Pregen threw up his hands in frustration. “Count me out. This is ridiculous! How can a handful of rejects and misfits expect to succeed where an army won’t? Mage or no, I’m going home to collect my pay.”
“I’m in,” Ibram told them. He walked off before he could change his mind or be talked out of it. His entire life had led him to this one point in time where he knew what the right decision was.
Grelic nodded. At least one other was on his side. The boy may not be much of a fighter but at least he’s got heart and that is something in rare commodity these days. He turned towards Kialla, the one person he expected to have his back.
“I don’t know, Grelic. I’m not one to shy away from danger, but I’m no fool either. I need time to think,” she told him.
Cron rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I’m with her. I came here for personal reasons. Going head to head with a dragon isn’t an easy decision to make.”
“I stand alone, eh?”
“Give them time, Grelic. Even I’m not so sure we can win,” Dakeb said. “Come, walk with me.”
The Mage led them away from the village center. His casual smile and carefree demeanor were gone. Grelic swore the man looked far older than he actually was. They moved past the senseless destruction and into the forest. Life gradually beat through the death. Greens of every shade replaced the charcoal burns.
“Life should be so simple. Don’t you agree?” Dakeb asked.
“What are you talking about?”
He gestured. “Look around you. There are no wars here. No dark dreams of power or conquest. Life goes on as it always has and everything exists together. Man could learn a great deal from trees if he only took the time to listen.” Dakeb looked deeply into the giant’s eyes, testing the measure of his resolve. “I have never fought a dragon. Not even during the war.”
Mixed emotions rocked Grelic. He believed the Mage was capable of limitless power. Finding out otherwise shook his foundations of belief. He found a tree stump and took a seat, deflated suddenly.
“What then should we do? I’m no coward but if our strongest member is against this plan I will listen. Rentor needs to be warned, at any rate.” He was surprised at how difficult the words were to say.
Dakeb nodded. “That must have burned your tongue.”
“More than you know,” he chuckled before breaking out into raw laughter
“I never said I couldn’t defeat one, merely that I haven’t had the opportunity,” Dakeb added after wiping a tear from his eye. It had been too long since he last laughed that hard.
Grelic raised an eyebrow. “Is there much difference?”
“In this case? Not really. But I feel obligated to try.”
“What is it you’re not telling me, Mage?”
That easy smile waned.
“You know something,” Grelic pressed.
“Nothing concrete. I have suspicions but they belong solely to me until we can confirm them. Times are perilous enough and our enemy has spies everywhere. The Dwim and Gwarmoran attacks were no mere coincidence. We are being hunted, herded if you will, and until I discover the truths I need, my fears remain private.”
Grelic conceded the point. “I won’t argue with you. When the time comes don’t forget to let the rest of us in on it.”
“Agreed.”
“That still leaves us with one issue,” Grelic added.
“Who is going to warn the king.”
Grelic sighed. “I can’t say that I actually like doing deeds like this, but I’ll be damned if peace makes sense to me. I’ve had a sword in my hands almost my entire life. Killing takes a special talent. A lot of men don’t have the stomach for it. Part of me wishes I had been there during your war.”
“Those were dark times, my friend. Too many lives were lost without purpose.”
“Even so, every man lives for that one defining moment. I can’t help but wonder, has mine already passed? Did I miss it? I’ve been in more wars than I can remember. Battles, places, friends I don’t remember. Sometimes I think I should be there with them. Lost in the shadows of the past. Will history forget men like me?”
“History needs men like you,” Dakeb replied.
They sat in silence for a time. Grelic absorbed what Dakeb had said. Strangely, it calmed him. Lessened his doubts and fortified his resolve.
“Let us get back to the others and see if we can convince them. I’m anxious to be away from here,” Dakeb said after noticing the subtle change in Grelic’s pose.
The warrior gave the area a final glance. Compared to the peaceful serenity of the forest, the ruins of Gend were a desecration to the world. A terrible blight was working in the north. It had somehow fallen on a handful of strangers to arrest the progress.
