“The ballistae are finished and packed for transport. Some of our finest work,” Aele declared. The chief engineer beamed with pride. “The added steel tips can pierce stone. This little dragon shouldn’t pose a problem.”
“What about the crews?” Faeldrin asked.
“Ready as they can get in our limited time. They need to practice drills but I’ve worked in training time along our route.”
The Elf Lord nodded appreciatively. “You are the finest captains in Malweir. What we undertake isn’t comparable to anything in recent history. Not since the Mage W has there been a threat so grave. Should we fail, the world as we know it will be forever lost. Take heart, for the powers of darkness are not the only ones at work. Dakeb has come out of his seclusion to lead us. We have never known defeat and I have no reason to believe we will this time. Go and prepare your teams. We march at dawn.”
They saluted and filed out of his tent.
“Mearlis, a moment,” he said and stopped his brother and waited until the tent flap closed. “I want you to send your fastest rider back to Elvenara and warn them. Should anything happen to us.”
Mearlis had been awaiting such a command. “Buin left this morning.”
“I should have known better. Thank you, brother. Now go and get some rest. It’s going to be a long ride.”
Faeldrin stood alone for a long time. He wasn’t in the mood for questions or pre-battle banter. Tonight was for solitary prayers and reflection.
THIRTY-TWO
Awakening
Grelic’s head felt like angry Giants were trying to crush stones on it. He tried sitting up and was stopped by shooting lances of pain from his eyes to the back of his head. Closing his eyes in a fruitless attempt at relieving the pain, he lay back down and let out a soft moan.
“Nice to see you’re still in the land of the living,” Cron whispered from across the primitive cell.
A single torch glowed from the far corner. Grelic finally managed to open his eyes without it hurting too much and looked around. Much of the cell was mired in gloom. The floor was sticky, almost wet from slush and waste. Moss grew on the walls. The ceiling was low, or so he thought.
“Where are we?” he asked.
Grelic tasted blood. Probably bit my tongue when they hammered my skull. He reached up and discovered the back of his head was swollen and throbbing. His throat was dry and scratchy. A sure sign he’d been without water for some time.
Cron edged closer. “Not sure. Somewhere underground is all we’ve been able to figure out. Our hosts haven’t exactly been generous.”
Grelic rubbed his temple softly to ease the building pressure.
Cron continued. “I got two of them before they got me. The next thing I remember is being hauled into a cavern by some sort of creature I’ve never seen before. They’re huge, Grelic. Bred for war and mostly animal.”
“You said ‘we.’ Who else is still alive?”
Cron scratched at the stubble growing on his chin. “Just about all of us near as I can tell. No one’s seen Dakeb or Ibram yet. Whatever these things are, they clearly had orders to take us alive. The gods only know why.”
“Sacrifice or a hearty meal no doubt,” Grelic said in a vain attempt at humor. “Is there anything to eat or drink?”
“Scraps of some sort of meat still on the bone. There’s a pool of brackish water to your right. We did save you a half loaf of stale bread. Anything is better than nothing, right?”
Grelic greedily consumed the offered bread. There was no telling how long they’d been down here or how much longer they would be. Already his thoughts turned to strangling one of their mysterious captors and making an escape. The problems with that plan considerably outweighed the advantages. His eyes gradually became adjusted to the subterranean darkness. Lichen ran the ceiling in patches. Water dripped constantly down some of the outcroppings and juts in the walls.
The mystery deepened. He’d been underground before, though never enjoyed it. Not even Goblins made their homes in such filth and disarray. What were these beings that had so easily overpowered them? Grelic tried thinking of all of the creatures and races he’d encountered in his long years of war and adventure. None matched their captors. Not even the foul Dwim.
Suddenly ashamed for getting so distracted, he resumed the conversation. “How do Kialla and Pregen fare?”
“Better than you. She has a nasty bruise on her left shoulder and Pregen’s missing a few teeth.” Cron laughed at that thought.
