The Dragon Hunters

by Christian Warren Freed

  Darkness blanketed Qail Werd in silent ceremony. Shadows and wicked visions came alive, removing any trace of friendliness the ancient forest held during the day. They rode on until they couldn’t see and stopped for the night. Once halted, they set about the tasks and chores that had become second nature. Dakeb remained their number one priority. Until he was back on his feet, they remained in trouble.

  “This is getting irritating,” Kialla snarled after walking away from the Mage. “His heart is beating. His pulse is fine. Damnation if his eyes even adjust to the light when I lift the lids. I can’t find anything wrong. Why doesn’t he wake up?”

  Frustrated, she spit in disgust and sat down with her head in her dirty hands. It took every ounce of self-control to keep from crying.

  Grelic stopped Cron from going to her. “She’s a strong woman, Cron. Right now she’s feeling what the rest of us have been. She’s tired, exhausted, and feeling helpless. Give her a little time alone.”

  “We don’t have time,” he replied.

  His eyes burned hotly through the darkness. The giant merely nodded. “Sometime tonight.”

  “Do you think it’s time we told the others?” Cron asked.

  “We should. Especially if it comes to a fight.”

  The soldier wiped away some of the fatigue from his face. “I’ll go gather them together. We need to do this quietly, just in case our friends are within earshot.”

  Moments later a host of anxious faces stared up at Grelic. He sighed at the weight of responsibility driving him down. He wasn’t a leader. In fact, he much preferred fighting alone. Now he had no choice. He was the over-aged leader of a ragged band of would-be heroes. He wondered what he did to deserve this burden.

  “What’s going on now?” Pregen asked sourly.

  Grelic fought back the urge to backhand the man. “We’re being hunted and have been since the storm blew over. I don’t know by what, but they’re big and there are a lot of them. No one unsaddles the horses or packs. I have a sinking suspicion we’re about to get attacked.”

  “What makes you think that?” Ibram asked.

  “Watch the forest,” Cron said. “We haven’t seen a deer or anything else for almost two days. This evening even the birds are absent. We’re getting attacked tonight.”

  Pregen felt his courage sink. This new threat was almost too much. “We need to mount up and get out here. Grelic, I’ve heard those things moving in the night as well and this area can’t be defended. We need to leave.”

  At least he said we. Grelic frowned.

  “That’s what they’re waiting for, to see if we break and run. We stay. We wait.”

  Fitch was surprised. “Wait for what? If these things are coming, we should leave. I’m with Pregen on this one.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Cron added. “These things can see in the dark and this is their territory. Don’t you think they know every ravine and every stream from one edge of the forest to the other? If we run, they will wipe us out before we get far.”

  “What if it’s the Dwim? Or the Gwarmoran? They can’t know the forest any better than we do,” Kialla theorized.

  “The tracks are different. They’re bigger and go on two legs. The space of the prints indicates massive strides. Whatever they are, they’re big and clever enough not to be seen.”

  Pregen maintained his form and sarcastically asked, “So we’re staying here why?”

  “To draw them in. Once they’re completely focused on us we’ll be able to slip away in the confusion,” Grelic said.

  “They’ll neglect the outer perimeter!” Ibram exclaimed. “What do we do until then?”

  “Nothing,” Cron told them. “We go about our routine the same as usual. Any change will only let them know we’re on to them. Get some sleep if you can and keep your hands on your swords.”

  They drifted back to their tasks. An underlying chord of fear strained them. None were able to focus, instead casting furtive glances into the trees. Sleep was an illusion. Only Grelic managed to start snoring within a few minutes. Kialla was amazed. She failed to understand how he could remain so casual in the face of imminent danger. Secretly she wished for that same confidence and experience.

  Grelic awoke to Cron’s hand gently rocking him. Neither warrior spoke. The giant calmly picked up his already drawn sword and rolled up into a crouch. Time was up. He heard them first. Heavy feet crunching dried leaves and branches despite attempts at being stealthy. At least the leaves he had Fitch and Ibram gather and lay down around the camp worked. Grelic almost smiled. The beasts might be cunning but they were far from stealthy. Once his eyes adjusted to the gloom he caught a glimpse of Cron drawing an arrow. A quick look around the camp showed him the others in different states of preparedness. For some odd reason, Grelic imagined he was the only one who had gotten any sleep.

