The Dragon Hunters

by Christian Warren Freed

  “Why you stare?” Krek snarled from across the fire.

  Fitch recoiled, embarrassed at getting caught. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, it’s just that until the other day I’d never heard of a Minotaur.”

  Krek snorted and tossed another log on the fire.

  Fitch pressed, “How long have you been a warrior?”

  Now it was the Minotaur’s turn to blush. He stared intently at the flames, at the way heat burned down the wood and turned almost white. “No questions.”

  Fitch refused to back down. “I’m not even a warrior, if that helps. Up until a few months ago I’d never seen a battle.”

  This grabbed Krek’s attention. “Why you here?”

  Lowering his gaze, Fitch struggled to keep the old sorrow from resurfacing. Then an idea struck. Maybe he needed to talk about it. Seldis and Dakeb both told him so repeatedly in the past. He’d hurt too much to understand at the time. But now, with Krek sitting across from him and just about everyone else asleep, he felt the need to get it all out. “My village was destroyed. That’s what started this whole mess.”

  He went on to explain in detail the events of that day and what he knew of events leading up to their capture by the Minotaurs. Krek listened intently. He refused to admit it, but the bull warmed slightly to the young human. He wasn’t sure why, because humans were generally pathetic genetic specimens. They had thin hides and were ill equipped for long periods of hardship. They were weak compared to the older, more rugged races on Malweir. Krek had been ingrained with the belief of their inferiority. Why then, he often questioned, were there so many of them? One of the shamans once explained the reason as being they needed numbers to make up for their lack of durability. At the time it made sense. Looking at the small hu across from him, Krek wasn’t entirely sure.

  He spat at the fire. “Garg! Bah! Filth needs cleansing.”

  Fitch winced at the Minotaur’s word for “Goblins” but couldn’t agree more.

  “Sleep now. I guard,” Krek told him.

  Fitch found sleep easily that night. Something he hadn’t done since leaving the Order of Harr’s monastery.

  The first signs of Goblins came at midday. Krek halted them as soon as he caught the scent. Scowling, the Minotaur readied his tulwar. Grelic and the others immediately prepared for battle. They’d been hoping to exit the Werd and link up with the Aeldruin before having to fight again. That dream tumbled around them in a heap of disappointment. Swords drawn and arrows nocked, they formed a loose half circle.

  Krek knelt down and touched a Goblin footprint. The ground was still soft. He scanned the area around him. His scowl deepened. Signs of their passing were all about. Broken branches. Piles of waste. The foul “Garg” were despoilers of the land and made no such constraints in the once mighty Qail Werd.

  “Many Garg,” he growled in hushed tones.

  Grelic used his own experience to examine the signs. “Many is right. Close to a full company I’d guess. Heading east. They look to be moving in a hurry.”

  A bird cawed from the unseen distance.

  “How long ago?” Cron asked.

  “Less than a day,” Grelic cautioned. “They are heavily armed.”

  “A war party,” Cron said.

  “Aye. But heading where?”

  Eyes fell to Krek. To his credit, he stared back unflinchingly. “Malg.”

  There was a faraway look in his eyes, as if he longed to return to his underground kingdom to stand beside his brothers when the attack came. A low growl escaped his lips. Because of these wayward hum he would not be there to share in the victory.

  Cron looked back at the trail they’d been following. “There’s nothing for it. A hundred Goblins won’t make it very far.”

  “Let’s hope the dragon isn’t with them,” Kialla said.

  She regretted it the moment the words left her lips. She wasn’t the sort to believe in luck or other such nonsense, but she also didn’t want to be the one responsible for bringing down the wrath of the gods. She may not believe in luck, but Kialla was very superstitious.

  “Ever the optimist,” Pregen said, rolling his eyes. He braced for the wrath of a sharp tongue. Or two.

  Instead all he got was a “be quiet” out of Grelic.

