“We’ll see,” Bayzog said, stuffing his hands into his sleeves. “We’ll see.”
“Huh, I think I miss them already.” Ben hitched his elbows on the table. “To think, you can actually hold a dragon in your palm. That’s amazing! And the way they fly! Fast. Fast as lightning.”
They sat in silence for a long moment. Ben’s eyes were fixed on the rafters. Bayzog gazed at his book. He’d just summoned three dragons. What other wonders can I do? He stretched out his fingers. The book slid off the table into the air and opened up before his eyes.
“Are you already reading again?” Ben said. “Don’t you get tired from all that reading?”
“I won’t stop until my family is found,” he said. “You should know that by now.”
“I do know that, but let us get a breath of fresh air, at least.” Ben made his way to the closet and stuffed his boots on. “Our enemies might be missing us anyway. Best we give them something to see.”
With a wave of Bayzog’s finger, the tome closed and lowered back onto the table.
“Perhaps you’re right,” Bayzog said, sauntering over to the closet to slip his shoes on. “You’re a good friend, Ben.”
“As are you, Bayzog.” Ben buckled on his sword belt. “I just wish there was more that I could do.”
“You’ve done more than enough already. Come, let’s stretch our legs a little, shall we?”
They made their way out of the mystic apartment and back to the gardens. A misty rain fell, wetting the flower petals. Bayzog took a seat on the bench, with Ben standing near his side. It was here he always waited, in plain sight, hoping the servants of Barnabus would check in with him. It was his way of letting them know he was desperate and under their command. At least that’s what he wanted them to think.
Ben’s fingers tapped on the pommel of his sword. His eyes were busy, drifting from person to person. It seemed they all avoided his stare, avoided walking by him, even.
Are they all in on this?
They sat for almost two hours, talking little. Ben, as usual, commented on the flowers and chatted a little about the time when he had worked on his parents’ farm. Bayzog could feel the tension in the man. Ben had become a man of action. A soldier. Fighter. The waiting game must be torment to him.
“Perhaps you should spend a little time among the other folk,” Bayzog suggested. “Unwind. So long as you are within the city, I don’t think our unseen captors will mind. Go. Be normal.”
“I’m not so sure I want to spend time among these people,” Ben said, sucking his teeth and eyeing a vulture of a man walking by them with a stone-cold stare. “And I always have this feeling they want us separated. We’re all split up enough already. Only the Sultans of Sulfur know where Nath is, and Brenwar’s probably arguing with a tree somewhere. No, I’m staying.”
“As you wish,” Bayzog said, “and I hope no offense.”
“None taken.”
A figure approached. She was beautiful. Crimson robes. Tall, dark, and eerie. Her voice was soft and commanding.
“Bayzog.” She nodded. “I bring word of your wife and sons …”
CHAPTER 6
Brenwar tugged at his reins. Into the stiff winds they rode. Their dwarven horses nickered and stomped their hairy hooves. Behind him, Pilpin led his horse to a stop and opened his mouth. Cutting his utterance off with his hand, Brenwar squinted his eyes and sniffed the air.
In a low voice he said, “You smell that?”
Pilpin cocked his head. His eyes widened.
“Orcs.”
They’d been riding north, toward Narnum, for two days, keeping their eyes on the skies. Brenwar knew there was little chance he’d see a black dragon. He was certain the story was half-cocked to begin with, but dwarves claimed they had seen them. And if you couldn’t trust the word of a dwarf, who could you trust?
He dug his heels into his horse’s ribs and plunged deeper into the forest. He and Pilpin traveled the remotest of areas. The forces of Barnabus were along all of the major roads and scattered throughout the cities. Armies of thousands camped miles from Morgdon’s borders, keeping an eye on things. They were everywhere, making their presence known in irritating but unforceful ways.
The Truce.
The word irritated Brenwar. You cannot have a truce with evil.
After traveling another twenty yards, he stopped and dismounted. Pilpin did the same. Like two stout barrels walking, the pair lumbered through the woods, pushing through the briars and brush. Rough orcen voices caught Brenwar’s ear. He crept behind the next tree and peered toward the source of the sound.