Even Grelic smiled. “That ought to dampen his charisma.”
“And sour his attitude even more. All in all, we’re in good shape. No weapons, of course. And none of us remember being violated.”
Grelic frowned. None of this made any sense. “Why capture us? Have they demanded anything?”
“Not a word,” Cron replied. “They come in, growl barely decipherable words warning us to back away, and drop off a platter of slop. They’re not very talkative or hospitable, and there’s more. Not one has raised a hand against us since we arrived. I don’t know about you, but I find that damned peculiar. Oh, you can see it in their eyes. All they need is an excuse, or permission, and they’d be more than happy to tear us apart. Watch them when they come in. They take it as a challenge when you stare back. Whatever you do, don’t back down. I think they respect strength and courage.”
“The only thing on my mind right now is where the latrine is,” Grelic groaned.
Cron gestured all around. “You’re living in it.”
Ibram didn’t know how long he’d been drifting in and out of sleep. He also didn’t know what had happened to the others. He swore Fitch and Pregen were dead; murdered by the monsters that had come in the night. Despite himself, Ibram fought hard to maintain some semblance of composure. Perhaps he was becoming a warrior after all. Grelic’s training definitely helped. He was stronger, moved better in a fight, and held a more developed understanding of how to react to his opponents. None of that had mattered the night the monsters came. They tore through the small band with extreme prejudice and ruthlessness. Even after losing several of their own, the monsters pressed the attack.
He was placed in a separate cell with only Dakeb for company. The Mage remained unconscious. An earlier examination showed no additional injuries. Ibram wished the stricken Mage would rouse and help make the world right again. He felt lost and alone. And then, through the tightening hold of misery, Ibram remembered something. Watching Dakeb’s shallow breathing reminded him of the night he’d touched the old man and what had happened after. Ibram was scared at first, but then curiosity took over.
He crawled over and sat beside Dakeb. Ibram looked through the gloom for any sign of their captors. He didn’t know if the others were alive or dead but owed it to them to escape this place and warn King Rentor. The thought of being killed by the monsters appalled him. Ibram took a nervous breath. Dark thoughts scurried around the caverns of his mind. Do I have the power to awaken Dakeb?
His fears went to the Mage. Thoughts of accidentally killing him tormented the former monk. He’d sign his own death warrant. Perhaps more disturbing was the fact that if he did indeed possess the necessary magical qualities, why had he no previous knowledge of them? Was magic a latent thing until moments of great distress? That thought scared him more than dying. A potentially dangerous force, he had no idea how to control what he had done.
“I hope you’re more ready for this than I am,” he whispered to Dakeb with a shaky voice.
Ibram breathed deep and raised a hand. Too many visions and possibilities flooded his mind. Too many defeats and brutal possibilities. It took everything he had to keep from pulling his hand away. Time slowed. Every heartbeat was a frozen second in the nothingness of time. Sweated beaded across his brow. His mouth went dry, almost making him gag. He immediately recognized the sensations he was feeling. It was fear. Dark. Loathing. The visceral scream before blinding darkness. Ibram wasn’t sure he was ready. In fact, he knew he wasn’t.
“I’m no hero,” he said softly. “I am exactly what they said. A would-be warrior with a wooden sword. I’m not ready. This isn’t what I wanted.”
He could hear Grelic snarling at him now. Cursing him up one side and down the other. Even Fitch would frown upon him. He really needed a friend right now, more than anything. Growing up in the Order’s monastery was stringent at best. Every second of their day was filled with one regimen or another. Independent thought was neatly discouraged through political and theological manipulation. Ibram fondly recalled the many times he’d snuck off to play at being the omniscient swordsman trying to save the world.
None of that mattered now. He was alone. Alone and going to die unless he managed to save Dakeb. Ibram took another slow, steady breath. It was a technique Father Seldis himself taught. He closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer to Harr, hoping the old god would listen. He held his breath and lightly touched the palm of his hand to Dakeb’s chest.
