggered under the raw feel of so much power, even as he managed to plunge his dagger into a dark wolf’s eye. Dozens of wolves rushed across the valley towards the ravine. Nauseous yellow light enveloped the Mage.
And then, abruptly, the chanting stopped. Dead silence gripped the ravine. The Gwarmoran hesitated, recognizing the threat. They hadn’t tasted Mage blood since the wars, when dark Mages used them to hunt down their enemies. The largest wolf howled in a mixture of pleasure and fury. It glared across the ravine at the Mage. The last Mage. The dark wolf snarled in unsuppressed delight. Dakeb opened his eyes when the wolves were fifty meters away. They ran hard and would be on him in seconds, ignoring all of the others. Dakeb smiled and raised his walking stick above his head.
Forty meters.
Lightning licked down to strike the stick. Dakeb didn’t flinch. Flecks of saliva flung from the wolves’ mouths.
Thirty meters.
Dakeb lowered his stick and pointed it towards the wolves. They howled in response.
Twenty meters.
Dakeb took a final breath. He could almost see himself in their eyes.
Ten.
“Melikali e abas!” he roared.
Thunder clapped and violence crashed down around him. Mage light spit from his stick, incinerating all of the wolves unable to twist away. Colorless ash and powder drifted lazily to the ground. Static electricity made Dakeb’s hair stand on end, lending him a demonized look. He walked forward, lashing out at the great wolves. The ravine quickly changed, undulating and breaking from the raw power coursing through.
Gwarmoran paced uncertainly. Their leader had been incinerated. Pencil-thin lashes of bright yellow light continued to attack them. Some died. Others managed to duck behind a rock or thick tree. They snarled and spit, trying to decide whether to attack or flee. Dakeb didn’t relent. Bolt after bolt crashed into the wolves. Trees exploded. Rocks melted. The sky filled with rage.
Halfway across the field, Ibram struggled for his life. Already bested by the Dwim, he needed to redeem himself or lose all good will in the others’ eyes. Setting those thoughts aside proved more difficult than he had hoped. Doubt clung like shadows to his every move. Ibram struggled through it, using every move he had practiced in the lonely courtyards with less skilled monks. Slash, parry, block. None of his brethren fought like the Gwarmoran, however. He was hard pressed to stay on his feet as one of the larger wolves drove at him.
The wolf reared up on its hind legs and growled. Ibram took a step back and leveled his sword. A sudden whinny and charging horse snapped his concentration. The wolf turned its gaze on the larger target, affording Ibram the chance to duck in and drive his sword into the wolf’s chest cavity. There was brief resistance before the combination of his weight and momentum pushed the blade in. The wolf’s weight drove both of them to the ground.
And then it was over. Demoralized by the death of their leader, the surviving Gwarmoran backed away, disappearing into the night. A handful of bloodied corpses lay scattered across the ravine. Dozens of piles of ash lined the walls. Dakeb stalked through the middle of it, an ancient and reluctant warrior. Taking life, any life, sat ill with him. There was no pride in his deeds.
Decades of watching friends fall left him with an ever-present sense of grief and for a moment he feared the others were dead. His failure during the Mage War left him with too many ghosts and miserable dreams. He wasn’t sure why, but his senses were at the point of overload. So much had happened, twisting and bending him to the point of breaking. Perhaps it all began with the eruption of Mount Zephues last autumn. That’s when he first dreamed of the crystal of Tol Shere. The old Mage cursed his complacency. After all these long years he had almost come to believe the war was finally over. A body stirred, breaking his concentration.
Pregen groaned to his feet. Dried blood coated the side of his face. Leaning on his sword for support, the assassin looked around for the first time. His eyes strained to refocus in the pale afterglow of the Mage’s assault. He’d been in his share of fights before, but nothing even remotely compared to the horror in the ravine. The very air stank of death.
“What did I miss?” he asked with a hoarse voice. “And why does it smell like burned dog?”
“Some questions are best left unasked. Leastwise while it’s still dark. We have won a small victory but the Gwarmoran are not easily deterred. They will return, and in greater numbers,” Dakeb cautioned.
Pregen rubbed his sore neck.
“You’ve been a ball of joy from the moment we met, Mage. I can’t wait to see what’s next. Where are the others?”
Dakeb helped him up, once again leaning on his walking stick. “Come, let us find them and get out of here.”
Together they set off through the ruined corpses and desiccated ground. Pregen was glad he’d been unconscious for most of the fight.
