Dragon Magus 1: A Progression Fantasy Saga

by DB King

  It meant their town would be laid bare for an assault.

  No one could stand in the way of the orcs.

  Logan pushed all that out of his mind, tensing his body and preparing for battle. The rangers in front of him did the same, crouching their bodies as they moved toward the trees for cover, their hands near their bows and the hilts of their blades.

  “This… this is insane,” Aiden said as the two of them moved against the trunk of the nearest Elderwood tree. “How are they managing an attack in such numbers?”

  He spoke loudly enough to catch the attention of Erik, who was behind the truck of a tree a handful of paces away. He flashed his eyes at them as he’d done before, and opened his mouth to speak.

  “I swear, shut your damn fool mouth no—”

  He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. An arrow whistled through the air, then struck flesh with a meaty thwack. A spurt of blood jetted from Erik’s neck, followed by another and another, the arrow having pierced the life-giving artery within. Another arrow struck his arm, a final one plunging into his cheek, the barbed head sticking out the other side of the hapless ranger’s face.

  “Gods,” Aiden said, he and Logan watching as Erik slumped against the tree and fell into a bloody heap.

  But Logan wasn’t about to dawdle.

  “Get down, now!” Without waiting for a reply from his friend, Logan slammed his hand onto Aiden’s leather-clad shoulder and shoved him to the ground just as the air darkened with dozens and dozens of arrows.

  One ranger dropped after the other, mostly the lower ranks who didn’t possess the reflexes to dive under the onslaught of arrows, or the ones lucky enough to have the arrows aimed at them hit only the enchanted Glade Leather that covered their bodies, the material strong enough to deflect the crude, barbed heads of orc arrows.

  Aiden cried out as arrows poured down, but he only managed to wail long enough for Logan to clamp his hand down on his friend’s mouth, silencing him. Logan watched as the arrows stopped all at the same time. This—just like the flanking attack—was a sign something was different. Something was wrong. Orcs usually shot arrows until they ran out or their targets were dead—whichever came first.

  Logan’s hand hovered near the handle of his axe once the rain of arrows stopped.

  “Make yourself ready!” he hissed at Aiden. His friend, clearly still stunned by the suddenness of the brutality, nodded quickly. His own hand went to the simple scimitar he’d chosen as his weapon—the same blade his father had wielded during his training before being given his Me’nayr.

  Aze, still at the head of the hunting party, raised his palm into the air. He was far away, crouched next to one of the trees, but was close enough to make out the stony expression on his face, calm and placid and a sign of expert training and experience.

  Logan and the remaining members of the pack watched Aze intently, awaiting their command, awaiting word that they could fight back. Despite the animal fear that threatened to creep up from deep inside, Logan was ready. Ready to kill orcs. And this was his chance.

  But before Aze could move even a single finger, a deep blue column of supercharged energy rushed in from the trees to the right. The energy blast slammed into the base of the tree where Aze was crouched, exploding into a cracking ball of magical energy that lasted only a moment. When it faded, nothing remained of Aze, the leader of the party, but a red smear of gore on the side of the tree.

  “Was that… magic?” Aiden cried. “They have magic?”

  It was bad, and Logan knew it. Typical orc raiding parties were made up of blade-warriors and archers and that was all. Magic-wielding orcs were few and far between, and the rare orc with the intelligence to wield magic knew better than to fight rangers. It was the reason why so few orcs ever ventured this far into the Elderwood Forest, and why the vast majority of vile creatures such as orcs stayed beyond the Shadespear Pass. Without magic, they posed little threat to magic-wielders such as War Wizards and those they marked with runes.

  Logan didn’t have time to consider the matter. More blasts of energy screamed through the air, each finding the next-highest-ranking members of the hunting party. One after another, the Rank Four, then the Rank Three rangers were vaporized. A blast struck Rollar Fairhair, a Rank Four ranger. He exploded into a red shower, the blast close enough to one of the Rank One rangers to cover him in hot gore and shards of skeleton, the ranger crying out in pain or fear or both.

  “Hells.” Logan gritted his teeth and jerked his axe free from his hip.

  Another volley of arrows followed the energy blasts. They’re trying to take us out from a distance, Logan realized. Before they move in closer to finish us off. These orcs were nothing like the ones he’d known. The surviving rangers needed to take cover and get the hells out of there.

  “Take cover, rangers!” Logan shouted, his voice loud enough over the hiss of arrows to snap the rest of the men into attention and take cover as best they could.

  The dozen or so rangers still alive after the arrows and the magic attack were all Rank One and Rank Two—no one experienced enough to lead a counterattack. Logan’s eyes fell on Gorm Auber, a Rank Two and now the default leader of the party. Gorm held his scimitar with shaking hands, fear in his eyes.

