She offered her husband a hand towel to blow his nose and kissed his cheek. “Those things we can’t control. I would do anything to help you get through this, Rentor, but you must remain strong. For all of us. Gossip chokes our people. The maids whisper of leaving for the south and people speak of ill creatures stalking the land.”
“Aye dearest. The vilest creatures one could conceive. I should have listened to Father Seldis more closely. Perhaps we wouldn’t be mired in such a mess.”
Rentor closed his eyes, trying to recall a time before the hardship. He saw only bad things barreling towards him. The world seemed full of promise when he was a boy, leading him to wonder what went wrong. His father was well liked and as good a monarch as lean times permitted. Rentor all but emulated the man. Yearly festivals in his honor brightened the population. A statue of the late king riding a horse decorated the central fountain square. It had cost a small fortune and no bit of convincing to get the Dwarven craftsmen to come up from their mountain haunts to build it.
All of that was behind him now. If anything, Rentor ruled a shadow kingdom. Devoid of mirth, Thrae had fallen under evil’s sway. He felt desperate to stop the rot from spreading further. All was not lost. Somewhere in the wild were two groups of his most trusted people. Grelic and his small band of heroes moved closer to the heart of darkness. Rentor could hardly believe it when the Elven mercenary rode into his city and told their strange tale of Mages, dragons, and Elves. Word came at last that Cron still lived and was about to battle alongside Grelic. The king couldn’t believe his good fortune. His best captain lived, but until the insurrection ended Rentor couldn’t let anyone know. Could the tale grow any stranger? Rentor wished them the best and offered prayers to Harr, there being little else he could do.
His heavy brow furrowed at the conflicting thoughts playing havoc in his mind. The notion of an army of traitors awaiting on the edge of the surrounding forest irritated him to great ends. Codel Mres, once his staunchest friend, had turned rogue and now disappeared. Thousands of soldiers were with General Huor. The portly general had never been an overly brave man, making his actions irrational. Rentor spent hours trying to discern some purpose behind this insurrection. Neither man seemed the rebellious sort. Someone or something was fueling their aggressions. But who? He had no answers.
Not wanting to spent useless hours trying to grasp his dilemma, Rentor went to bed. Sleep was long in coming and did not last long. He was awoken shortly after dawn by hurried pounding on the door. Groaning, he opened one eye. The bright light seemed unnatural, as if it held personal vendetta. He wondered if this was an omen. There was an almost unknown quality of warmth in the air. Surely doom would not come upon them on such a glorious morning? The pounding grew more insistent. Rentor reluctantly swung from the comforts of his bed and stalked to the door. The look on his face was one of his meanest.
“This had best be good, Sergeant,” he growled.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, the sergeant replied, “Sire, a rider approaches the main gates. He carries the white flag of surrender.”
* * * * *
“Report,” Maen said. It was all he could do to keep the apprehension from his voice. This was the most dangerous time. He’d bested the rebellion and taken the rogue General Huor into custody. There was no way the king or any of his advisors could know that yet. Maen was faced with a most dangerous proposition. If Rentor suspected a trap, any messenger sent to Kelis Dur would be run down without a word spoken. The same would be true if he rode back in force. He hated waiting and such decisions were often above him. For the thousandth time he wished his brother was here. Cron would know exactly what to do.
Notam fought back a ragged smile born from a decided lack of sleep. “The gates are open. King Rentor will come meet you outside the portcullis. Once he’s satisfied that we are who we say he’ll order his archers to stand down.”
“I don’t like this. We’re taking a horrible risk. Too much can go wrong,” Maen replied dejectedly.
“Like it or not, we’re at war. This may be the only opportunity we have to save Thrae,” Notam said. He’d been through too much to worry over discrepancies of conviction. What troubled him was Cron’s disappearance. He had an ill feeling about his friend.
Field Commander Whorl watched the camp for a moment, casually scratching his scar. “Notam speaks the truth. We cannot fault the king for any misgivings towards the enemy. This is the only way.”