“No one man should have this power,” he whispered when they passed a melted boulder. Clumps of charred flesh and fur stuck to it.
Dakeb sighed. “I agree. Which is why Mage-kind worked for generations to find new ways to detect and train potential magic wielders. Ultimately that power led to our ruin. We thought that by controlling it there would be less chaos in the land. Our arrogance led to blindness and eventual doom.”
The thief knew better than to try and push the conversation. Besides, he had a healthy suspicion there would be plenty of time for such banter in the coming weeks. They finally stumbled upon Kialla climbing down from a fork in a great oak tree. Pregen smiled until he noticed the mangled corpse of a dark wolf hanging from the branches.
“They climb trees too?” he asked with a low whistle.
Kialla inspected the tear in her jerkin with a frown. She either didn’t have an answer or didn’t want to know. The others gradually came out of hiding. Fitch was his normal spasmodic self. He was the only one without a scratch, though his clothes were stained with dark blood and brain matter. Kialla spotted the stained dagger on the ground and smiled. Ibram was still alive. Blood and bits of roasted flesh clung to his face and chest. His eyes held a faraway look.
“Ibram!” Kialla exclaimed. “What happened to you?”
He turned slowly and gestured with his sword. They could discern five huge bodies lying in a crude circle where he just left. Dakeb reached him before he collapsed in the mud and placed a caring hand on his forehead.
“Thele bas I sanoo,” he soothed.
Kialla leaned close. “Is he all right?”
“He’s fine. I think the shock and exhaustion have finally caught up with him. It’s not an easy transition from monk to warrior,” Dakeb replied.
“It’s not easy for anyone,” she said. “Where’s Grelic?”
The immediate area was clear of everything but bodies. They counted twenty of the Gwarmoran. The battle had been hard and they suffered from wounds and bruises. But there was no Grelic. Pregen felt his ire rising again. If Grelic hadn’t chosen him for this quest he might think the giant was the traitor they feared. Kialla stalked the battlefield, stealing back those arrows that were salvageable. It wasn’t until Ibram groaned awake that Grelic came whistling back into the ravine, horses in tow.
“Grelic! We thought,” she caught herself before making a fool.
Grelic forced a laugh. “Nonsense. Someone had to get the horses when the battle was ended. Wouldn’t want to walk all the way to Druem, would you?”
He looked over the others, pleased to find them all alive. He gave the Mage a nod, expressing personal gratitude for the magic. Grelic had underestimated their situation, wrongly believing they had a chance at success. He now knew how wrong he was. There hadn’t been any hope of surviving.
Grelic walked with an almost imperceptible limp. Another wound added to a growing list of scars and bumps. There were times, more often of late, when he wondered what kept him leading such a destructive lifestyle. The pains worsened and lasted longer with time. His memories were filled with foul deeds best left to fade away. He’d never chosen the life of a warrior. It was chosen for him. War was thrust upon him from childhood. What difference did it make if he wanted to or not? Most warriors died young, part of the unattainable dream of glory. Grelic preferred to pass with a head of grey hair. More like stark white after tonight.
“We must hurry,” Dakeb urged.
The strain in his voice made Grelic believe him. The giant looked over his battered friends, stern eyes falling on Fitch Iane with suspicion. Was the unsuspecting villager the spy? Grelic grumbled softly. He just didn’t know.
“Can everyone ride?” he asked, deciding brooding served no purpose.
Kialla wiped strands of blood and sweat-soaked hair from her face. “There is no choice. I feel others will come. Which direction?”
They stopped and stared at Dakeb. The old man offered a half smile. Much of his strength was gone, wasted during the battle. He was tired and needed to rest. Rest that, unfortunately, was a long time in coming. “West for now. When the sun rises we can adjust our course. If I recall correctly there are small hills filled with places to rest without worry from the Gwarmoran.”
“How far?” Grelic asked as he climbed into his saddle.
The Mage thought for a moment. His recollection of Thrae was shaded at best. “Only a league or two I think.”
That was good enough for the giant. “We move now.”
Haggard and exhausted, the small band mounted and filed out of the ravine. The bodies of the dark wolves were already starting to rot. Grelic and Dakeb rode point until they entered the gently sloping hills the Mage had promised. It was well past midnight by the time Grelic called for a halt. He yawned mightily, cursing himself for getting so old so fast. Dakeb performed a hasty summoning spell to ensure the area was secure and the group took a thick copse of fir trees for shelter. One by one they drifted off. Grelic sat under the stars, watching the moon finally break free from the cloud cover. Pain wracked him, making it difficult to fall asleep. When sleep finally came it left him with one great, ponderous thought. What was yet to come?