  The early summer heat was stifling, especially under the thick canopy. The day was still young and sweat already trickled down Grelic’s arms and back. His sharp eyes scanned the forest fervently. Krek sensed his unease and was already searching for prey. Qail Werd had become hostile territory. A stag elk crossed the trail ahead of them and froze. His soft brown eyes locked with Grelic and for a moment knew courage. So many others meant nothing but certain demise. Unable to suppress the overwhelming urge for self-preservation, the stag bolted back into the safety of the trees. Cron almost laughed. The Minotaur shook his head at their strange ways and pushed on. The sooner he guided them to Deldin Grim, the sooner he could return to the battle at Malg. Grelic and the others fell in line behind.

  Night fell on them quickly. They hadn’t seen any further signs of Goblins during the rest of the day, but Grelic remained cautious. If the enemy was moving unopposed this deep in the Werd, they could easily spring a trap at any given moment. Any delays now would surely make them miss the rendezvous with Faeldrin. They’d barely managed to recover from the first half of their journey and had need of strength and energy before reaching the Deadlands.

  They dined on what remained of the elk and a pot full of wild vegetables and mushrooms found nearby. No one had any idea how much longer the quest was going to last and Grelic insisted on living off of the land for as long as possible. Krek stalked off shortly after eating. He gave no reasons and none were asked. Grelic knew what he was mad about and quietly let him go. It never hurt to have an extra set of eyes watching the night. Cron took the opportunity to pull Grelic aside.

  “What was that between you and Thorsus? I had the feeling we were about to meet an untimely demise.”

  Anger flashed behind Grelic’s eyes, then he smiled tightly. “Two old bulls used to being in charge. That’s what happens when two people like that lock horns. So to speak.”

  “You should calm down more,” Cron advised. “We could have been killed.”

  “I have news for you: we would have been killed long before that if we didn’t have Dakeb. That crazy old Mage is the only thing keeping us alive.”

  “That bothers you, doesn’t it?” Cron asked.

  “Worries me is more like it. What happens if he gets killed? That doesn’t bode well for the rest of us,” Grelic said. “Thorsus could have killed us at will, but didn’t because of Dakeb. The dark wolves almost had us, but again Dakeb stepped in. Ibram’s misadventure with the Dwim in Eline. Need I go on?”

  “No, but what of poor Ibram? Imagine the nightmare he’s gone through since he was told he’s a Mage. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

  They looked across the small campsite to where Ibram and Dakeb sat in hushed conversation.

  “I still don’t understand,” Ibram told him. “How was I chosen for this? I never wanted to be a Mage. Magic doesn’t interest me.”

  Dakeb rubbed his hands together thoughtfully. “It’s not so simple as picking and choosing. You see, magic is very powerful and has a mind of its own. Those of us gifted never asked for it. Not even during our strongest hour could we determine why this is so. But we did learn how to recognize the signs. It usually begins during late childhood. The temple at Ipn Shal had trained teams scouring Malweir in search of gifted boys and girls of every race with the potential to make the world a better place.”

  Ibram remembered reading in the monastery’s libraries about the Mage orders. Once proud and distinguished, they soon fell into decay and ruin. Great scholars theorized they’d believed too much of their own mythology and succumbed to the vastness of their power. Perhaps that’s what propagated the rise of the dark Mages and the near destruction of Malweir. No one knew for certain, but Ibram clearly recalled one specific
fact: the Mages had been considered child stealers and were resented by a large portion of the populace.

  “If times were different, you would have been identified much sooner and taken to Ipn Shal,” Dakeb said. A tear formed in his eye at the mention of his beloved home. Magnificent beyond compare, only ruins remained.

  “That doesn’t mean I want to become a Mage,” Ibram protested.

  Dakeb sighed. “Sadly, it is not up to us to choose. Go and get some rest. We’ll speak more on this in the morning.”

  The would-be warrior stumbled off to sleep, discovering he was more tired than he thought. Dakeb did the same. He smiled, truly smiled, for the first time in centuries. Malweir had hope once again. He only prayed there was enough time to follow through.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Rendezvous

  The forest began to thin out. Massive trunks were replaced by saplings and shrubs. Golden streams of sunlight filtered through the slender canopy. Moss brightened the area, adding calmness and serenity. Dakeb breathed the fresh air and let out a long sigh.