Maen slammed a fist on the frail wooden table. “Damnation. He sent us on this quest. Why should he not trust us now? I wish Father Seldis were around.”
“Rentor can’t afford to trust us for the same reasons he needed to doubt Huor or the minister. Face it, this is the only way,” Notam urged with a scowl.
Maen was much like his brother but lacked the same decisiveness Cron bore.
“Fine. This is what we’ll do. Have Huor bound and thrown on a horse. He rides right behind the command group. Bring one hundred men along as escorts. When the way is clear we’ll send a message back to the others to bring in the prisoners. It is for the king to decide what to do with them. Tie them tightly and make sure they feel the full effect of their shame.”
“Do you really think this will work?” he asked in a more subtle voice.
Notam snorted. “We’ll soon find out.”
Maen nodded. That would have to do. “Ready the men. We leave in one hour.”
The midday sun over Kelis Dur was bright and hot. Citizens emerged from the relative security of their homes to stare in amazement. Weeks of heavy clouds full of disease were suddenly washed away. Archers and king’s guards rushed to the walls and took up firing positions. Despite being warned away by constables, the people thronged to the gates and walls to catch a glimpse of the traitor general. Rentor didn’t bother suppressing rumors from sweeping the city. The people needed something to feel good about. The blanket of oppression was too heavy, pushing many to the breaking point.
He took his place at the front of a small column and waited. Rentor had trouble believing it was actually Notam who’d delivered the message. After losing one of his dearest friends and higher ranking officers, he was uneasy trusting anyone. The sword dangling from his hip was comforting. It reminded him of days gone by when he was strong. Ruefully, he marched with final purpose.
“Sire, the delegation is formed up and waiting outside of the city,” the Sergeant of the Watch reported with a crisp salute.
Rentor nodded. “How far do they stand?”
“Still within arrow range.”
“Open the gates,” Rentor ordered.
“Aye, sire. Open the gates! Come on lads, put your backs into it.”
The iron portcullis ground open. Crafted centuries before to protect the people from the ravaging bands of marauders, the gates were a proud representation of what men could achieve when times grew dire. Rentor never dreamed they would someday protect them from his own army. He signaled the party forward with a nod.
Banners shuffled in the light breeze, funneling tensions across the open plain. Six riders calmly sat atop their horses waiting for the king’s party. Rentor halted a handful of paces and forced his gaze away from the bound and gagged figure of Huor. Every instinct he had wanted to run the man through with as many swords as he could grab. Instead he focused on Maen and Notam.
The young Major saluted and made his formal report. “Sire, the enemy army has been neutralized. Thrae is free to return to normal affairs. All of Huor’s senior leadership is either dead or captured and we present Huor to you.”
“Major, you have done your kingdom a great service,” Rentor said tersely. The measure of mistrust hardly tainted his voice. He turned to Huor. “You will be tried and executed publicly, Huor. Should the judge deem you guilty, of course. Sergeant, take this filth to the dungeons.”
Huor glared menacingly and struggled against his bonds. Maen went on to describe the battle and Field Commander Whorl brought forth maps and troop dispositions for the both armies.
None of it made sense to the beleaguered king. Whatever foul designs Codel and his underlings had in mind for Thrae seemed effectively dealt with. Now all rested on Grelic and a handful of the oddest assortment of companions he could imagine.
By nightfall Huor swung from the gibbet. It wasn’t long before the crows came.
FORTY-NINE
Mordrun Bal
They moved in single file under the cover of darkness. Grelic took the lead. His hulking shadow seemed darker in the foul night. The others moved like wraiths behind him. Cron and Kialla followed next, then the Mage. A much disappointed Krek trailed. Fitch, Ibram, and Pregen filled the middle. The peril was too great to entrust the rear position to any of them.
Despite growing danger, Grelic reveled in his element. He missed the sense of purpose and fulfillment of being on a battlefield. All of his previous skirmishes led him to this final task. His eyes darted back and forth, searching for signs of a rear guard left behind. His mighty broadsword danced with every step. Grelic pushed past row after row of dilapidated hovels. The stench gagged him. Waste and rotting carcasses filled the shadows and shallow pits carelessly dug between the buildings. He felt a nasty sensation in the pit of his stomach and choked back his rising bile. The Goblins could easily turn Thrae into such squalid ruin. Anger boiled within him.
