Kialla smiled fondly at him. This was the first time she’d been impressed with the boy. True to himself and the selfish ways he’d chosen years ago, Pregen clapped softly.
“Bravo,” the assassin soothed. “Touching words that don’t solve what’s our best course of action. What do we do with the Mage?”
“We let him rest. If his injuries are internal, moving him could be the worst thing for him. If his condition doesn’t change by morning we head to the rendezvous point with the Aeldruin,” Grelic told them.
“It could kill him,” Kialla countered.
Grelic nodded. “A chance we have to take.”
“What about tonight? As much as I hate to admit it, the thief is right,” Cron said. “We’re too exposed here and who knows where the horses have gotten to.”
Shadows were quickly spreading across the moss-covered ground. The tiny band could barely see twenty meters in front of them and hadn’t the slightest clue as to where they were. Only Dakeb had ever walked under these boughs and he was in no condition to help. Grelic felt lost.
“It’s too dangerous to move him right now. We still don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Kialla repeated.
“Staying here could kill us,” Pregen retorted.
“Enough of this!” the giant bellowed. “Kialla, you and Ibram scout the immediate area for a suitable campsite and try to find our missing horses. As much as I hate to admit it, I agree with Pregen. We’re too exposed in this position and I don’t trust the forest.”
“What am I supposed to do?” asked the thief.
“Help the rest of us make a litter.”
An hour later the weary adventurers managed to move Dakeb’s inert form to a shallow cut in the forest. They painstakingly dragged the litter, careful not to jostle him too badly. The Mage hadn’t moved a muscle on his own. That worried Grelic as he studied their camp. Large boulders and a thick stand of pines provided enough cover to satisfy Grelic. Anyone coming at them in the middle of the night would be forced to do so head on.
The giant finally sat down and rested when he was sure he’d done all he could. He chewed thoughtlessly on a chunk of dried rabbit. Too many thoughts troubled his mind. Dragons, Mages, Goblins, and creatures that shouldn’t exist. He didn’t know what tied them together. Couldn’t figure out why they were intent on besieging Thrae. Something far more sinister was at work than a mere invasion.
Goblins and dragons didn’t want lands or power. They stayed in their caves and mountain fortresses. They didn’t collect riches or treasures. They killed for pleasure and lust, burning villages and spilling as much blood as they could before being forced back to their haunts. Infighting killed as many Goblins as wars with the other races. So what could be the motivation behind this insurrection? It didn’t make sense to him. Grelic had a sinking suspicion Dakeb knew more than he was letting on. As long as the Mage remained unconscious, possibly dying, the quest was in severe jeopardy.
Cron half dragged-half crawled over in the middle of the night. He couldn’t sleep either. “All quiet?”
“For the most part. Something very big walked by not too long ago. I don’t know what, and right now I don’t want to know. We’re fine as long as it keeps moving away.”
Cron drew his sword out of habit and laid it across his lap. “I never imagined doing something like this. I should be leading companies into battle, not sneaking through forbidden forests and running from fell creatures.”
Grelic agreed. “We’re in bad shape if you get that bad. I’m over twice as old and about at the end of my time. I’m going to need your sword before this is finished.”
“Go get some rest, old man,” Cron chided. “I have the watch.”
The giant offered a weak smile. Exhaustion gripped him. Cron reminded him of his own youth, thirty or forty summers ago. Thrae had been much simpler then. War was war. Any political positioning among royals and ministers stayed hidden. The people rallied under the banner of the king. Those days were long gone. Grelic surmised the same sort of behavior was taking place across Malweir, all leading towards some apocalyptic nightmare none of them could fathom. His suspicions led him to believe his tiny band of mismatched heroes were all that stood in the way.
He was walking off when Cron whispered, “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure Pregen doesn’t go anywhere.”
Grelic chuckled softly and found a dry place to sleep.
“Did anyone else hear that horrible howl in the middle of the night?” Fitch asked.
Kialla rubbed the crud from her eyes and went to check on Dakeb.
