A pair of Gnomes scurried past carrying buckets of water. Scourd resisted the urge to kick them. Gnomes were the most disgusting of all races. Less than a meter tall with unusually large heads, they were known for thievery and spying. A miserable race whose loyalty was won by the depth of a purse. Scourd growled at them, causing them to shuffle away faster. Tepid water sloshed down on the cold, dark stone.
The hammering grew louder the deeper underground he ventured. Once comforting walls of chiseled stone now seemed confining. He wanted more. There was so much more than the pitiful existence grinding out before his eyes. A torch flickered, nearly blowing out. The light was unwelcome, robbing him of his night vision temporarily. He felt the hot breath vanish from the corridor. This wasn’t right. He moved faster. A bad feeling grew in the back of his mind.
The tunnel ahead began glowing devilish red. Screams echoed through the corridors only to be abruptly cut off. He was halfway down the corridor when the nightmare erupted. A Minotaur raced around the corner, barreling straight towards him. His giant, seven-foot-frame was on fire. Molten flames ate his flesh. The air smelled of burnt hair. His horns and face were horribly disfigured, almost melting off of the bone. The Minotaur fell dead a few feet away.
Temperatures rose sharply. Scourd stopped and looked down at the ruined body of the slave. Loud roaring, rival to that of the dragon, threatened to burst his eardrums. Cold realization hit him. They’d dug too deep! Lava splashed the walls, pouring down the newly constructed tunnel. They’d tapped into an active lava vein. Their incompetence threatened to ruin everything. The ground bucked and trembled. Druem had been inactive for hundreds of years. If it erupted now all would be lost.
The Goblin ran for his life, focused on the twisting stairwell a hundred meters away. Lava poured after him, splashing and hissing wickedly as it devoured everything in its path. The screaming had stopped. Those who hadn’t gotten free were gone. He doubted there’d be bones left. Another tremor nearly toppled him to the ground. Sweat poured down his face, dripping into his eyes. He struggled to keep his balance. Death was but a step behind when he gained the first stair.
Scourd started the long climb to freedom. His claws scratched deep marks in the soft rock as he pulled and dragged himself higher. The heat was almost unbearable, threatening to swoon him. His breath came in ragged gasps. The roaring became almost unbearable. Scourd knew he was going to die in the dark gloom of the subterranean world. Delirium taunted him.
He scrambled around the corner and stopped. Terror and fear controlled him, rendering him all but immobile. No coward, the Goblin sat on the stairs and waited for Lord Death to claim him. But death never came. The world stopped shaking. The noises faded to unsettling quiet. Druem went back to sleep. The temperature started to drop. He watched the violent colors fade as the lava stopped flowing.
Confused, he rose. His only thought was that the vein they’d hit wasn’t very big. Fortune smiled on him, though through skewed vision. He’d never know how many slaves were lost in the flood as the entirety of the lower caverns was submerged. Years of work had been lost. Frowning at how far behind schedule he now was, Scourd decided to head for Ramulus’s cavern. He secretly hoped it would be flooded and his problems dealt with. The hobnails of his boots gave off a crisp report as his legs regained their strength.
Anger filled him. It took every last measure of control to keep from lashing out at the dazed guards and slaves milling about. A flicker of sudden movement caught his eye. Dwim. That familiar sinking feeling played with his stomach. The Dwim laboratories were deep within the lower levels. While he brokered no love for the genetic manipulations, Scourd understood he needed them to spread fear and terror in advance of the coming invasion. Fear, he knew, was the key to every success. He looked up to find himself confronting Ramulus’s guards.
“Move, scum,” he ordered.
Surprisingly, they obeyed.
“He’s expecting you,” the larger guard growled.
This unexpected declaration shook Scourd. He’d come expecting a fight. Instead they willingly allowed him entrance. Warnings went off in his head. Yet another thing that wasn’t right. It all led to one possible conclusion: Ramulus was unharmed and potentially enraged. Scourd’s strategy changed as he stepped into the cavern.
