The hunter puts his feet on the table and makes himself comfortable. “I think I’ll stay. I owe that caster cutie my life and I plan on repaying the debt before we part ways. So I’ll be helping out for the foreseeable future.”
“I don’t trust him,” Luke snaps while the others move closer.
“I’ve nothing to gain by betraying you,” Zander declares. He sweats when Nyx waves her hand and lights the candles on the table, her violet eyes holding an unsaid threat. “Besides, I make it a point not to anger women with the power to grant me a painful, extended demise. I apologize for the cutie comment. Totally uncalled for and rude, milady.”
“I still don’t think this is a good idea,” Delvin mentions, nursing his mug of ale. He draws an empty flask from his belt, the smell of coffee still on the stopper. “If you’re captured by our enemies then they’ll torture you for information. It’s best that you stay out of this and go on your way in the morning.”
“I refuse.”
With a gravelly voice, Isaiah chants a spell and plunges the simple tavern into an awkward silence. The Draconic words flow from his mouth and his thick tail shifts along the floor, creating a rhythmic sliding. The green crystal in his staff shifts to a dull yellow, the inner light growing into a beacon. Strings of aura stream from the red-robed caster’s weapon, encircling Zander, who tenses up and drops his hand to his scimitar. A warmth envelopes the hunter’s heart, the feeling swiftly turning into a numbing chill. The chanting stops and Isaiah smiles at the man, the fireskin’s sharp teeth giving him a predatory look.
“I’m sorry to take such actions, but I placed a spell on you,” the powerful caster admits, signaling the bartender for a round of drinks. “If you repeat any of our secrets to our enemies, you will be struck down by the spell. I will release this curse when I feel you can be fully trusted. Again, I apologize.”
“That is very unethical,” Timoran mentions, cringing when Isaiah turns to him. “With all due respect, I feel that we should have given him more leeway. At the very least, a punishment less than death.”
“I agree with Timoran,” Nyx chimes in.
“I’m fine with it,” Luke whispers over the rim of his mug.
“Fizzle too,” the drite hisses, materializing on Sari’s head. He glares at the monster hunter, his forked tongue flicking out of his mouth. “No like animal killer. Too many come for Fizzle. Want make go poof.”
“You people really know how to make a guy feel hated,” Zander teasingly says. He reaches over to take Sari’s hand, the gypsy smirking at him. “At least you’ve been nice to me this whole time. Would you be willing to grant me a dance? I’m not expecting anything more than that unless you’re interested.”
Sari removes his hand and shifts closer to Luke, practically sitting in the forest tracker’s lap. “I have regular, bed breaking sex with this one. So I’m spoken for and still on the fence about trusting you. I know very little about monster hunters, which means I have to judge you on your actions. Right now I have no problem with you, but your forwardness is a little disconcerting. You come on too strong, Mr. Hunter.”
“May we please get to business?” Isaiah bluntly asks. The fireskin glances around the table, his eyes locking on Zander. “This is your last chance to leave.”
The monster hunter ties his blonde hair back and grabs his ale, silently toasting Isaiah and taking a sip. With a small nod, the great caster whispers a melodic spell that makes the locals yawn in unison. The tavern remains calm this time due to the tone of his words being light and bouncy, their power oddly soothing. Six forms appear around the table, one of them easily recognized as the Island of Pallice. Four of the remaining illusions become clear silhouettes while the final image remains a murky haze. All of the champions curiously examine the vague forms, but none of them are able to identify three of the solid areas.
“These are the six temples of the champions as we once discussed,” Isaiah reminds them, his ivory eyes staying on Zander. “I have been researching them, but I only know the general region that they can be found in. At this time, I have been told by the gods to keep this information secret and let you continue on your path. The Compass Key should be enough for now. Who holds the relic?”
“It’s safe,” Delvin swiftly answers. He smiles at Sari, who closes her mouth and plays along with the bluff. “What new information can you tell us? This is even the same spell you used in Gaia. No offense, sir, but I would rather get some rest than repeat this conversation.”