  “I’ve always loved the feel of the forest,” he said, to no one in particular. “Not so much the ancient hearts of the great Werds. No. They been alive much too long and tend to be bitter and full of contempt. There’s nothing like a mean-spirited tree that can’t go anywhere.”

  Despite the lightheartedness in his laugh, Fitch found himself sneaking looks at the surrounding trees. Where he once considered fanciful imagination he now pictured angry beings uprooting themselves and falling upon them in a fit of blind rage.

  “Why should they be angry?” he asked timidly.

  Dakeb eyed him mischievously. “Imagine if you had to stand in one place and see the same sights for hundreds of years. What kind of mood would you be in?”

  Laughter rippled through the group. It did little to ease Fitch’s apprehensions. He felt as if one of the mighty oaks was going to reach down and snatch him up. Just one more thing to worry about. Dwim, dark wolves, Goblins, dragons, dark Mages, and now trees. What did I do so wrong in my life to arrive here? Fitch wondered if there was any safe place left in the world. Such thoughts reawakened memories of his wife. He missed Shar. Every night he fell asleep thinking of her face. The image faded ever so slightly with time. Blurring around the edges. When she was gone he feared he was too.

  The old Mage sensed his internal suffering. The pain bothered both of them, though Fitch had no way of knowing. As a Mage, Dakeb was forced to keep much to himself. Withholding certain information was necessary when so many forces worked in opposition. He’d lost track of the secrets kept and never spoken. Every last one stayed with him, haunting his waking thoughts and corrupting his dreams. Dakeb wasn’t sure what the extent of Fitch’s role in this adventure was, but he had a sinking suspicion it wasn’t going to be good. For reasons he still wasn’t sure of, Dakeb kept seeing the face of Fitch’s beloved Shar.

  “Do you think Faeldrin will be there?” Cron asked Grelic, unconcerned about Fitch or Dakeb’s trees.

  They rode side by side without once looking at each other. Both kept their eyes on the forest. Krek may have been steering them towards the mountains, but the enemy seemed to be everywhere these days. Neither particularly wanted to have another go with the minions of the Silver Mage before linking up with the Elves.

  The giant grunted. “No reason for him not to be. The Aeldruin are famous for their punctuality. If he said they’ll be there, they will be.” He leaned closer. “It’s just a matter of figuring out where there is, compared to the terrain.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Grelic made a sweeping gesture. “Qail Werd runs for hundreds of leagues along the spine of the Darkwall Mountains. Sure, we know where Deldin Grim is, but it’s a large pass and Faeldrin will be able to find a suitable place for his mercenaries to hide should the dragon pop up. How much time are we going to lose trying to find them?”

  “I’d like to think he is smart enough to set pickets and look for us,” Cron said.

  “Providing he gets to us first. What if we arrive before they do?”

  He left it at that. It was in the late hours of the morning when Krek stalked out of the thickening undergrowth. The faintest trickle of sweat dripped from his brow. Grelic frowned his apprehension. The furrowing scowl etched on Krek’s face sorted out his thoughts. Only one thing was capable of riling up the young bull more than Goblins. Elves. Grelic almost smiled.

  Krek fixed him with a withering glare. “Horse tracks. Hours old.”

  “The Elves?” Kialla asked.

  “Possibly,” Grelic replied, not wanting to assume anything.

  An overwhelming sense that their hunters were close on their trail lingered. He’d done his best to ignore the feeling since leaving Malg, but it resurfaced again. One step behind and lurking wickedly in the shadows, he could almost feel them. Hope made him answer quickly. Hope and the sudden need for companionship. Not for the first time did he feel the strong desire to retire. Just a little more, you old fool. Just a little more and you can find out how normal people live. The only problem was he wasn’t sure if that was the sort of mundane life he actually wanted.

  “Krek, how much further to the forest edge?” he asked.

  The Minotaur thought for a moment. “Close. Reach valley soon.”

  “Do we stay here and wait or press on?” Cron asked.