Two orcs wandered the woodland. Scouts, by the look of them. In chain hauberks and bearing crossbows. Swords hanging from their hips. It wasn’t a good sign. Where there were scouts, there were armies.
“We can take them,” Pilpin whispered, pulling his axes from his belt. “Let me do it.”
Brenwar shook his grey-streaked beard.
“No, I can take them,” he said. “You stay here.”
“But—”
“Stay,” he said, low and forcefully. He took a step and stopped. There might be others. Perhaps he needed to draw them out. He rubbed the bracers on his wrists. His blood began to race. He hated orcs. He needed to take his frustration out on something. “Be ready.”
He crept behind a tree. It was a small tree, but a tree nonetheless. He placed his hands on it and began to push with the might of the bracers.
“Hurk!”
The roots popped from the ground, and the tree began to tilt toward the orcs. Fueled by mystic strength, Brenwar’s stout legs kept pressing. His face flushed. Sweat dripped from his nose. Roots ripped from the earth and the tree toppled over, crashing right behind the orcs. Brenwar moved into new cover.
The bewildered orcs sprang to either side of the branches with their crossbows ready. Brenwar could see the yellow in their eyes. The confusion. Where two had gathered, four more quickly came.
Six!
The orcs were big, greenish, and layered in scars and muscles. Their hair sprang out in greasy black tangles. They fanned out and began a search.
Brenwar caught Pilpin’s stare and nodded. The little dwarf waddled out of his hiding spot and banged together his axes.
“Greetings, uglies!”
Clatch-Zip!
Clatch-Zip!
Crossbow bolts rocketed through the air and splintered on Pilpin’s axe blades and chest plate. Brenwar burst from his spot and clocked the nearest orc in the chest with War Hammer. It sailed from its feet and into the next tree.
Clatch-Zip!
Clatch-Zip!
Two bolts whizzed by Brenwar’s bearded face.
Clatch-Zip!
The third buried itself inside his leathered thigh.
“Ya shouldn’t have done that!” Brenwar yelled. He ripped the bolt out of his thigh and advanced. The orcs tossed their crossbows and went for their swords. Brenwar closed the gap, swinging.
Pow!
One orc left his boots.
Pow!
The second crumpled on the ground.
Brenwar scooped up a handful of dirt and rubbed it into his wound.
“That’ll do.”
***
What Pilpin lacked in size, he made up for with heart and speed. He rushed in between the pair of orcs that shot at them and chopped into their legs. The pair crashed into the ground and fumbled for the blades on their hips.
Hack! Hack!
Pilpin’s blades slashed fingers and hands. The orcs howled.
“No, no, no,” Pilpin said, wagging his index finger in their faces. “None of that now.”
One orc bit at him. The other punched with its fist.
Pilpin rapped the flats of his blades upside their heads, knocking them out cold.
The last standing orc stood between him and Brenwar. It eyed them both, raised its sword high with an alarming battle cry, and sprinted for the woods.
“Drat it all!” Brenwar roared. The
barrel-chested dwarf wearing the mystic bracers swung War Hammer in the orc’s direction and let loose. His favorite weapon busted though the smaller trees and slammed into the back of the orc. It moved no more. “Bind them up,” Brenwar said, storming off to collect his hammer.
Pilpin unraveled some dwarven twine from his pack and bound the orcs together. Brenwar returned with an angry look on his face.
“What are you orcs doing here?”
Their bellies rumbled in hefty chuckles. Brenwar picked up one of their swords and rested it on his shoulder.
Pilpin had no idea what Brenwar was up to, but he had a feeling it might be painful.
“This is your leg and what I’m about to do to it,” Brenwar said to the orcs. He grasped the sword by both ends and started to bend it. The metal groaned and bent.
The orcs’ eyes widened.
“We’re scouts!” one blurted out. “We’re scouting!”
“I know yer scouts. Now, what are you scouting for?”