Nyx sips at her ale before shrugging and downing the drink, the head rush making her wince. “You can spend time with us without having business, Isaiah. Maybe you can tell me about my mother and what she was like as a student. We can talk shop about spells and casting too. I only have Sari to discuss magic with and she’s not really focused.”
“I pay attention when I need to,” the gypsy lazily declares. She bends backwards to look at Isaiah, her hair cascading to the clean floor. “I’m thinking we throw a small party to raise people’s spirits. That is after Isaiah shares his news. Please continue, oh great friend of us lost and confused champions.”
“I come with a warning,” the fireskin says, leaning over the table so that his head is sitting in one of the unknown illusions. “There have been sightings of Queen Trinity and Stephen Kernaghan in the region of Fyric. You will be passing through there on your way to the Widowhorn, so be prepared for a trap. I fear that danger will be waiting for you outside every temple, which means your battles will be greater than any of the previous champions.”
“I have been wondering about our predecessors,” Timoran interrupts, his mouth full of cooked chicken. He swallows the dry food and raises his hand for quiet. “I find it odd that the Compass Key is what opens the temples, but it appears we are the first champions to ever retrieve it. How did people enter the temples without it?”
The fireskin scratches his chin and narrows his gaze at the insightful barbarian. “I never thought of that issue. During my involvement in the prophecy, the few champions who risked the temples always found a way inside. It’s possible that time and the inner corruption has created cracks in the defenses. Though I should point out that no champion has ever left a temple alive until all of you conquered the Island of Pallice. The magic of these places is ancient and unknown to casters of today, so entering through anywhere other than the front door could have led to immediate death.”
“Good to hear. Drinks are on me!” Sari announces, hopping onto her chair and reveling in the applause. “I will never grow tired of that noise.”
The bartender swiftly fills mugs of ale and ladles stew into bowls while the waitresses hurry to the tables. Fizzle flutters onto a three-armed chandelier, the drite watching the patrons cheer for Sari, who is already dancing among the crowd. Timoran gladly takes two mugs of ale, handing one to Zander to help their new companion feel at ease. The hunter politely accepts the drink and wanders through the partiers in search of a woman to regale with his stories. Nyx moves next to Isaiah and is already talking to him about magic, ignoring the occasional advances of Delvin. Quietly watching the steadily growing celebration, Luke snatches two bowls of stew from a passing waitress. His rumbling stomach and charming smile stops her from telling him to return one of the dishes.
“Do we have to throw a party every time we enter a tavern?” the forest tracker mutters while nervously swallowing a spoonful of food.
*****
The rooster goes unnoticed by the adventurers, most of whom are either asleep or suffering the aftereffects of cheap ale. Only Luke and Isaiah are awake and healthy, though the reptilian caster yawns every few minutes. They silently sit on the tavern patio, the young warrior sharpening his sabers and whistling a somber tune. He can feel his companion examining him and glances over his shoulder to see that the fireskin’s eyes are a vibrant gold. The serene atmosphere is broken when the rooster crows again, the noise shattered by a terrified squawk.
“Fizzle no like screech birds,” the
drite declares, landing on the patio railing. “Are friends okay?”
“Timoran and Nyx are still asleep. Sari and Delvin are consoling each other over a wooden bucket,” Luke says, chuckling at the image. Spinning his sabers, he sheathes them and gets up to stretch his back. “They said something about one of their drinks tasting bad, so I think someone gave them goblin ale. We’re going to head out once they’re feeling better.”
“Animal killer coming?” Fizzle asks with a scowl.
“I guess so,” the forest tracker answers, his voice dripping with bitterness. “Maybe it’s a good thing and we can keep him from killing innocent beasts for a while. There’s no way I can change his mind since monster hunters are notoriously stubborn.”
Isaiah puffs a red ring of smoke even though he does not have a pipe. “It would appear forest trackers are no better. I never knew such a feud existed. Has it been going on for very long?”
Luke shifts uncomfortably and scratches his head, trying to recall what his grandfather told him about monster hunters. He hates to admit that Zander is the first one he has interacted with beyond threats and brief brawls. With a smirk, the half-elf remembers how much fun it was to get in the way of poachers.