  Looking around, Grelic replied, “I’d just as soon be caught in the open if we have to fight. At least that way we’ll see them coming.”

  “Don’t you think about anything besides battles?” Pregen snipped.

  He’d been growing more impatient since leaving Malg. Dakeb had taken notice and immediately grew worried. For reasons he still wasn’t sure of, Dakeb kept silent. Whispers in the dark warned him the time was not yet right. There was still travelling to be done before Pregen Chur would come to meet his gods.

  Grelic snarled. “It may be the only thing keeping us alive. Mind your tongue or I’ll knock a few more teeth out.”

  The assassin shot him a vicious glare but kept his mouth shut. He knew when he was outmatched. “Krek, take us into the open. The sooner we get there the sooner we’re done with the mess.”

  The comment instantly drew Kialla’s attention. Something clearly bothered Grelic and she was probably the only one he trusted enough to confide in. He was the rock holding this quest together. She feared what would happen if he broke down.

  They rode on.

  Cron took the opportunity to drop back and speak with Dakeb. Questions were bothering him and he needed answers.

  “Beautiful day for a trip through the woods, don’t you think?” the Mage asked with a healthy grin. “Always made me feel good. There’s nothing like the soft grass underfoot.”

  “That’s a fancy thought indeed,” Cron nodded. “I’m curious though, how is it our young Krek here speaks in broken sentences while Thorsus and his shamans act as if they were educated in Kelis Dur?”

  “I was wondering when one of you was going to get to that. Make no mistake, captain of Thrae, Krek and the warrior class understand everything we say. Don’t dumb them down by assuming otherwise. Men have a tendency to underestimate the other races. It is an old failing.”

  “They are the first other race I’ve ever actually met, other than Goblins,” Cron admitted. “Truth be told, I hold no expectations, at least none that I’m aware of.”

  “A good field commander should always know his potential enemies. Not that I am saying the Minotaurs are capable of mounting a campaign to reclaim the northern kingdoms. Quite the opposite. They are a most peaceful people so long as you don’t get on their bad side.”

  Cron bristled at being told how to do his job from a has-been and found the comments off the mark. “Dakeb, the Minotaurs.”

  The Mage wore a stunned look. “Of course. Long ago, when the elder races first came to these shores and men were nonexistent, no two races spoke the same language. Those were terrible times. First came peace and
the urge to cooperate for the good of the land. Peace, however, is not the way of life. There has always been conflict in one form or another. Not all is for the worst. New technologies rise from war. New philosophies and customs. More importantly, new understandings.”

  “New hatreds and enemies as well,” Cron added.

  “Indeed. All that changed when man came. Vast and vicious wars were fought. One hundred years came and went in constant struggle. Wild magic developed in all of the races but it wasn’t until the sons of Gaimos fled to Ipn Shal and constructed their home. The magic called to them. Called them away from land and lords. Meetings were secretly held in dark corners. Envoys were sent to those found to have the gift. Those were the very first Mages. Finally, after years of plotting and fleeing, representatives from each race meet in that most sacred place.”

  “The ruins of Ipn Shal.”

  Dakeb smiled fondly. “Aye. Though it was naught but an empty spot beside Thuil Lake at the time. The wars ended and peace settled. The magnificent complex of Ipn Shal rose and people from all walks of life came to learn and study. Some came to work, some to join our private guard. Kings and leaders sent their heirs and announced successors to learn and develop so that they could return and be equals. So, you see, every royal house learned what became the common tongue. Of course some needed a little magical influence to move their tongues this way or that,” he chuckled. “Just about every race can speak the common tongue.”

  Cron stifled a soft yawn, Dakeb’s answer being too long to keep his total attention. “I understand Thorsus better and it stands to reason the shamans are the custodians of their people, but what of the rank and file? How is Krek’s speech so primitive?”

  “Have you tried living in a dank cavern for hundreds of years? The answer is remarkably simple. Cut off from the rest of the world after the Mage War, the Minotaurs simply had no use for common speech. They’re forgetting.”