“Beauty should be preserved,” Grelic said when they gained the edge of the ruins. “Where do we go from Gend?”
“I’m not sure. Thus far there has been no sign leading us in another direction. Our foe came from the Deadlands though. Of that I have no doubt.”
“That means Druem.”
Dakeb offered an appraising look. “Yes, I believe so.”
A feeling close to fear nestled into Grelic’s mind. He had no desire to see the long dead part of the world, nor the hordes of Goblins rumored to be festering within, but there were times when choice simply wasn’t prudent. They walked on, surprised to find the others huddled in a group next to the fountain. Each bore a grim look. Grelic smiled to himself. He’d been in similar situations and knew the look well. It spoke of people who knew they were about to die.
“Welcome back,” Pregen offered sarcastically. “We were starting to think the Goblins had taken you.”
“Ain’t a Goblin living that can best me,” Grelic snorted to an assortment of laughter.
Kialla stepped forward. “We’ve been talking.”
“And?”
“We’re with you, whatever you decide,” she answered. “Some of us are more reluctant than others, but we’re all in.”
Grelic finally exhaled that breath that had been trapped in his chest. “You do know we are heading into the Deadlands?”
“We know,” Ibram said.
Cron half smiled. “There are better places to see. I’ve heard the Twin Spires of Ragnash are lovely in the summer. If it’s the Deadlands so be it.”
“When do we leave?” Pregen asked. He wanted nothing to do with any of it and quietly tried to figure out when best to abandon the others.
Grelic nodded and settled his gaze on Fitch. His respect for the villager returning to confront his past rose, but Fitch was no soldier. Still, he gave Grelic a shrug and was about to speak when Grelic silenced him with a hand. The warrior sprinted back to the tree line and crouched. A bird abruptly stopped whistling in the distance. Grelic narrowed his eyes and searched the forest, rewarded with several dark shapes stalking towards him. The faint brush of metal reached his ears. It was an all-too-familiar sound. Grelic drew his sword as quietly as possible and hurried back to the group.
Kialla noticed that familiar gleam in his eyes and went for her weapons. “What is it?” she asked in passing.
“Goblins.”
TWENTY-TWO
The Aeldruin
A long, winding trail of mud and half-melted snow marked the passing column of horsemen through the eerily quiet forest. The midday sun was bright yet not quite hot enough to be a bother. Whispers of clouds hung randomly to the tranquil sky. Butterflies the mild colors of rainbows danced around the riders, inviting them to enjoy the peaceful mid-spring day. Bred for war and trained to endure long days, weeks even, on the hunt, horse and rider resisted the temptation to momentarily forget themselves.
The lead rider suddenly halted the column, rising in his stirrups. The others immediately fanned out in a wedge formation and searched the surrounding area for signs of danger. And they waited. No one spoke. A thin wind kicked up fresh pollen dropping from the pines. Horses snickered nervously, as if sensing something bad about to happen.
“Come out, Euorn,” the leader called. His voice was light, carefree.
Each rider was dressed similarly in a camouflage pattern of light and dark forest colors. A trained eye had trouble discerning them from their surroundings. Their cloaks were light yet durable and waterproof. The ancient fabric kept them cool in the hot summers and warm through the depths of winter. An equal number of men and women filled the ranks, just as it had been for generations. People across Malweir knew them for their martial prowess and often sought them out to settle petty squabbles and civil wars. They were the Aeldruin. High Elf mercenaries grown bored with the teachings of the Sacred Tree.
Euorn emerged from the shadows and lowered his hood. Lustrous brown hair with a hint of red and blonde hung down past his thin shoulders, concealing all but the very tops of his pointed ears. He grinned.
“Lord Faeldrin, there is sign of battle,” he reported without being asked.
Faeldrin also dropped his hood, revealing angular features centered around crisp eyes. “Where?”
Euorn gestured across the breadth of forest. “All over. The ambush happened here, or close by. It’s hard to tell how many Gwarmoran but my guess is near two and a half score.”