Much to his disappointment, nothing seemed disturbed. The heavy stench of rot and decay choked the air. Scourd momentarily debated which was worse, the stench of dragon or h. He hated both with equal passion. Unlike every other time, he had no difficulty finding Ramulus. The dragon was in plain view, awaiting him.
Potent hatred glared down from the way artificial light reflected off of his pale, almost opaque white-green scales. Vibrant yellow glowed hellishly from his cat-like pupils. Ramulus sat with his leathery wings tucked tightly against his long body. His wingspan was a massive two hundred feet. His tail, the tip bouncing lightly off the ground, ended with twin rows of spikes. Serrated plates lined his massive back. He weighed over sixty tons and had been alive for over a thousand years. He was pure muscle, lethal and dangerous.
“You disappoint yet again, Goblin,” Ramulus snarled without delay.
Rage flared in Scourd. “I had nothing to do with this. Your miners dug too deep. The fires…”
“Aren’t what concern me. Dragons are impervious to fire.”
The caverns trembled from his bell.
Scourd’s confusion deepened. What was he being blamed for?
“Your war party has failed, Scourd. Dead to the last.”
Impossible. “How?”
“Not your concern for the moment,” the dragon said. “The Hooded Man has doubts at your army’s ability to defend Druem.”
Scourd swallowed hard. No one crossed the Hooded Man. A sudden thought struck him. What was there in the volcano to defend? Did this pair know something he wasn’t aware of?
“Are we expecting an attack?” he asked carefully. His real question went unasked. Who killed my warriors?
“The Fates have not yet decided. Or so I am told.” Ramulus remained civil. “The Hooded Man and I both want security doubled immediately. Reinforce the patrols along the borders. Double the watch at Deldin Grim. I do not want our enemies entering this land unhindered. Stop them, Scourd, else your hide will be hung from these walls.”
The Goblin fought for control of his tongue and left his sword sheathed, knowing the dragon would reduce him to cinders in an instant. “My Goblins will stop whatever threat you think is coming. We’ll do our job, dragon. Who’s attacking?”
He knew he was pushing it but without a proper target any defense he built was useless. Thrae was closest and not a military society. Their Iron Le were famous across Malweir but Rentor seldom used them. Thrae’s geological position made it highly undesirable for potential invaders. Still, should the complacent king uncover the threat and take the war to the Deadlands, it would be most problematic.
Strategically, Scourd knew he was positioned almost perfectly. The majority of Goblins weren’t interested in history or their place in the world’s view. Scourd was. Since his alliance with the traitor in Kelis Dur, Scourd took genuine interest in hu tactics. He had every intention of bringing the world of men to their knees.
“Your warriors, incompetent as they are, were killed by Elves,” Ramulus said passively. Even when relaxed, there was pent-up rage in his massive form.
Scourd recoiled violently at the mention of his mortal enemies. “Elves no longer live in this part of the world. Why are they here? How many?”
“Insignificant questions. The Aeldruin murdered your forces in a single night. The Mage still approaches. I will not have either loose in my kingdom,” Ramulus hissed.
“No Fair Hair will enter the Deadlands,” Scourd bristled, taking offense from the dragon’s claim.
He spun and left the wyrm to whatever private ruminations dragons had. Interestingly enough, Ramulus didn’t bring up the incident in the tunnels or the loss of so many slaves. Perhaps they’d already fo
und the artifact the Hooded Man sought. Scourd wasn’t one for idle speculation but he recognized compounding problems. If what Ramulus said was true, there were enemy advancing on Druem, despite Scourd’s own misgivings towards the information.
Too many questions came to life. Elves were troublesome. He hadn’t counted on their involvement. He’d heard once that Elves walked in the presence of the gods. Phah! Goblins didn’t believe in gods. He stalked back to his quarters with thoughts of murder lighting his eyes. There were too many variables for him to keep up with. His army was ready to launch their invasion south as soon as the Hooded Man announced he had the artifact, but it seemed the enemy was coming to him. He wasn’t ready. He decided it was time to get in touch with the traitor again and discover the truth of things.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Bad Memories
The mid-morning haze was finally burning off, giving a shaded view of the surrounding area. Slowly rolling hills steadily gave way to open plains of verdant green. White and blue flowers dotted the landscape, adding beauty to the natural serenity. Ahead, in the distance, lay the great darkness of Qail Werd. Dakeb smiled, if for no other reason than to be in the presence of the mighty forest once more. His last trip this far north left him with pleasant memories. There was something to be said for the therapeutic value of trees.