  His thoughts were shattered the moment the first hulking shape barreled into the tiny clearing. Cron’s bow thrummed twice in quick succession and the attacker fell. Any thought of victory was short lived as another four took his place. Grelic came up swinging. His broadsword ripped into an opponent’s stomach, tearing entrails and bone loose. He ducked under a crushing blow from the spiked tulwar aimed at his head. Bark and moss flew from the tree behind Grelic. The giant stabbed into the ribcage and twisted his blade. His foe was dead before it hit the ground.

  Another beast fell under a pair of arrows lancing his throat. Grelic almost had hope for victory until he noticed the night was teeming with violent red eyes and quickly moving figures. Hope quickly turned to despair. Across the embattled campsite, Fitch was clubbed to the ground. He fell over Dakeb’s body and was still. Grelic parried a slash from a crudely made sword and kicked. His boot heel broke bones.

  Ibram and Pregen fell almost at the same time. The assassin clutched his shoulder in pain and collapsed. Ibram was punched in the jaw, mercifully knocked out. Grelic couldn’t see Kialla, but he couldn’t stop to worry either. Cron’s bow fell silent and Grelic was alone against a horde of snarling, panting monsters. He bellowed and swung his sword.

  The shadow in front of him ducked and Grelic’s sword lodged in a tree. A hoofed foot kicked him down before he could jerk the sword free. The giant fell but bounced back to his knees. He could see his enemy more clearly now. Their horns. Their prolonged snouts. Rows of large, gleaming teeth. Bodies covered with soft brown fur. Grelic was reminded of cows.

  A large one, the leader, he guessed, pushed his way through the throng to confront Grelic. Drool hung from his teeth and anger flitted dangerously in his eyes. Grelic tried to rise but too many hands held him down. The leader snatched his hair and leered at him.

  “Go ahead, you big bastard. Do it,” Grelic said and spit in his face.

  The others took great amusement from the petty act of defiance and laughed. The last thing Grelic remembered was a heavy crack on the back of his skull and the horrible laughter as he fell into darkness.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Dragon Hunters

  Faeldrin and his patrol arrived at their base on the eastern reaches of Vorshir Lake three days after leaving Gend. Cheers and applause rose in greeting from the rest of the Aeldruin. They’d been without their leader for far too long. The Elf Lord watched the faces of his troop and frowned at the subtle apprehension in their eyes.

  “Hail Faeldrin!” cried a slender, light redheaded Elf. “It’s been too long.”

  Faeldrin slid from the saddle and hugged his brother. “What news, Mearlis? Why is the camp in such a foul mood?”

  “Evil creatures stalk the night. We lost Tai in a raid two nights ago. The Goblins know we’re here, but we can’t figure out how.”

  The Elf Lord laughed. It was a bitter, hollow sound. “If only Goblins were the extent of our problems. We’ve been signed for a much larger task and, unless I miss my guess, it goes to the root of our Goblin troubles.”

  “Tell me why I have a sour feeling in the pit of my stomach,” Mearlis said.

 
He’d been the first to join Faeldrin all those years ago. They’d shed blood and drank till the wee hours of the morning. He’d even been there for the birth of Faeldrin’s only son. If anyone knew how the Elf Lord thought, it was his brother.

  Faeldrin smiled. “We’re going hunting, my brother.”

  Mearlis patiently waited. He was used to the little games.

  “There’s a dragon loose in Thrae.”

  “A dragon!” Mearlis exclaimed. “We can’t fight a dragon or have you forgotten we can’t fly? I don’t like this, Faeldrin. It’s too ambitious, even for you. How in the name of Phaelor can we expect to take down a wyrm?”

  Faeldrin clasped his brother’s shoulder and said, “Have faith. The enemy is strong and even hope stands against us.”