“I believe it’s been going on longer than I’ve been alive,” Luke explains, reaching out to tickle Fizzle’s chin. “It’s rumored that the founders of the monster hunter guilds were rogue forest trackers. They felt the more aggressive beasts were dangers to the civilized world and their populations should be limited. Other animals they decided should be eliminated entirely because of their lethality. Forest trackers have made it a point to conserve the targeted beasts while foiling any hunts we come across. This feud is why we created the protected zones around Windemere.”
“I’m sorry, but this is rather amusing because it reminds me of religious debates,” Isaiah admits with a chuckle. He scratches his shoulder, flicking off a few dead scales. “These fights are entirely about ideology and perception of how things should be, which differs between individuals. Personally, I find such grudges pointless because, as you said, people are very stubborn. I trust you will behave and not kill the man.”
“I won’t attack, but I can still argue with him,” the half-elf defiantly states, crossing his arms and leaning against the railing. “Where are you going after we part ways?”
The fireskin stands and fixes the warrior with a stare as his eyes turn from gold to a dull ivory. “Are you enjoying being a hero, young Callindor? I heard you took your first human life a few months ago. I’ve wondered how you’re coping with it considering you’re not as seasoned as your friends. Even Sari has seen more death than you and has developed a method to cope with it. She has yet to take a human life as far as I know, but I can tell that she would do it without hesitation if the situation was right.”
Luke scratches his head and stares at his scuffed boots, refusing to meet Isaiah’s piercing gaze. He has been working to put the vivid memory of killing Kayn out his mind for a long time, the memory returning whenever he does his nightly meditation. All of his friends have tried to convince him that he had no choice, which he agrees with every time. Yet the thoughts of his sabers sinking into flesh similar to his own and the warmth of human blood on his fingers still make him shudder.
“You felt no guilt about the orc bandits,” Isaiah mentions, interrupting the warrior’s thoughts. He grins at the frowning half-elf and pats his left arm, a strange throbbing running up the caster’s fingers. “It isn’t that you took Kayn’s life because it was in battle. You think it’s because he was human, but let’s remember that orcs are not inherently evil. The Growk Council is a benevolent regime while the rogue bandits are those who choose to follow the old ways. On the surface, killing one of those anarchists is no different than killing a crazed gypsy.”
“It’s that I wanted to kill Kayn,” Luke admits, rubbing his arms because of the cold and his own uneasiness. “The orc bandits came at me and were on the attack. I rationalized them as part of the job and self-defense with no prior connection. Kayn took Sari and nearly killed me. I wanted him to suffer, so I felt a strange rage when he was dead. It was like I wondered how he could die and leave me still wanting to hurt him.”
“You felt like a monster.”
“Only because I can’t think of a better word.”
Fizzle nuzzles his friend’s palm as he says, “Stephen feel?”
“Maybe monster is a good word,” the half-elf says, hoisting the drite onto his shoulder and scratching the dragon’s blunt horns. “I’m handling it, Isaiah. If the others can come to terms with taking a human life then I can too. After all, I’m a destined champion.”
“Well I suggest you wake up your fellow champions and prepare to leave before a storm arrives,” Isaiah claims, peering toward the south. He looks through the crystal on his staff, licking his lips in anticipation. “It looks like a rough one, but you can reach the denser forest before it strikes if you leave within the next hour. Follow a footpath fringed by blackberry bushes to cut off a few miles from your journey. The thick trees will block the worst and there are rocky outcroppings to give you cover if need be.”
“Thanks, sir,” Luke says before hurrying inside.
Fizzle flies over to Isaiah’s staff and lands on the crystal, his tiny claws gripping the smooth surface. “Dragon man worried. He smell bad air and Luke target. Fizzle feel badness. Dist . . distur . . . quake coming. It on breeze.”
“I know and I will look into it, my little friend. Please don’t tell him because I fear he would try to get involved. It is unclear why they are targeting Luke, but I believe it is not because he is heading for his temple. There is more to this.”