Thunder exploded in his head. His eardrums vibrated, threatening to burst under intense pressure. Pain became intimate. His familiar demon tempting him with wicked devices. Bolts of light shredded his vision. Madness rushed up from the depths of despair to claim him. The muscles on his neck strained to the point of tearing. Ibram struggled to keep from screaming. Warm urine ran down his leg. He started shaking. A rat scurried away. Not even the vermin wanted to be nearby at this fell moment. Ibram’s teeth started chattering uncontrollably. His eyes rolled back into his head. Then the impossible happened.
A soft lavender glow spread from Ibram’s hand. It quickly enveloped both Dakeb and the warrior-monk. Pebbles trembled around them. Wonderful humming stretched from corner to corner of the cell. Ibram blinked in and out of consciousness. The light flashed to dark purple, almost indigo, and darkness took him. Ibram collapsed beside Dakeb.
The old Mage gasped suddenly. His eyes shot open.
Grelic stared angrily at the hulking monstrosity standing in the doorway. Devilish eyes glared back, wordlessly accepting the challenge. Muscles tightened, rippling beneath his brown, fur-covered skin. Grelic knew he wanted to swing and start the fight. The desire for revenge had to be there. Surely this monster had been among the group responsible for capturing Grelic. Many of those monsters died that night. As much as Grelic wanted to get into a fight, his memories of his previous beating were too vivid.
The rusted iron gate swung inward. Three of the beasts slid inside. Heavy tulwars hung in their hands. Behind them walked a smaller, more intelligent one of their kind. He had antlers instead of horns and carried a long staff. He was old, his face wizened from many long decades. Some sort of spell caster or mystic, Grelic assumed. He leaned closer for a better look.
“Back!” warned the largest beast. The tulwar raised, inviting pain.
The shaman snarled something in their own language and the guard returned to his previous stance.
With crystalline eyes of remarkably sharp clarity, the shaman stared at the prisoners. “Forgive them. Wa often tend to fight first and think after. Agree?”
“Yes, I agree. All part of the business,” Grelic replied. Impressive. A primitive creature with a working knowledge of courtesy and the common tongue.
Sadness lingered in the shaman’s eyes. “You will come now. The lord wishes to speak with you.”
Cron reached over to help Grelic up before returning to Kialla’s side. The guards snarled and shoved, herding them with little restraint out of the small cave and into a large tunnel. Clawed fingers maliciously dug into Grelic’s shoulders. It was meant as a reminder of what might happen if the shaman gave the word. Grelic didn’t fight it.
The shaman led them down winding corridors of polished stone. Slime trails ran down the walls at various places, giving the place an unclean feel. More of the strange lichen grew, lighting their way. Rocks protruded like teeth from the ceiling and floor. Grelic found it odd that there were no loose rocks or dirt. It felt as if some great fire washed the place clean and smoothed it over.
Deeper down the shaman led them. He was disinclined to talk much the further they went. The differences between species made him uncomfortable and could only serve as a distraction should the prisoners try to escape. Grelic tried asking questions but only felt the claws go deeper. He winced but refused to cry out. Tiny rivers of blood trickled from the wounds.
“This way,” the shaman urged when they arrived at an intersection with two guards standing watch over the tunnel to the right.
The shaman led them past the guards and into a torch-lit tunnel. Guards lined the path at intervals. Their faces were impassive, as if they’d witnessed this same event hundreds of times. Torchlight flickered off of their black vests. None bothered to glance at the prisoners or the shaman.
Kialla reached out and instinctively gripped Cron’s hand for support. Neither said anything. They didn’t need to. A silent understanding passed between their looks. One of the guards knocked their hands apart and snarled menacingly. The shaman turned back at the sound and glared threateningly. The guard backed off. Grelic noted the display with increased interest. Whatever else the shaman was, he was feared and respected. Grelic stored the knowledge and found himself looking up at a pair of massive iron gates.
“It’s about time you woke up. I was starting to get worried,” a familiar voice called from the dimness of unconsciousness.