The distraction proved costly. A sentry emerged from the alley behind him. The surprised Goblin balked at the sight of so many alien figures creeping through Mordrun Bal and drew his sword. He managed to blink once before a shining silver dagger plunged through his grizzled throat. Cron rushed forward and caught the body before it hit the ground.
The giant spun around, releasing his white-knuckle grip on his sword and let out a long breath. Kialla jerked Lady Killer from the corpse and wiped the blood off. She reassuringly touched Grelic’s arm and passed a look of relief. He shrugged and kept moving. None of them knew exactly where they were going and time was against them. Still, they needed to be more wary.
They gained the main boulevard and halted. Torchlight flickered wickedly from random intervals. Roving patrols marched up and down the streets. Grelic cursed silently. He should have figured security would be stepped up with the army deployed. Goblins were crude beyond barbaric, but when it came to fighting, they were professionals. Making matters worse, their commander seemed to know his business.
Dakeb eased next to the crouching giant and scanned the streets. He leaned as close as possible and said, “If they have this much security out, the entrance will be well protected.”
Grelic grunted softly. “Our task has become more difficult.”
“It also makes it easier to find the way inside,” the old Mage said and grinned.
“I like how you think,” Grelic said, instantly picking up on his meaning. “The only problem is making it to the entrance unnoticed. There’s too many here to do that quietly.”
“Leave that to me. Ready the others to move on my signal.” Dakeb closed his eyes. “Grelic, they must remain together. Whoever gets lost will not survive.”
Casting a final, concerned look, Grelic left the Mage about his business. He’d always contended that there were some things best left unknown. He passed the message to each of them without truly understanding what was happening. The small band huddled down and waited. They didn’t wait long.
Dakeb sat in the dirt and held his palms up towards the sky. Searching back through centuries of memories, he recalled the words of incantation. Thick, choking fog began to pulse from his fingertips. Then from his pores. Temperatures dropped to near freezing throughout the Goblin town. Goblins stopped what they were doing and shifted nervously. Superstitions ran high among them. Several snarled and cursed in their dark tongue. Whip masters shouted to no response.
The fog was waist high. Entire sections of Mordrun Bal were already blanketed. Fear rode the swirling mists. Goblins balked, leaving their posts in abject fear. They fled to the imaginary security of their barracks. Not even the lash of a whip stayed their fear. Soon the fog grew so thick they couldn’t make out shadows a foot in front of them. Mordrun Bal was enthralled with terror.
Dakeb rose to his feet, unsteady after such exertion. The lines on his face were deeper. “Now Grelic, strike north and fear not. My eyes can pierce the fog. We must move quickly for it will not last long.”
“Will we be affected as well?” he asked.
“No. Only evil must fear tonight. Hurry! When the moon rises the spell shall fail.”
The giant nodded sharply and ensured the others hurried behind. The next few minutes were going to go by fast. Only Krek appeared enthused with the prospect of facing near impossible odds. Any true Minotaur relished the thought of battle. Grelic sprinted.
They raced past scores of milling Goblins. The urge to strike down the enemy was great, but Dakeb warned them against it. There wasn’t time. The trek was more traumatic for Fitch. Each Goblin devolved into shadow-driven shapes of demons. He smelled smoke and saw his home burning. Dark shapes became the broken corpses of his friends, his family. They cried out in agony. They cried out for the damnation of their murdered souls and it grew too much to bear. His own mind screamed in agony. Fitch started to snap. Madness crept up from the reflection of his soul and struggled for control. Hatred and innocence battled in a silent war. Fitch Iane felt himself slowly slipping into the iron grips of dementia.
They ran on, oblivious to the internal conflict of their villager companion. Only Dakeb understood what was happening. He understood and was powerless to help Fitch. He knew the depths of the young man’s despair. Seldis told him everything in the days after monks had found him frozen and near death in the mountains. Dakeb wanted to cry for the boy. Much of the future depended on the actions of one man. His life was almost a waste.
