Quest Call_The Dowland Cases 2

by Kirk Dougal

  The sleep that surrounded me was not as restful as the nap I had at the Temple of the Soaring Eagle, but it was no less deep. Vivid images made me restless, unusual for my time in the games where I rarely dreamed of anything. On this night, however, memories of The Kindred swept through my thoughts, remembrances of the days when I ruled the game that Ghost and I had invented together. In the dream, he was there, bumbling through as a player like he had when he was still alive. Evelyn made an appearance as well and so did Gwen. Evelyn followed me around as I tried to escape, her face changing from the beautiful woman I had known inside The City and morphing into an old woman who keeled over dead at my feet. When she dropped, Gwen took her place, beating me with Jim's baseball bat and firing rounds from a gun that never ran out of bullets. I ran from her in a panic, sometimes as a man, but more often as The Beast, the werewolf that had been my avatar when I was the ruler of the game. When Gwen finally caught me, I screamed for help, my shouts echoing off the cage of my dreams.

  I woke to shouts all around me.

  Dozens of the Horde were yelling, pointing at something over my shoulder as I pulled down my blanket. The sun still held a portion of pink, shadows clinging to the landscape as the new day arrived, but the men were not interested in any sunrise. I rolled over and stared at what had them all astir.

  Spoon was draped over the end of his wagon, the ground matted black from his blood in the dirt. His throat had been cut so deep his head lolled to one side, threatening to fall off completely if the muscle gave way.

  Three Fingers talked fast as DeBrest listened, his head nodding every few seconds. Pagul was also nearby, tattooed arms crossed over his bare chest. I had never seen him without his sleeveless shirt and now I had a full view of the ink that decorated every inch of his upper body. High in the middle, however, was one that stood out from the others, the metal tattoo a version of a spriggan, a small-bodied man with a massive head. I recognized the creature from northern European tales as someone who lived for treasure. I realized that Pagul's mindset matched that of the mythical creature and also knew at once that his IP tag was most likely hidden underneath.

  “There he is, awake now,” Three Fingers said, his words catching my attention. “There's no way he could have slept through your man's murder. He must have been involved.” I felt every eye in the circle turn toward me.

  I threw off the blanket and stood up. “Spoon was my friend. We arrived late…”

  “He's got blood on his pants,” Three Fingers said, cutting me off. A murmur swept through the Horde members close enough to hear. DeBrest's stared at me, his lips set in a white line.

  “I was injured at the Temple of the Soaring Eagle,” I said, sweating despite the cool morning, rising anger beginning to warm me up. “I fought with a knight and cut my leg.”

  “Show us!” Three Fingers demanded. “If you were hurt in battle, there will be a wound.” He stepped forward, followed by several members of the Horde.

  He stopped short when an arrow sunk into the wagon, quivering in the wood near his head. A moment later, a second arrowed matched the first though this one had come from a different direction.

  “He was healed before we left the temple,” Saleene said as she stepped out of the grass. Bree remained hidden, however, no doubt covering her friend from a hiding spot nearby. “Show them, Wolf.”

  I hesitated, uncertain about what I would be showing the group. I had not checked the wound after I leaped off the healer's bed. For all I knew, I would be showing a leg that was unharmed in any way. Fighting my way away from the Horde was one thing. Doing it without pants might be asking too much.

  “Let's see, Wolf.” DeBrest's voice was even but there was the promise of steel in the words.

  I unfastened the buttons and dropped my pants, raising up the tail of the shirt so my left thigh was exposed. The murmur circulated through the Horde again, and I glanced down.

  The skin was unbroken on my leg but it remained a mixture of reds and blues with three clear scars from nubs on the mace, pinched white in small valleys.

  “Thank you, Wolf,” DeBrest said, nodding his head.

  “Well, if not him, than who?” Three Fingers asked. “We know someone broke away from the camp and then returned before dawn. The sentries saw him. There must be a traitor among us!”

  “Where's Trellac?” The words were out of my mouth before I even thought about what the accusation would mean.