“Enemies of Barnabus. We hunt them down. Kill them.”
“Well,” Brenwar said, “yer doing a lousy job.” He clamped his hands down on both orcs’ shoulders and squeezed. “Tell me, what else does Barnabus have planned?”
The orcs’ faces flushed red. They squirmed in their seats.
“Burn. Destroy. Disrupt,” one said.
“Take the outer cities one by one,” said the other.
“Why the outer cities?”
The orcs clammed up.
Pilpin banged them on the knees.
“Speak up!”
Brenwar pressed his fingers harder through the armor.
One orc’s lips burst open and said, “‘So he cannot see,’ they say!”
“Who cannot see?” Brenwar shouted.
“The Dragon Prince!” said one.
“A fool he is,” said the other.
“Where is he?”
“With the High Priestess.”
“In Narnum.”
Brenwar clocked their heads together. His fingers combed through his beard. This was information he’d heard already, but he hadn’t believed it until now.
“Are we going to Narnum then?” Pilpin said.
“I don’t think we can do much good in Narnum. It’s the edge of the world I’m worried about.”
CHAPTER 7
Sansla Libor. The Roamer King. An elf cursed.
Shum was grateful for him.
On foot, Sansla led. His heavy feet landed softly on the grass, and the rest of the Roamers followed. Silent. A little in awe. The last time they’d encountered Sansla, he’d been more savage. Now, despite his appearance, he was more elflike.
They stopped at the edge of a stream, where many refilled their canteens. Sansla scooped water into his big paws and drank. The winged ape was a magnificent figure. Layered muscles bulged under his fur. He radiated power.
“Gather,” Sansla said.
The Roamers—over a score in number—hemmed in their king and took a knee.
“As you know, the Dragon King, Balzurth, has enlisted our aid in these dire times. Many of us were here for the previous dragon war. This one is to be the last.” Sansla’s wings fluttered and collapsed behind his back. “As before, we are to play a part in this, and our mission will be perilous. Barnabus and his evil continue to spread. The dark dragons thrive everywhere.
“In Elome, the elves battle the orcs, goblins, and gnolls all over the borders. The dragons aid the orcs. The Pool of the Dragons, the River Cities, the Settlement, and Borgash are all besieged. Deceived. The men of this world have put their faith in the Truce.”
Liam raised his fist and started to speak.
Sansla Libor shook his head, his ever-serene ape face contorted and strained. “We cannot aid them. We must focus on the heart of the matter.”
Liam gave his king a questioning look.
The strain on the ape’s face began to ease. “Our ancient enemy, Gorn Grattack the Transgressor, is behind all of this, and his vanquished spirit has taken form. We must search him out. He no longer walks in darkness but among us, roaming the dirt.”
The hairs on Shum’s neck rose.
The utterance of Gorn Grattack’s name was an incantation in itself. Most all of the races had banned the words, but now the evil words were out and let loose on Nalzambor.
“He is a dragon of many forms,” Sansla continued, “and we must look for the signs and be wary. He can consume any of us. Summon undead armies. Command dragons that bring wroth heat. He lies in wait, but his patience will run out. He must be found. We’ll search the world in pairs. I’ll go alone, however.” He cleared his throat. “My condition comes and goes, and I have other missions.”
“How will we know it’s him?” Liam asked.
“A chill, and you will know it.” Sansla’s wings fanned out. “I must go now, brothers. Call me when you find something.”
The wings beat, and the great ape lifted into the air. Moments later, he vanished into the night sky.
Shum nodded to his men. He was their leader. He stretched his limbs upward and began with the assignments.
“Pair up. Find aid in all creatures. Befriend our allies. Warn them of the dangers,” he said, clasping hands with each and every one. “May your steeds run like the wind.”
Within minutes, all of the Roamers had departed, except Hoven.
“What do you make of all this?” Shum said to his brother.
Hoven shrugged and said, “Well, at least the trees are not yet our enemies.”
“Most of them at least.” He called for his horse. The great steed trotted over to him. He mounted, eyeing the sky again. “Where do you think Sansla goes now?”