NINETEEN
Bad Dreams
Howling winds kept screaming around him, growing increasingly stronger with each new gust. Rain poured down. The ground turned to thick mud. Water pooled around his ankles. Thunder and lightning dueled for control of the sky. Thick clouds of the purest black cloaked the night, choking off all life. Grelic stood his ground, pulling his cloak tighter to buffer what wind he could. His eyes were narrow, determined.
Grelic saw nothing of his surroundings. His senses were blinded and dulled. He didn’t know where he was or how he’d gotten here. Lightning struck a few meters in front of him, knocking him down. Wiping the muck from his face, he briefly made out four obsidian monoliths spaced evenly in a circle around him. Each stone stood as tall as three men and was covered in strange symbols from a forgotten era. As quickly as he was allowed to view his surroundings, they dissolved back into darkness.
Swirling mists the color of disease emerged from nothing to lick at his ankles. Grelic balked and hastened to stand again. Brave as any man alive, he failed to understand how to combat what assailed him. Flesh and blood were one thing. This was entirely original. He tried to step back but his feet were rooted in place. Frustrated, Grelic drew his sword and waited. Perhaps death had finally come.
The mist reached up to touch him. It was cold, almost refreshing. Strange sensations spread through his body. An avid drinker, Grelic never once touched the lotus leaf or any other narcotic plant. This feeling was different, unlike anything he’d ever experienced or heard of. He felt relaxed. The sword suddenly felt heavy. He considered dropping it. His eyes struggled to stay open. Every time he blinked they stayed shut a little longer. Grelic swore he heard a woman’s voice singing a soft lullaby on the wind.
Then he saw it. A slim figure moving towards him through the mist. He strained to make out who it was. Naked, the young woman stalked seductively up to him. Her slender hips swung provocatively with each step. Supple, firm breasts rose and fell with each breath. Grelic nodded in approval at her hardening nipples and patch of auburn hair between her legs. Only when her face came into view did he freeze with shock. Kialla. She smiled at him.
“Grelic, I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long,” she cooed. “Come, make love to me. I need you, Grelic.”
She was almost touching him now.
“I know you want me.” Her finger traced the stubble on the curve of his jaw. “I’ve seen the way you look at me
. Here I am. Take me. I’m yours.”
He wanted to. Desires he hadn’t felt in decades surged anew. His every secret passion ached to touch her smooth flesh. To inhale her womanly scent. To become one with her. Grelic’s hand involuntarily inched towards her waist. She smiled. A flicker of something terrible lit her eyes. Grelic paused. The fog clouding his mind lifted slightly. Something sinister rippled beneath her golden-hued skin. He recoiled.
“What evil is this?”
She laughed as lightning raged. Heavier winds pelted him with rain and hail, forcing him to raise a hand to protect his face. Not a drop of rain touched her. Kialla stretched out her hands and tiny flames sprung to life in her palms. Grelic was sickened. He’d never been one to fear magic, until now. He doubled his grip on the comforting hilt of his sword and tensed in anticipation of the coming blow.
He had hardly moved when her skin began to change. Once a crisp golden brown, her skin was poisoned to the foulest shade of black. He watched with mute horror as her hair fell out in clumps and her scars cracked across her face and body. She transformed from supple and seductive to heavily muscled and threatening as lighting drove the sky light and dark. Her pleasant features dissolved into sheer evil.
Blinded suddenly by a nearby blast of lighting, Grelic wiped his eyes clear only to find her gone. In her place stood an enormous man with pale, grey skin. Coal black armor encased his torso, easily twice Grelic’s size. Black pants and knee-high leather riding boots finished his ensemble. The hilt of a monstrous sword poked over his back even while he leaned on a crooked walking stick. Eyes of the coldest black stared back above a menacing smile.
“You know me,” the stranger said. His voice was heavy and pronounced. The very ground trembled.
Grelic nodded. “Aye, Lord Death. Come to claim me already.”
Lord Death threw back his bald head and laughed. A crow drifted down to perch on his shoulder and cawed. “No. This night I stalk another.”
“Why have you come?” Grelic pressed, unready to give so easily.
The Dragon Hunters Page 13