  “I haven't seen him for a couple of days,” Pagul said. “Ever since our first night on the plains. He's always been a sneaky bastard.”

  This time, the murmur from the other men grew into near shouts. I glanced over at Saleene, still standing on the edge of the group, poised as if she might bound off into the grass at any moment. I looked for some signal that she agreed Trellac might be the spy, but her face was smooth, no emotion etching into the skin.

  “Find him,” Three Fingers said. He leaped onto the wagon wheel, raising himself up so most of the Horde could see. “Find the red-skinned traitor! Find him and bring him to me!”

  “To us,” DeBrest said, but I barely heard his words over the roar of the men as they ran off into the grasses around camp.

  I stepped forward, placing a hand on Spoon's shoulder. He had only been a computer construct, an NPC with no real emotion or loyalty that was not the idea of his AI or some programmer, but he had been the closest thing to a friend I had inside this game.

  “Even more important than making Trellac pay for his deeds, what do we do now?” I asked. Saleene had moved close enough to hear the question, and Bree appeared, as well, standing and walking out of a clump of grass to my left. “Do you still plan on going to Dinas Farwolaeth today, Duke?”

  Silence fell among the three men. It did not take an oracle to tell this question was a point of contention.

  “The Captain and Pagul have urged me to wait until we discover what damage has been done by the spy,” DeBrest said.

  My stomach soured at the thought. A delay would leave us sitting in the open against an opponent who was entrenched within a castle's walls, possibly reinforcing his defenses. The duke's plan of riding to the castle gate had always appeared to be overly bold and on the edge of borderline ego insanity. Waiting now felt more like a suicide mission.

  “A dog that dies of old age is just as dead as a dog that dies when the bear rips out his throat,” Saleene said. “But at least he was fighting against the bear. What do you want to do, Duke?”

  “Take the city and kill them all,” he said. “Someone needs to pay for my parents and the deaths of all their faithful subjects. Including Spoon.”

  I walked to the front of the wagon and grabbed the shield Spoon had kept beside the seat while driving every day. The cooking lad, Roz, was standing nearby, dirt on his cheeks streaked by tears. I nodded to him before turning.

  “You know me, Duke. The Searcher's duty is to get inside that castle and find answers to all my questions.” My sword rang out as I pulled it from the scabbard. “Let's go.”

  Three Fingers nodded, but he looked like he had just sucked on a green cherry. “I'll gather the men.” He walked away, yelling orders to all the Horde within earshot.

  Pagul started to walk away as well. I trotted to catch him, hoping to confirm my suspicions about his real identity.

  “Pagul, we need to talk before we leave for Dinas Farwolaeth,” I said.

  “About what?” He stopped when he spoke, and I noticed his hand fell to the smaller ax he had strapped at his waist.

  I stepped close, my voice dropping. “About who you really are. I don't care what Tower says, we should be working together on this case. We can take these terrorist bastards together.”

  Pagul blinked. “What the hell…”

  The rest of his words disappeared beneath the roar of a thousand shouts.

  Chapter 23

  Waves of soldiers dressed in black leaped from the grass surrounding the camp. Screams answered the challenge as the men cut a swath thro
ugh the Horde, the men dropping like wheat before the scythe. I turned and flinched, raising my shield just in time to push aside a spear thrust. The Farwolaethan staggered forward, and I slashed down, burying my sword in the crease between his neck and armor. He dropped to the ground with a strangled scream.

  Before I could remove the blade, the next man was on me. The spear point bounced off the scale plates on my shirt, but I still felt every ounce of the attack. The breath rushed from my lungs, and I doubled over from the pain cascading through my ribs. Still bent over, I wrapped my arm around the shaft, pinning it to my body. With my sword arm occupied, I threw an overhand hook with my left, catching the soldier with the edge of my shield. The metal rang against his helmet, denting in the side. He slumped to his knees, head lolling to the side. I did not hesitate. My boot made contact with his chin, snapping his head back with the crack of breaking bone.