Even Faeldrin and his long centuries of mercenary work had never heard of so many attacking a singular target. “How many humans?”
“Six.”
Faeldrin balked. “Six? Are you sure?”
He regretted asking the moment the words left his mouth. Euorn was the best scout and tracker in the company. He’d been recruited for that very reason. In fact, every one of Faeldrin’s company was handpicked for the individual skills they brought. They had become his family and he cared for each dearly. Some took years, decades even, before relenting and joining him.
If Euorn took offense to being doubted he didn’t show it. Even he had trouble believing so few stood against so many of the Gwarmoran. “Aye. The signs are muddled but I’m positive there were just six.”
“Where are the bodies?”
Faeldrin looked over the battlefield, not looking forward to burying the remains.
“There are none. Leastwise none that aren’t Gwarmoran.”
The Elf Lord smiled. This is getting intriguing, unless the remains are so horribly mangled the task proves overwhelming. “Show me.”
They rode through the copse of trees, leaving the rest of the Aeldruin behind. Faeldrin immediately noticed dark splotches of blood and ichor on bushes and tree trunks. Dark wolf corpses lay scattered across the ground in growing numbers the deeper they rode. Faeldrin was impressed. Whoever controlled the wolves knew exactly what he was doing. The ravine walls were steep enough to prevent escape. Broken saplings, burned shrubs and blood-stained leaves lay heaped in piles, complicating the area for horses. He failed to see how anyone managed to survive.
“What made those scoring marks?” he asked after picking out the subtle signs of burns and ash.
Euorn’s eyebrow rose quickly. “If I had to guess I’d say Mage fire.”
“Mage fire? There haven’t been Mages in Malweir in over a hundred years. I don’t think one could have survived for so long alone,” Faeldrin replied.
“That’s what I thought as well, my lord,” Euorn agreed. He pointed to a row of ash piles. “Nothing else has that kind of kinetic energy. Not even an alchemist.”
Faeldrin looked to where he pointed. Indeed, only a Mage has such might. But which sort, light or dark?
“Perhaps we should leave this place,” Euorn suggested.
“Do you recall the tales of the dark Mage?” Faeldrin asked. An ominous tone underscored his words.
The scout glanced nervously about. If the dark Mage was responsible for killing the wolves, the Aeldruin were dead as well. Euorn remembered all too well. He’d been there during the final battle of the war. He and Faeldrin fought side by side with men and Dwarves from the southern kingdoms. Averon was the strongest foe to the dark Mages and paid dearly for their defiance. Many of Euorn’s friends died that last day.
“More than just the Silver Mage survived,” he whispered.
“Aye. And it stands to reason a dark Mage wouldn’t kill creatures he or she helped create. The question remains, who did?”
“We should find out sometime tomorrow if we follow the trail?” Euorn concluded.
The putrefying stench of decay sickened both land and Elf. Faeldrin returned to the others and ordered, “Let us waste no time. There is a Mage traipsing around the countryside. We must find where his loyalties are.”
The Aeldruin rode through the battlefield with astonished looks. Few had seen such nightmarish scenes of slaughter. Gwarmoran packs were usually small, for the larger animals almost always turned on the younger. Seeing so many dead here left the Elves with a growing sense of impending dread. Even the horses felt it. They couldn’t break into the clear fast enough.
The air much cleaner, Faeldrin pushed them through the night. They found the campsite shortly after sundown. It was hastily scattered and had little trace of being occupied. Faeldrin found himself starting to like whoever it was they hunted. Only fools would leave signs of their passing, whereas these people moved quickly and tried to cover their tracks. Unfortunately for them, we are Elves. The Aeldruin paused only long enough to rest and water the horses. The next day went quickly and they soon found themselves riding into the outskirts of what had once been a village. The sounds of battle shattered the calm morning air. Sword clanged on sword. Men and beasts screamed.
Faeldrin drew his slender rapier without pause and bellowed, “Aeldruin, for up and advance!”
TWENTY-THREE
Battle of Gend
“How many?” Cron hissed. He eagerly drew his sword.