“Fizzle protect Luke. Promise.”
A distant thud causes the drite to turn to the east, his eyes narrowing at the sight of hundreds of birds racing into the sky. Another boom rumbles and Fizzle recognizes it as the sound of giant footsteps. Darting high above the town, he scans the forest and sees the silhouettes of three Draconic heads in the morning fog. They weave from side to side, growing bigger as the creatures near Sprildon. Their movements and closeness confuses the tiny dragon, who cannot believe three Weapon Dragons could be packed together so tightly. If anything, their wings would grind against each other and prevent them from quickly going airborne. Unwilling to let the monster reach the village, Fizzle soars toward it and casts a wind spell to clear the fog. The sound of a rustling robe makes him to glance backwards to see Isaiah floating behind him on a crimson cloud.
Sprildon has faded into the fog by the time they reach the approaching creature, its true form making the pair stop and struggle to believe what they see. All three heads of the solitary Weapon Dragon hiss at Fizzle and Isaiah, oily foam dripping from its lips. The beast rears back on its long hind legs and spreads its four bronze wings over the trees. With a loud creaking, the skeletal middle head opens its mouth and spits a plume of fire. Fizzle aims his wind spell at the blast, sending the dangerous flames into the clouds where they dispel. The monster is very slow as it tries to bat its enemies out of the air with club-like hands.
“It appears they are trying to create more dangerous weapons,” Isaiah says, drifting away from the swinging limbs. He mutters an incantation and a spire of earth erupts through the monster’s axe-bladed tail, pinning the creature. “I cannot do much here, little drite. My magic could destroy the forest if I use too much. This is why I seek to avoid such conflicts.”
“Dragon man no worry. Fizzle fight,” he happily declares. The drite darts around the Weapon Dragon, searching for the best place to strike. “It loud and breaking. Fizzle think it not ready for fight.”
“It does seem unfinished,” the caster agrees, moving closer to the flailing beast. He casts a barrier around himself and watches a clubbed foot harmlessly bounce off his head. “They must have sent it as a test or to gather information on the champions’ abilities. We should destroy this abomination now.”
Fizzle smacks the wheezing
head on right with his tail, surprised that the metal skull cracks. “Dying thing not last long. Not worth poof spell. Beat to rubble and get apples.”
The drite’s body glows a dark purple as he builds up speed, his red wings fluttering blurs at his sides. He can hear Isaiah create a cage around the Weapon Dragon in an effort to prevent it from escaping and making sure the parts do not scatter about the forest. With the giant beast gasping for air, Fizzle rams its side and splinters its brittle hide. Passing underneath its belly, he strikes the monster’s knee with his tail and the leg crumples into a wreckage of metal and rotting flesh. The drite rapidly headbutts the construct, sending a rain of pieces onto the trampled snow below. Looping above the monster, Fizzle blasts through all three necks and turns to watch the Draconic heads crash to the ground.
“Too easy,” he says as he lands on Isaiah’s shoulder. He peers at the fireskin, who is drifting closer to the rapidly decaying body. “You think wrong. Fizzle agree. No boom spell or darkness ooze. Why it weak?”
“I’m more concerned with how it got here from Shayd. It seems to have a very short lifespan and loses strength rapidly, so traveling over the oceans would be too taxing.” A gentle breeze carries the thick scent of tropical flowers with a hint of monkey fur to the caster’s nose. “That must be what happened. Nyder Fortune seems to have created a factory in the southern jungles. Odd that I never found evidence, but that region is filled with secrets. Though he could simply have a permanent portal there to send the Weapon Dragons into Ralian.”
“False dragon once stronger? No nice news.”
“I hate to leave the area, but I cannot let this mystery remain. These new beasts could be a precursor to something worse,” Isaiah states, tightly gripping his shining staff. The fog clears and he looks back at the village, none of its citizens or guests aware of the beast’s presence. “I promise to return to the champions when I have searched the jungles. Until then, I need you to watch over them, little one, especially young Luke.”
Curse Of The Dark Wind (Book 6) Page 9