“How is he?” Grelic asked, ambling back into the camp after relieving himself.
She shook her head. “No change. He didn’t hear it, that’s for sure, Fitch.”
“Lucky man,” Pregen vented weakly. He hadn’t slept a wink.
“If you say so.”
Ibram dropped his head to his hands. “Can we not start this again? We’re all tired, cold, and hungry. I say we fill our bellies and find a way out of this accursed place.”
An agonizing groan rose from the deep wood. It was as if the very earth wept beneath them.
“I don’t think the forest likes being mocked,” Cron said nervously. “Perhaps a more friendly tone is required.”
Pregen groaned softly. It was starting all over again. He was starting to think he’d never understand these people. “Nonsense. How can a forest have a conscience? What you’re suggesting is pure superstition. You’re making it sound like the trees are sentient beings. They’re just trees.”
The ground shook again, swaying them angrily. Fitch’s knees buckled from the tortured sounds emanating from the heart of Qail Werd. He’d never been the superstitious sort, never gave much thought to ghosts or ghouls until Gend was ruined. Everything he’d experienced since then only confirmed his deepest fears. The forest was against them. If not against, it was certainly warning them. S sinister lurked in the green depths.
“I don’t think we should talk anymore,” Grelic cautioned. “One way or the other, this place is alive. I don’t care to find out the truth either. We need to get out of here.”
“What about Dakeb?” Ibram asked.
The longer they spent together the more Ibram was coming to look on the old man as a father figure. He couldn’t stand to see the man suffer, for it reminded him too much of Father Seldis. He wished there was something he could do to help. He hated feeling helpless.
“We need to try and move him.”
Cron folded his arms across his chest. His back felt better but it was still unimaginably sore. “Are you sure he can handle it?”
“No, but I’m not sure we can afford to stay here, either,” Grelic answered. “Faeldrin should already be on his way to the pass. We can’t afford any delay.”
“I agree. Let’s hope Dakeb’s condition doesn’t worsen along the way. I don’t relish the thought of facing a dragon without his magic.”
Grelic glanced around. The forest was lightening, finally showing him the true extent of the damage. Nothing but devastation in every direction for as far as he could see. Grelic had a feeling the mayhem spanned the breadth of the forest. No wonder the Werd seems angry. It’s been hurt. The giant looked skyward but the sun was hidden behind the rise of the ground. A thin mist clung to their ankles as if afraid to let go.
“We’ll need rope to secure him to the horse. The sooner we start the better. I want to be moving within the hour,” Grelic said.
They crept through Qail Werd as unobtrusively as possible. The only sound they made was the constant scraping of the makeshift litter against the leather saddle. At first they cringed from the noise, certain it was going to attract unwanted attention. Memories of the beasts and creatures moving through the distant darkness mocked them and soon they were all absently searching for monster-sized tracks.
The mood among the group remained dour. No one bothered speaking, fearful any comment would only cause consternation. Grelic led them northward as best as he could.
The going proved extremely difficult, however. With no sun to guide them, he was forced to guess. Having never travelled these roads before, Grelic had no idea how far off they’d drifted. He only hoped it wasn’t too far. No big believer in monsters, the giant had little doubts that whoever had sent the Dwim and Gwarmoran wasn’t going to stop at the forest edge. His face knotted with grim determination, Grelic led them on, heedless of the scattered pairs of glowing amber eyes watching them from the safety of the trees.
* * * * *
Codel Mres slumped unconsciously. His great stores of energy and health were depleted. Every ounce of strength had left his body. Wrinkles claimed his pale flesh, as if decades had come and ravished him with a passing flurry of time and anger. Sweat covered him. His robes hung loosely from the withered mass of his body. His eyes were rolled back into his head. If not for the constant twitching in his fingers and toes, he might have been dead. Unused to magic, Codel’s body and spirit couldn’t handle the pressure of the weather spell he’d just performed.
Across the room, wreathed in shadows, stood another man. The Hooded Man. His stature was minute, yet impressive. There was no misunderstanding in him. He was the very definition of dangerous. Whoever saw him turned away, hoping to forget they’d ever met. His pale gaze stared ominously from beneath the hood he always wore.