  “And you honestly think we can kill a dragon? Your ambitions might get us all killed.” He fell silent, spending long moments in deep thought. The decision was already made, however, and Mearlis was honor bound to stand beside his brother. The fear of facing one of the greatest powers in Malweir with just fifty Elves all but overpowered him. It was one of those rare moments Mearlis wished he’d gone back to his old life.

  “We’re with you. You know that,” he finally said. “I don’t know what you have in mind to fight the wyrm, but we’re all with you.”

  Faeldrin’s eyes twinkled. “Dakeb is with us. He and a small envoy from Kelis Dur are going to meet us at Deldin Grim in eleven days. Until then we have much to do. We’ll need hundreds of arrows fletched and I think around five ballistae to do the job.”

  “We’re to haul all of that across northern Thrae? Why not build it when we get close enough to the dragon?”

  “Because nothing grows in the Deadlands.”

  Mearlis paled.

  “There’s only one place large enough for a dragon to hide this far north. Druem. Cheer up, Mearlis, we’ve a Mage on our side!”

  “I hear you, though your words offer no comfort. You’ve been on a long journey. Rest and recover your strength. I will talk to the others. Food will be prepared shortly.”

  Faeldrin finally let his shoulders sag. He was no stranger to the hunt, but Mearlis was right. Fighting a dragon far surpassed any expectations he’d had when forming the Aeldruin. Perhaps he was being arrogant, though he intended to look upon it as being overly confident. Headstrong and determined, Faeldrin virtually forced him out of the communal living in Elvenara. The vast majority of Elven-kind wanted nothing to do with adventure, having done so much when they’d first arrived on these shores. Faeldrin suspected they might have gone home if their complacency didn’t lead to the forgetting of boats and the ways of the sea.

  He remembered the journey across the waters with fondness. Thousands of years ago the Elves undertook their greatest adventure. None of their years on Malweir compared to the breathtaking scope of their journey. Images of their homeland faded, blurred around the edges. Faeldrin finally found a challenge rival of that journey. A dragon! Despite the dangers, he found himself already growing apprehensive. He walked back to his tent, whistling nervously.

  Dusk overtook them by the time he finished freshening up, changing his clothes and eating. The remainder of his company, including those who had made the patrol across Thrae, stood arrayed in a half moon before him. Mearlis and Euorn took the center. Faeldrin cast his gaze over each Elf. Their crystalline eyes sparkled with determination, giving him his answer.

  “Welcome, brothers,” he began.

  They bowed as one in ordered discipline that only decades of working together accomplished. Faeldrin returned their bow as a king in review of his finest troops.

  “I’m not going to mislead you with long speeches or fancy words. The fact of the matter is dangerous times have befallen us. Thrae is just the first to feel the sting of this new threat. You know of which I speak. The great enemy has returned. I followed a band of Goblin marauders across northern Thrae. They were attacking a small group of men when we finally caught up and destroyed them.”

  He went on to tell of his meeting with Dakeb and of the hero Grelic, legendary among men and Dwarves. Lastly he spoke of the dragon and the mission into the Deadlands. The Aeldruin visibly balked at the prospect of entering such a wasteland, but none voiced their dislike.

  “I don’t need to remind any of you what happened the last time the dark Mages rose from the shadows. Malweir was almost torn apart, yet we stood strong in the night and beat back the tide. Dakeb is an Elf-friend and a personal friend to many of us. He believes, as do I, that the Silver Mage is at work in the Deadlands.”

  Euorn stepped forward. “Faeldrin, every last one of us is with you, but I bid caution. We had magic on our side in great numbers during the war and there were no dragons to contend with. Dakeb is my friend, aye, but even he isn’t so powerful as to defeat both wyrm and dark Mage.”

  “Let Dakeb worry about the dark traitor. Magic for magic,” another seconded.

  Faeldrin grew impatient. Any debate now would only prove senseless. “We have two weeks before meeting up at the pass of Deldin Grim. There’s plenty of time to figure out who gets to fight what.”