Kialla looked up into the blue sky and gave a contented sigh. She missed days like this. She and her father used to head out at dawn and spend the day in the wilds. Those days were long gone, but her love for the simplicity remained. She rode up and joined the Mage. Despite the memories, she was left with uncertainty. Perhaps Dakeb could help.
“A beautiful day,” Dakeb commented without looking her way. “Reminds me of summers along the shores of Thuil Lake. Even during winter one could look out the massive windows of Ipn Shal and admire the simple perfection. Life should stay so simple I think.”
She smiled at the hint of sadness in his voice. “My father took me down into Averon once when I was just a girl. We went to Paedwyn. Kelis Dur is nice but nothing compared to the majesty of Averon. I’ve never seen equal.”
“It is a wondrous place,” he agreed. “The ancient kings chose wisely when they made it their capital.”
“You make it sound as if everyone worked together and had a singular set of rulers,” she questioned.
Dakeb nodded sagely. “Indeed.”
“I don’t understand.”
“This part of the world was wicked and dangerous. When men first arrived they found few friends. Tribes of Goblins, Ogres, and Trolls roamed the lands virtually unchecked. Of all the mysterious races of Malweir, only the Elves bothered befriending the fledgling race of man. Of course there were differences, but none so severe as to ruin the alliance.
“Eventually men came down to the plains and made their claim. Wars plagued Malweir for hundreds of years. Mage-kind didn’t exist then, leastwise nothing like later generations. Paedwyn was built after the fighting ended. A council of kings was formed and men spread into different kingdoms. Those of us with the gift were called to Ipn Shal, the center of power on Malweir. The Goblins didn’t give much trouble for centuries. Come to think of it, they didn’t need to. We provided our own damnation in the form of the crystal of Tol Shere.”
“Were you there, at the beginning?” she asked.
“The beginning? No. I came much later though I was there during the Mage War. Once it ended, the kings decided against a singular ruling body. Sovereignty was returned to each kingdom and the order of Mages officially abolished. They even went so far as to hunt down and kill any surviving Mages. Those were foul times.”
She felt sorry for him. “I’m glad you’re with us. We wouldn’t have made it away from the Gwarmoran without you. But tell me, how can you not hate ma for what they did to you and your friends?”
He smiled, weak and aged. “I’ve lost more friends than you can imagine, but it was never ma fault. We betrayed ourselves. I doubt I’d trust a Mage after the amount of devastation we caused.”
“Dakeb, how did you survive?”
“Those few of us alive scattered. I went to live among the Elves in the great forest city of Elvenara. Others remained hidden until we were sure no one alive remembered the causes of the war. Gradually some of us reintegrated back into society, but always with a lesser role. As far as the world is concerned, Mage-kind is dead.” He stifled a quick yawn. “I intend to keep it that way.”
“I’m sorry, Dakeb. Your life must be lonely,” she said sympathetically. “Why didn’t you just go across the sea to another land? Somewhere no one would ever know your past?”
“How could I? The reason the world was reduced to this madness was by my kind. We should have never made the crystal. Pride and arrogance superseded common sense. Worst of all, the crystal wasn’t truly destroyed. The magic needed to do so was lost in the war. As long as the four shards remain I will roam Malweir to prevent the Silver Mage’s return.”
“Sidian.” She wore a grim look.
“Yes. I haven’t seen or heard from him in a very long time but my heart tells me he is ever present, lurking in the nether place where light and dark collide. I will not let him destroy the world a second time.”
She picked up on the immense sadness in his voice and felt her heart weep for him. “What was it like, before the war?”