The Hooded Man stalked across the room, hovering over Codel’s inert form. He looked down upon the traitor with disdain. If it weren’t necessary for his overall plans, the Hooded Man would have already had Codel killed. He despised traitors in every form. Unfortunately, he wasn’t in a position to do so. Plans were still being developed. Wheels were turning too slowly. Operations under Druem were behind schedule. The Hooded Man scowled at the relative failure stymieing him. Perhaps it was time to unleash the dragon. He was going to have to return to the Deadlands and take control personally. Too much was at stake and every delay was costing him dearly.
The Hooded Man held his hand over Codel’s face, sprinkling a soft brown powder on him. “Awake.”
Codel coughed once and choked. His eyes bulged, suddenly nauseous and out of breath. He gasped before his calculating eyes fell on the murderous figure standing over him. “Ma…master.”
“The storm was unsuccessful. My powers were blocked,” the Hooded Man said. “They have a Mage among them.”
“What do we do?”
“I shall deal with this relic myself. I have a feeling he is an old friend. Prepare Thrae for conquest. In one month’s time my armies will begin their invasion. I don’t expect to find any difficulties in this campaign,” he said the instant before he simply vanished.
Codel sat in his chair, noticing the frostbite on his fingers and lips.
THIRTY
Captured
The forest had a musky smell. Vibrant green moss clung to many of the trees and rocks, providing a tender blanket and adding vitality to the ancient lands. Time held no meaning under the storied branches of Qail Werd. Shafts of golden sunlight broke through the canopy at various intervals, lending an almost angelic beauty. Deer and small animals moved around again, though careful to stay away from the group.
Cron’s stomach grumbled at the thought of freshly roasted venison. Days of dried meat and stale bread were taking their toll on him, on them all. He almost wished Grelic would stop them long enough to bring down one of the stags so they could have a proper meal. Almost. Discipline, training, and the hard life of a soldier kept him focused and squashed any complaints his stomach had.
They’d been traveling at an agonizingly slow pace for almost two days. Dakeb’s condition hadn’t changed and they were growing more concerned by the hour. If something wasn’t done soon, Kialla worried he might die. They finally halted at midday for a quick meal and to check on their fallen companion.
“How is he?” Grelic asked solemnly.
Kialla brushed a strand of crimson hair from her face. “No change. I don’t understand. He’s not wounded. There’s no visible sign of injury. It’s almost as if his soul has been taken.”
Grelic turned and walked away. Her answer was disturbing, displeasing at best. He needed time alone to think. So much was happening and they’d lost all control of the situation. It was almost as if their enemy was mocking them from his volcanic wasteland. Grelic forced the thought of how good strangling his opponent with his bare hands was going to feel.
Cron slipped in behind him and the two spoke softly. Something Grelic didn’t want the others to hear.
“I’m starting to have doubts,” he told the soldier. “We need the Mage.”
Cron’s eyebrow rose. “You didn’t start out with him.”
“That was before we understood the dangers awaiting us.”
“As much as I don’t like to admit it, Pregen may have been right. We can always turn back. Get more help. I can have a legion ready in under ten days.”
“We don’t have that long. Something tells me time is running out,” he replied. “How can you be sure of their loyalty? For all we know, the throne has been usurped and we’re the traitors now.”
Cron shrugged, not wanting to think heavily on it. “True, the generals have their networks in place to ensure obedience throughout the kingdom, but a man in my position understands the potential threats better than most. I know whom I can turn to and whom to avoid. Most of the rank and file are loyal to Rentor.”
“We may have need of them before too long.”
“What are you thinking?” Cron asked.
“Someone’s going to have to try and sneak back to Kelis Dur and warn the king.”
“Who?”
Grelic grimaced. “That’s the problem. I still don’t trust half of these people. The only thing I can think of is one of the Elves.”