“I don’t know. Too many to be caught in the open like this,” Grelic said. “Fitch, we need a place to make a stand. Somewhere they can’t surround us.”
“This way,” Fitch said quickly.
They followed him across the center, through Mrs. Winbern’s withered gardens and down the main road leading out of Gend. Rounding the corner of what had been the chandlery, he pointed. Grelic looked around the surrounding area. Normally such a position wouldn’t be considered but the Goblin vanguard was already on them. Three large piles of rubble, storehouses, Fitch said, formed a loose semi-circle behind the chandlery. Depending on how many Goblins had come it might turn into a death trap. Grelic risked a look back down the street. He stopped counting at forty. They’ve brought an entire company.
“Grelic, I can’t risk using my powers,” Dakeb said. “If even one of them escapes the enemy will know of my presence and we lose any advantage I may bring.”
Grelic let out a crisp guffaw. “I like how you think, Mage. We’ll have to see about killing them all, won’t we?”
“Unless we convince them to surrender,” Dakeb smirked.
“Kialla, I need your bow up here,” Grelic called.
She set her quiver down on a pile of burned logs. “I’m not going to get much range in this debris field. Think you can handle a close fight?”
“I’m looking forward to it. Just like old times.”
Old times, Kialla recalled, usually had better odds. They turned to watch Cron sprint towards them, thumbing the string of a borrowed bow.
“Best in my class,” he said in response to their looks.
Grelic looked closer and noticed it was his own bow. “Shoot as straight as you talk and the first round of ale is on me.”
The lead Goblin scouts were one hundred meters away and closing. Time was up.
“Pregen, you and Ibram cover the right. Fitch, I want you to stick close to Dakeb on the left,” Grelic ordered.
The thief ran the edge of sword lightly across the back of his wrist. “Where do you plan on being?”
Grelic gave a toothy grin. “Right in the middle. I’m going to see about making new friends.”
Pregen watched Grelic stalk forward, silently questioning his own bravado. He glanced at Ibr
am and asked, “Are you ready for this?”
The former monk didn’t reply, but merely drew his sword and loosened his shoulders. The time for talk was over.
“Relax, Ibram, or you’re going to get us both killed. Besides, you’ve already survived the Dwim and dark wolves. A few Goblins are nothing. You probably won’t even need to sharpen your sword when this is over. Come on. We need to get into position.” He led Ibram to cover behind the furthest pile of rubble.
The Goblins had closed to fifty meters when a stiff wind blew up, casually throwing the tiny band’s scent at them. Halting immediately, the lead Goblin tipped his head back to sniff the wind with a wide, flat nose. Drool escaped from between twisted and cracked teeth. Humans. More scouts caught the scent and a cry rose up through their ranks. Weapons were raised. Natural pack hunters, Goblins had muddy grey-green skin and stood close to five feet. Most were heavily muscled and overly armored. They weren’t exceptional fighters, often relying on strength of numbers. They knew they had the advantage and prepared to attack.
They halted immediately when a huge man emerged from hiding to confront them. He taunted them. Mocking them with his defiance. The Goblin whip master pushed his way to the front ranks. He had one eye and a long, white scar running the length of his face where the other had been.
“What’s this?” he snapped.
Grelic placed the tip of his broadsword into the dirt and waited. His feet were spread a comfortable distance apart. His body language suggested he was calm, relaxed. Goblins spit and yelled insults in their foul language. Grelic didn’t blink. The whip master cracked his leather and the mob quieted.
“Where there’s one, there’s more,” he snarled. “Move slow, dogs. It’s man flesh for supper!”
They started forward under the heavy crack of the whip. Grelic remained still. He was the wall upon which their might would break. The lone obstacle standing between them and a magnificent feast. Goblins strained under the whip. The natural instinct to attack without caution roiled within. It was all the whip master could do to neglect his own primal urges, but this man was dangerous. Otherwise he wouldn’t be so foolish as to stand before a Goblin pack alone.
The Dragon Hunters Page 16