“It was a grand age. Perhaps the best in all Malweir’s history. Peace ruled the kingdoms. No war, no bitter contests of will. It’s hard to believe that man was so civilized back then. Communication, I think, is our greatest weakness. No one takes the time to talk to one another anymore. One of our greatest failings.”
Distant thunder rolled across the sky, momentarily distracting him. “Back then the Mages had stations set up in every kingdom. Instant communications were established for the good of the kings. People were generally of the happy sort. There were grand balls and festivals. Commerce and trade flourished, even with the dourest Dwarves. Artists and poets created incredible works. I think I was happy, content at least.”
Impossible visions filled Kialla’s head. She saw herself wearing golden dresses the color of summer sunlight, escorted on the arms of royal courtiers, and brow the grand libraries through the works of all of the greats.
“I would have enjoyed those days,” she admitted, reluctantly letting the visions fade.
“You would have been a queen, my dear,” Dakeb told her.
They finally halted around midday, much to the old Mage’s delight. He was starving and absolutely fed up with being in the saddle for so long. His talk with Kialla left him melancholic and kept his complaining minimal. Once lunch was prepared, he set after it like a starved animal. Such respite would be sorely missed in the coming days.
The rest of the afternoon went drearily by. He and Kialla continued their conversation on and off. Dakeb made sure not to give away too much of himself. There were some things a Mage must keep secret. Especially when they concerned events yet to come. Through it all he kept a watchful eye on Fitch. The villager seemed in better spirits since confronting his demons. He might even be strong enough for what the gods had laid out. And if he couldn’t, that’s why Dakeb was there. Fitch was a good man, much deserving of a better life. S Dakeb wondered why Fate had such a cruel sense of humor.
They camped just before nightfall.
Pregen finished eating and moved off to the side to sharpen his sword. He’d never been much for crowds and this group was already wearing on him. People made him nervous. He’d taken the job because of loyalty to Grelic and the opportunity to line his purse for life off of the king’s coffers. He wished now that he hadn’t. The offer seemed enticing at first. Go and snoop around a dead village, avoid enemy contact, and report back to the king. Easy money. Or so he’d thought.
Trouble stalked them at every turn. Pregen was convinced there was a mole among the group. Who it was remained a mystery. Each of them garnered specific suspicion. Then again, a man in his profession found guilt e
asily. Trust was as much an enemy as the man trying to kill him. Who was the spy, though? The problem ate at him, making it hard to concentrate despite him trying to forget it since their attack in Eline.
Common sense said that Ibram wasn’t a suspect, seeing as he’d been the initial target. It also meant Ibram could have been planning it from the beginning and had some nefarious purpose in mind. Then there was Fitch. Harmless in every aspect of the word. He’d also been in severe emotional trauma for months, leaving him vulnerable. Who knows what happened in the weeks between Gend’s destruction and the qu?
Pregen let out an exhaustive breath. There were too many variables to keep track of. Until he knew for sure, everyone needed to be watched carefully. It was the only way he was going to stay alive long enough to collect his reward in Kelis Dur. The only problem was they weren’t going back. Not yet. The Mage was leading them to the Deadlands and what he assumed was certain death. No one returned from that horrid place. No hero, he brokered no intentions about becoming one now. He was an accomplished thief and assassin, but no coward. He’d given his word and meant to keep it, at least to Grelic. Cursing his ill-timed sense of morality, he went back to sharpening his sword.
Across the camp, Fitch curled up and fell asleep not long after finishing his food. Grelic envied him. Decades on the campaign trail and hard living made him impervious to most weather and a host of problems afflicting the common adventurer. It also left him calloused. Fitch wasn’t the sort used to long days in the saddle or being hunted by the gods only knew what. His innocence was cause for envy.
Grelic turned his attentions away from Fitch and back to the group. Their conversation bordered on the mundane. They exchanged stories of battles long forgotten and hilarious events that probably never should have happened. Typical field banter. I’ve certainly heard and said my share over the years. Makes me wonder just how much longer I have left to do this.
The Dragon Hunters Page 20