“They won’t be easy to slip in, even should Faeldrin agree to it. Security was already tightening when I left and Elves don’t exactly blend well with hum. This could be more dangerous than we thought.”
“No more so than tackling a dragon with a bad temper,” Grelic laughed. “I hope that old man recovers.”
They both stopped to pass worried looks back at Dakeb.
Ibram swallowed the last of his canteen and closed his eyes. He hadn’t realized just how tired he was. It seemed every moment of the day was taken in some fashion or another. Grelic constantly drilled him on the sword, while Cron explained the finer points of strategy and tactics. He thought less like a monk and more like a warrior. Some of his earlier doubts and self-incriminations faded. The desire to take up the sword and defend those less fortunate, once repressed by his dismal failures, resurfaced and grew strong.
His confidence, still badly shaken, rose. He wasn’t afraid to look Grelic or the others in the eye anymore. Wasn’t afraid to voice his opinion before the group. He was at last a man and it was past time he started acting like one. Ibram glanced over the rest of the group. For the first time he realized he was just like them. All possessed individual strengths and weaknesses. More importantly, all needed each other. That in itself was more comforting than a warm blanket on a cold winter night. Ibram smiled.
Then he stared down at Dakeb. The Mage hadn’t moved since the storm and Ibram was starting to think it was all too convenient to be raw nature. He cursed his lack of discipline back at the monastery, knowing he should have taken his studies more seriously. Surely Father Seldis would know what do in this situation. But Ibram’s mind was always elsewhere. Lost in an odd malaise none of his brothers understood.
Ibram knew what it was. It was the irrepressible desire to know something forbidden. Something better than the pale existence of the Brotherhood. Though raised by monks, Ibram never felt at place within the simple walls of the monastery. The robes and endless hours of study seemed so mundane and lackluster. Not that he knew any other way. All he had were dreams until Fitch came along and presented the perfect opportunity to strike out and make his mark on the world.
He reached down and sympathetically touched a hand to Dakeb’s shou
lder. Ibram recoiled from shock at the immediate feeling of raw power flowing through Dakeb and into him. This shouldn’t be! Ibram quickly withdrew his hand and looked around to see if anyone was watching. Then the impossible happened. Dakeb stirred. Not enough to raise his hopes, but just enough to ease that nagging feeling of dread.
Ibram wasn’t sure if he should tell the others or not. The last any of them needed right now was false hope. He reluctantly decided to stay quiet and wait for the tired Mage to awaken on his own. They needed him to come back. He had to.
“All right,” Grelic announced. “Time to move.”
They carefully rolled Dakeb onto his litter and hooked it back into the saddle. Their nerves were more frayed this close to the heart of the Werd. The heaviness of the forest slowly gnawed at their resistance. Moods darkened. Worst of all, Grelic knew whatever stalked them was getting closer. Watching their every move. Studying how they carried themselves, the readiness to do battle should the need arise. Whatever it was, the giant didn’t think they were going to last much longer before meeting. Grelic wanted out of the forest and into the comparative safety of the Elven mercenaries as soon as possible, Dakeb or not.
He gave his horse, his most trusted friend through the years, a soft pat on the side of the neck and gently stroked the bridge of his nose. The horse snorted affectionately. Grelic knew the beast was as anxious to leave as the others. One thing he’d learned as a young man was to listen to the animals, for they often had a better understanding of the natural world than hum.
“I know, old friend,” he soothed. “I don’t like this either, but what choice do we have? A few more weeks and we’ll be home. Just stay with me that long.”
It’s only going to get worse before it gets better.
“Grelic, we’re ready,” Cron called.
Right. Time to go.
Unseen through the thick underbrush, five monstrous forms moved swiftly nearby. They ran parallel to the group, constantly pausing to sniff the air. Their sharp, curved horns tore stray vines and clumps of moss hanging from lower branches. They snorted, communicating in soft grunts. Their menacing eyes darted through the forest: searching, hunting. Each bore a rusted tulwar smeared with blood and gore stains. There was no question as to their intent. They were hunting.
The Dragon Hunters Page 22