  I turned again, searching for Pagul. He was nowhere in sight, but at least he was not lying dead with a weapon in his body.

  My next thought was of Saleene and Bree. I ran around the corner of the wagon and smacked into another Farwolaethan, both of us tumbling to the ground. I rolled to my knees and scrambled backwards, yelling in surprise. A warrior bounced on the ground in front of me, an arrow sticking out of his back. It shook as he quivered with a final breath.

  I glanced up and caught a flash of silver as one of the women ran in the opposite direction, firing another arrow as she moved.

  Three of the Horde ran past me, disappearing into the grass on my right. A moment later, I was following them, stumbling into a sprint. A rising roar caught me from behind, the battle cries of at least twenty Farwolaethans mixed with the pounding of their feet.

  I continued up the low rise, finally cresting the edge of the bowl-shaped depression where the group had camped. Back out on the open plain again, I risked a quick glance over my shoulder. The sight forced me into another sprint. At least half the group was still following me, scrambling up the hill in a pushing, clutching crowd as they raced to see which one of them would catch me first.

  I stared forward as I ran and noticed two of our company's wagons rolling around the falling edge of the semi-circular mountain. Moving with them were some of the Horde on horseback and many more on the ground, doing their best to keep up on foot.

  None of that was as surprising as who was in the seats, whipping the horse teams into gallops. Captain Three Fingers drove one of the four-wheeled carts his men had brought with them to Breton. In the other wagon was Pagul, screaming as his arm drove the whip forward and cracked on the horses' haunches.

  I stumbled, realizing the tattooed man must have gone mad in the surprise attack. Now he was trying to escape, not toward the safety of the far off White Mountains but, instead, racing toward the source of the danger, Dinas Farwolaeth.

  Coughs wracked my body as I lurched around rocks half-buried in the plain. My lungs burned. Each of my legs had gained twice their weight and bolts of lightning streaked through my ribs, sharp pain erupting on each step. Sweat poured down my face and threatened to blind me.

  Then the castle loomed into sight.

  Massive stone blocks soared to more than ten times my height. Near the sides, they melded into the mountain, joining living rock as an impenetrable barrier. It curved out in a great arc, reaching out into the plain like a great dam, meant to break the spirit of any attackers with its sheer magnitude while its stone was built to crush their bodies. Every hundred paces, a square tower jutted out from the wall, topping the ramparts by another thirty feet and giving any archers behind the slits an ample view of the killing field right up to the base of the stone without putting them in sight.

  “Pagul! Turn around!” The words leaped out of my mouth, strong and full of command, and faded into a whisper in the vastness of the plain, not even reaching the castle's walls to echo.

  Arrows fell in waves from the sky, buzzing like great bees until they struck the ground in front of me. I blinked in disbelief. The Farwolaethan archers were overshooting Pagul and the others, missing them by at least thirty paces and dropping into the area between us. My steps faltered, and I veered to the side, allowing the space to widen. The arrows had effectively cut me off from the rest of the group as they raced toward the castle wall.

  Or more specifically, toward the city's gates, gates that were now opening wide to welcome the wagons and most of the Horde into their embrace. Shouts rose from the walls, not of challenge, but with glee-filled cries of welcome that were echoed by Pagul, Three Fingers, and the others.

  The monumental size of my mistake loomed in front of me, dwarfing the disappointment flooding my thoughts. Pagul was not the other FBI agent sent inside to find the terrorists. He was a spy, in league with the Farwolaethans to plan this ambush and crush DeBrest's hopes.

  My hopes for escape were crushed as well, a moment later, when a black form soared into the sky from behind the walls, shaking the ground with a scream that climbed in volume as it rose higher. When it reached above the mountain peaks, it folded its wings in tight to its body and curled into a dive, rushing toward the ground like a meteor, the wind whistling past its body.

  The dragon opened its snout and fire poured on the plain, scorching the grasses to black ash the moment it touched. A second later, the beast threw out its wings like great rippling sails and swooped into another climb. Its wake beat me like a massive club, the rushing wind blowing me sideways and tumbling me into a roll.