Ibram rolled over as best as he could. His eyes flew wide from sudden shock. Dakeb was awake! He couldn’t believe it. “How…what happened?”
Dakeb stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I should be asking you that question. You brought me back. All I did was lay there.”
“What did I do?”
The Mage smiled. “You finally unlocked your latent ability and can now pursue your true destiny. My dear Ibram, you have the gift. You were born to be a Mage.”
Ibram’s heart almost stopped. He refused to believe what his heart knew to be true. An unexplainable feeling resonated deep within his soul. It silently whispered agreement to the Mage. Ibram was about to reply when a handful of their captors arrived.
“Speak no more of this for now,” Dakeb cautioned.
A wizened being with faded antlers eased into the chamber. He bowed slowly, never taking his eyes off of them. “Honored Mage, Lord Thorsus wishes an audience.”
Dakeb returned the gesture. “We shall be honored to attend.”
Ibram stared in disbelief as his captors turned into escorts and they began the journey through the underground kingdom.
THIRTY-THREE
The Minotaur King
Grelic, Pregen, Cron, and Kialla were paraded into the massive throne room and told to behave before the shaman left them. The nearest guard offered a knowing look. Grelic fired his own baleful stare and clenched his fists.
“Now isn’t the time to be a hero, Grelic,” Kialla warned quickly.
“Don’t want to be one. I just want a little payback for the beating he gave me.”
The guard barked a laugh. Saliva and bits of partially chewed meat flew into Grelic’s face.
“Not now,” Kialla urged. Her voice carried a deadlier tone.
She was the only one still armed. Lady Killer stayed tucked in her right boot, carefully hidden from the clumsy inspection upon capture. Though it was created by the Elves, she harbored no illusions about being able to overpower the entire tribe and make good their escape. She guessed she might be able to kill one before having her brains dashed against the floor.
The giant scowled at her. No because he was angry, but because she was right. He didn’t want to die underground unless there was no other way around it. “You’re lucky I like you.”
The guards mocked him when they noticed the tension leave his heavy shoulders. Kialla flashed him the same loving smile she’d given him since she was knee high.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
They were herded into a line in front of a massive throne of aged bones. Cron swallowed back the fear rising in
his throat. He couldn’t imagine what creature was forced to surrender its bones to construct this horrible throne. Two more of the wizened shamans emerged from behind the throne where velvet tapestries of the darkest purple hung. It was the only part of the cavern where Grelic found signs of habitation. Curious, he let his gaze wander.
The chamber floor was made entirely of emerald marble run through with veins of gold with a dozen pillars evenly spaced around in a huge circle. Intricate sculptures and designs covered each from floor to ceiling. A stone pedestal sat to the right of the throne. They couldn’t see into it but the sound of trickling water echoed from within. More carvings covered smooth portions of the walls. They were of dragons and more of the huge, horned, bull-like captors. Finely woven tapestries, clearly of foreign origin, hung at odd intervals. Each was a vibrant color of the rainbow and bore heraldic emblems. Torches added an eerie mixture of light and shadow.
Whatever else they may be, Grelic recognized a warrior society. Their entire culture seemed to revolve around battle and warfare. Their dedication and devotion was praiseworthy. So much so that Grelic found himself carrying growing respect.
A heavy stone door groaned open from the far side of the chamber. A third shaman entered, this one hobbling on his staff. Behind him walked Ibram and Dakeb. Mouths dropped open as they looked upon the impossible.
“You didn’t think I was dead, did you?” Dakeb asked in response to their disbelief. “Young Ibram brought me back, but now is not the time for explanation. I believe their king is about to enter.”
“Dakeb, it does my heart good to have you back at our side, but what manner of beasts are these?” Grelic asked softly.
The shamans touched each other’s hands and began to hum.
“We are guests of the Minotaurs, my friend. I’d quite forgotten about them in all of our excitement.”
Cron asked, “Are they friend or foe?”
The Dragon Hunters Page 24