“He’s the king. Wherever he wants, I suppose.”
The Roamer King seemed strange to Shum. Sansla had been able to resurrect him, but he’d been unable to cure himself. Perhaps, Sansla had been unwilling. Maybe the Ocular of Orray only healed those who wanted to be healed. Perhaps Sansla had refused its aid. After all, Shum had mentioned it before.
Perhaps unwillingness is Nath Dragon’s issue.
As they rode, Shum had Nath heavy on his thoughts. The Dragon Prince was the key to everything, and now he stood in the company of evil, willingly. In the meantime, it seemed every city in Nalzambor was hostage to the Truce. If Nath broke it, many would die. But in Shum’s heart, breaking this false truce would be the right thing to do.
People have fought and won their freedom before. And what is life without freedom? I hope Nath Dragon realizes that soon.
CHAPTER 8
Bayzog sat in front of his fireplace with the Elderwood Staff in his lap, violet eyes glaring into the fire. He was infuriated. The woman, tall and shady, had offered little news. All she had said was that Sasha, Rerry, and Samaz were doing well. She had told him to be patient and they’d be returned soon. That had been three days ago. He’d been fuming ever since.
“Pah!” he said. Pah indeed.
“Can we not depart, search them out,” Ben said, “and return unnoticed? Certainly you have something inside your spellbook.”
Bayzog didn’t respond. There were such spells, but at the moment, he didn’t even know where to begin his search. And it was risky. He needed to put his faith in the dragonettes, for now.
He let his own powers merge with those of the Elderwood Staff. Mystic energy coursed through his veins. There was nothing he’d rather do than turn that garden for acolytes into a pile of ash right now.
“How much longer can you trust them?” Ben said, scratching the trim beard on his face. “I hope you’re not thinking five years. My bones get sore as these days wear on. I’m not an elf.”
“We’ll see,” Bayzog muttered. “The rendezvous is within the year. If we don’t arrive, well, our friends will know something is awry.”
“I want to be there,” Ben said. “I want to see who shows up. For all we know, the dragons have hunted Brenwar and all the Roamers down.”
“We’ll have to get
word to them or of them by some other means. However, for now, all I guess we can do is wait.” Bayzog looked to Ben. “Go into town. Enjoy yourself.”
Ben slumped down on the sofa and propped his feet on the table.
“When you start enjoying yourself, I’ll start enjoying myself.”
***
Sasha stirred. Cold and dirty, clothes in tatters, she lay on the cold dirt floor in the dimness of indirect moonlight. She and her sons had been sitting inside this large cave for days. Lizardmen and acolytes kept watch on them, and something else. A draykis. One of the most horrible creatures she’d ever seen. An abomination of man and dragon. It called the shots now.
She struggled into a sitting position with her metal-clad hands fastened to her waist. Her ankles were also bound. Both her sons lay still, resting. The cave mouth opened to the starry night sky with its full moon, and against it, all she could see were the silhouettes of the lizardmen who guarded the entrance with spears. Her stomach groaned. Little food. Little water. Little comfort. That was life now. Each new day miserable.
She scooted toward her sons. Rerry moaned as she bumped him. She could see the swelling on his face in the dimness. He and Samaz had attempted another escape days earlier. They had taken down two lizardmen and three clerics when the draykis appeared. It had struck hard. Fast. Ferocious. The boys’ skills could not prevail against it.
All was lost again.
But the excitement! That brief feeling of freedom had charged her blood.
Anger now pumped inside her chest. The draykis would pay for her sons’ suffering!
Her eyes rested on Samaz. His heavy chest rose and fell. He coughed and sputtered a little. He’d taken as many lumps as Rerry. The brothers, though at odds, fought like wild tigers for each other and their mother.
She shuddered a sigh.
She curled up between them, lay down, and closed her eyes, absorbing the warmth between them. I might not have a rock to my name, but I have them, and that’s everything I need. Her heavy lids began to close.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
War In The Winds (Book 9) Page 3