  Heat from the flames forced my head to the side, and I sucked at the cooler air. Breath in my lungs again, I stood up, wincing at the sight. My sword was gone, lost somewhere after the dragon sent me scrambling over the plain. Spoon's shield hung by only one strap from my arm, and the leather shirt holding the scale armor had ripped down one side so it was draped over one shoulder more than worn.

  Smoke swirled around my body as the flames lit the grass to my right, forming a blazing wall between myself and Dinas Farwolaeth. Even worse, at least a dozen of the black-clad warriors were already on their feet and running toward me again.

  One second there was open ground between me and the soldiers, and the next, Trellac was standing between us as if he had stepped through an invisible doorway, red skin dancing with the reflection of the burning grassland. He raised his hands and flames shot out, catching the first two men and curling their skin into blackened masses, blasting off lips as they opened to scream.

  I met the next one with my shield and followed with a knife thrust toward his face. By then, the fourth was close enough to slash at my back with a curved sword. Some of the scales bit into my skin from the force of the blow, and I heard others drop to the ground. A great humming bird dove past my face and landed in the warrior's chest, changing from a bird into an arrow buried through the armor and into the flesh beyond.

  Trellac screamed, and I spun. I leaped in his direction, preparing to run over the Farwolaethan who had pinned him to the ground, but my next step never set down. The dragon dove by again, crushing me under his wake. I wondered why it had not used its fire to kill us all, but then my thoughts returned to the battle.

  Trellac had rolled free when his attacker was also blown to the side by the dragon. In his right hand was a sickle-shaped weapon, the inside portion of the curve sharpened and already dripping blood. A single finger-width band of flame shot from his left palm, melting its way into his attacker's helmet and eliciting a scream cut short by a gurgle.

  The dragon screamed again. I glanced up and saw the beast curling around at the peak of its climb, already starting the turn for another dive.

  “Come on, Trellac!” I yelled with every last bit of air in my lungs, but the words sounded puny and weak beside the roar of the fires, the clash of weapons somewhere off to my right. “We've got to get out of here!”

  He nodded, his mouth working but none of what he said reaching my ears. I heard his scream of pain, though, when a spear dove through his thigh, the head bursting out the back with a spray of
blood.

  I lurched toward Trellac as he dropped to the ground. Movement in the corner of my eye forced me to duck as a sword flashed through the space where my head had been a second earlier. I smashed my shield into the attacker's face, but then it was my turn to scream as a second soldier landed home with his spear, pushing the point into my right arm. Luckily the point hit bone and stopped or it would have continued on into my side, pinning the limb to my side. The knife dropped from my hand, and I staggered back, inadvertently helping the other man pull his weapon free. He thrust again but his aim was not as good this time, the spearhead only scraping along my back under the armor shirt, ripping it farther and leaving a trail of pain in its path.

  But he had stepped closer for the attack, and I spun on one foot, bringing the edge of my shield down in his wrist. I felt the bones give way under the blow, and the spear dropped from his grip. Ignoring the pain shooting through the punctured muscle, I brought my right hand up fast, burying my knuckles into his throat. He gasped, windpipe crushed, and flopped to the ground like a fish tossed onto the bank.

  Sulfur filled my nose, and I ducked, waiting for flames to engulf my body and for me to wake up in the hospital with Doc and Callie watching over me. But the dragon breathed his fire beyond me where the sounds of more battle were suddenly drowned beneath the roaring furnace.

  The draft jerked me to the side, however, banging me into the first soldier, his jaw hanging loose and blood spurting from his broken nose. We tumbled along the ground, tangled together until we stopped with me on top. I beat the side of his helmet, bloodying my knuckles, and then pushed the Huntress's bracer against his throat. The Farwolaethan fought back, clawing at my face with one hand and punching me in the ribs with the other. I put all of my weight on my arm, and his eyes widened, revealing the whites all the way around. The punching stopped but I felt his arm still moving.