  Nervous laughter, the sort only a soldier on the battlefield had, rippled through them.

  “Mearlis has our instructions. Work hard and diligently. Let’s show these Goblin scum the pride of Elven engineering. There’s a dragon in need of slaying.”

  They cheered, momentarily forgetting the troubles of the future. Tonight was one of mirth and song. The quarter master broke out a barrel of stout rum imported from the Bay of Cuerlon, far to the south. A roaring fire blazed in the center of the camp and a pair of Elves hauled a wild boar on a spit for the feast. Yet, behind it all, the sound of saw and hammer echoed throughout the night.

  The Elf Lord made his way among his brothers, stopping to speak with each of them. They laughed and shared tales and fond memories. Through it all he kept his brooding private. He fletched arrows, sharpened his sword, and helped cut down trees for the machines. After working up a sweat and feeling out the mood of most of his people, Faeldrin retired to his tent.

  He wasn’t tired. Elves seldom slept. Rather, he had the nagging feeling many of his friends, his brothers, weren’t going to be coming back from Druem. Mearlis found him hours later, standing before a small pine table studying old maps of the Deadlands. A dagger stuck in the point of Mordrun Bal. Mearlis handed his brother a tin cup half filled with rum.

  “It’s no fun drinking alone,” he said.

  Faeldrin considered refusing but took the cup and let the spiced liquor warm his throat and stomach.

  “What’s troubling you?” Mearlis asked.

  “Time,” Faeldrin replied. “There is no time.”

  “We’ll make it to the pass on schedule. They’ve already collected enough wood for two ballistae.”

  Faeldrin shook his head. “I’m not worried about that. Deldin Grim is one of the worst mountain passes in Malweir and I’m willing to bet it’s heavily guarded. The Goblins need numbers in order to win. This feels different. We’re going into the middle of their homeland. Deldin Grim is the only way in for a hundred leagues in either direction. That is my dilemma. If we had time we could skirt around the Darkwall Mountains and cross the Deadlands to attack. What happens if the dragon strikes while we’re in the mountain pass?”

  “That’s what Dakeb is for, right?”

  “Let’s hope so,” Faeldrin answered.

  Mearlis absentmindedly studied the map. “Exactly how do we kill a dragon? Goblins are easy, but a wyrm! Do you realize that only two have ever been killed since the Elves first came here?”

  “Nonsense. Dragons are like everything else. I’m sure that number is skewed.”

  “That isn’t reassuring. I doubt we have time to send an envoy to the dragon realm and ask for one who happens to dislike the one in the Druem,” Mearlis said sarcastically.

  “Relax,” Faeldrin said. “It’s not that bad. I’m sure their hides can be pierced, perhaps not as easily
as ours. That’s why I have you and those wonderful ballistae. Make sure the engineers use green wood. Dragon hide is much tougher than armor. This is going to be an incredible adventure, don’t you think?”

  “How do you remain so confident? This is a suicide run.”

  Faeldrin balked. “Such words hold little meaning for a race that lives forever.”

  “We’re not immortal, Faeldrin. Elves die too.”

  “This isn’t a personal quest. Malweir is in danger and needs our help once more. Think what will happen if everyone with a good heart stayed home to wait for the end. What nobler cause could there possibly be?”

  He laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “We have a chance to do good for the world, Mearlis. The dragon can be killed and we’re going to do it.”

  The Elves toiled for another five days, working around the clock. Each ballista was carefully crafted for durability and maneuverability. Twenty shafts per weapon were cut and crafted. Each was as thick as a torso. Smiths infused a coating of steel on the tips, adding to their lethality. Archers spent the days on the practice range, firing until their arms stung and felt heavy. The echoes of mock combat ranged across the dew-covered fields. The Aeldruin were going to war.

  Faeldrin summoned his captains on the fifth night for a final council. “The time is now upon us. We have seven days to reach Deldin Grim. How prepared are we?”

  Euorn spoke first. “Blades are sharp and we’ve enough arrows to take down a small army.”