Grelic cut down a pair of quivering warriors standing in their path. Hot blood splashed on his cheeks and forearms as the bodies toppled. He smiled. The fog ahead shifted. He could make out several Goblins massed just ahead. They were guarding the entrance to the tunnels under Druem. Grelic readied his sword and charged only to find himself standing in the open. Swirls of fog drifted apart. He frowned. The moon was rising.
Goblins slowly shrugged off their paralysis. They stared back at Grelic and the others in shock. The giant was among them while most were still trying to draw their swords. He struck down the closest with a mighty overhead swing and then dropped down to slice open the stomach of another. Cron, Kialla, and Krek rushed into the fight with recklessness that made even the battle-hardened Mage balk.
Grelic fought without thought of the others. He felt he should be back in Deldin Grim with Faeldrin, not here in the midst of the Goblin kingdom. But Dakeb had insisted and Faeldrin agreed. Rage, pent-up and demanding, finally boiled over. The score of Goblins barring his way felt the full effect of that rage. Bodies piled around him. Pools of blood grew deep. Gore and ichor dripped thickly from his sword. Grelic succumbed to the berserker frenzy. Goblins pushed and shoved to flee but it was far too late. The giant didn’t stop until no foe stood.
The others were less fortunate. Goblins correctly picked them for softer targets and focused their attacks on the Minotaur. Kialla slashed her dagger across an exposed throat and suddenly cried out as burning pain lanced through her shoulder. She dropped to her knees with the foul blade plunged in to the hilt. Cron roared and ran her attacker through. Blood frothed from the dying Goblin’s mouth.
Krek fought hard enough for all of them. His people had longstanding animosity towards the Goblins. This night was one of revenge. The heavy war bar crushed skulls and snapped bones. Krek snorted and let out a terrifying bellow that trembled the ground. The Goblin counterattack waivered. It proved a costly mistake. Grelic charged in from behind and they fell in a throng of cries.
The battle raged ahead of them and Pregen had no intentions of charging into the middle of it. That momentary hesitation reduced him to being a babysitter. Pregen glanced around and found the Mage, the would-be Mage, and
sniveling villager crowded about him. While he harbored no illusions about Dakeb’s worth, the other two mired him in uselessness.
“What’s happening out there? Do you think they need our help?” Ibram asked, straining to look over the assassin’s shoulder.
Pregen readily stepped aside. “Go and find out if you’re so eager to die.”
He snorted his distaste when the former monk didn’t move. Coward. Pregen silently wished all of them would rush into the fight. That would make it easier for him to sneak away unobserved. He was left indecisive, however. The road back to the mountains was long and dangerous. There were little, if any, clean water sources and virtually no protection from the grueling sun. The trip was tantamount to suicide. His only other choice wasn’t much better. Pregen had an eerie suspicion that he wasn’t going to be coming back from Druem. The assassin did his best to shake off the feeling but the premonition had already taken hold. He jumped when someone grabbed his arm. It was only Dakeb.
“The path is clear. Quickly. We must get inside,” the Mage urged.
Pregen didn’t like the sound of that. The tone of Dakeb’s voice compelled him against his better judgment. It made him want to go under the volcano.
“What about the others?”
Dakeb shook his head. “There is no time. They must go down a different path if we have any hope of succeeding.”
“We shouldn’t split up. We need them,” Pregen argued.
The Mage looked up with pleading eyes. “So long as they’re fighting, the Goblins will attack. The enemy won’t notice us moving among them until it’s too late. If ever you have known courage, let it be now, Pregen Chur.”
Pregen sighed. Control of his own life slipped away and he was forced to follow the Mage. He didn’t bother looking back to see if Grelic or the others noticed. Didn’t even look to see Fitch and Ibram close behind him. Instead he followed Dakeb under mighty Druem blindly, trusting a half-cracked old man and a handful of misfits.
The Dragon Hunters Page 36