  The inexperienced Gorm was in no position to lead.

  “Rangers!” Logan called out. “Form around me!”

  It pained him to make such a noise, but he understood this was no time for silent communication—the enemy already knew their position. His deep, bellowing voice caught the attention of the rest of the rangers. And while they were inexperienced, they were well trained enough to gather their senses to follow the order.

  All stayed low to the ground as they hurried over to Logan, their eyes on him as they awaited their order.

  “Form in a circle,” he called out. “We cover every inch of this forest, using our bows to take them down from afar. Move only when I give the order. We stay together, and we can make it back home!”

  “What if they swarm?” Gorm asked, clearly having no problem abdicating leadership. “What then?”

  Logan gritted his teeth, knowing they likely had no more than a minute before the next attack happened.

  “Then we fight in close quarters. We carve a bloody swath through them, then head north. Once we’ve thrown them off the path of the town, we double back and make it home in time to warn the rest.”

  “And if there are too many of them?” Blake asked, another Rank One.

  Logan grinned. “Then we die in battle and meet in the Hall of Heroes.” He spoke with confidence, knowing it was what the men needed to hear. “Either way, we drink our weight in ale and feast on meat and women tonight.”

  The men grinned back, and Logan was pleased to see that his words had calmed their fears—at least for the time being. The men formed in a wide circle, and he made sure there was enough distance between them so that if another magical onslaught began, the rangers wouldn’t be close enough to make easy double-targets.

  Once the men were in formation, Logan raised his palm and gestured north, opposite the direction they’d come.

  But right at the moment he signaled, the attack came. Orcs, their skin a sickly green, rose among the trees in the distance, raising their weapons and screaming war cries.

  This is it, Logan thought. Here we make our stand.

  “Form up for a charge!” he shouted, his voice carrying over the grunts exploding from the orcs.

  He directed the rangers into a line formation then swept his axe forward, giving the direction. The men began to move, not giving the mages and archers stationary targets to pick off. He pointed his axe at the nearest orcs.

  Logan’s gaze flitted from one to the other, losing count at twenty. There were easily a hundred orcs, tall and green skinned and dressed in dyed-red animal skins and random pieces of armor they’d seized from human parties they’d ambushed. Their teeth were yellow and jutting—more like tusks. Their eyes were beady and small
, their muscles powerful and bulging, their hands gripping massive swords and crude axes and huge hammers.

  Logan had wanted a fight, and he was about to get it.

  But the orcs didn’t attack. They didn’t rush in, using the horde tactics typical with their species. They stayed still—calm, even.

  They were waiting for an order.

  They got one. An orc, as huge and powerful as all the others, moved with precision, even grace. He stood straight and proud, not hunched over like a typical orc. His body was adorned with furs and jewels and other symbols of power and status. His eyes fell onto Logan, a small sneer forming on the lips of the beast. Logan saw intelligence in his eyes, and he knew right away that this was the orc in charge.

  And there were flashes of color along his form, like those that would appear whenever a rune’s power was activated. Somehow, this orc wielded the sacred marks of the Archspirits. How it was possible, Logan couldn’t know. He had thought that only War Wizards could inscribe magical tattoos. But it seemed that he had thought wrong. Was this one of the fabled orc shamans, those mythical creatures who could wield magic?

  It had to be. Which meant that this would be Logan’s last day in the realm of the living.

  The orc shaman flicked his hand forward, and the charge began.

  There would be no escape, no close call. Logan and his friends would die in those woods.

  He was ready to make it a death to remember.

  “How the hells are we going to get out of this, Logan?” Aiden asked. “There’s… hundreds of them!”

  “We get out by killing every last one of the miserable fiends!” Logan growled before he turned his attention to the rest of the men. “Archers! Shoot at will!”

  The men did as they were told, slipping their bows off their backs and nocking arrows. The men were low-ranking rangers, but they’d been training with bows since they were old enough to hold them. Logan’s eyes went back to the shaman, who watched with an expression akin to amusement.

  The men launched their arrows ceaselessly into the approaching horde of orcs, their arms working like machines as they each loosed one after another. The thwip-thwip-thwip sounds of arrow after arrow taking flight filled the air. Arrows, all shot with the expert precision expected of Elderwood Rangers, found their targets. The Magnus steel of the arrowheads was strong enough to punch through any armor like paper, the enchantment on each head bestowed by their War Wizards making them powerful enough to cut right through the thick muscles of the orcs.

  Logan took aim with his own bow, aiming the arrow at the shaman. The orc shaman only locked eyes with Logan, as if daring him to shoot. Logan pulled the string and let loose, the arrow hissing through the air as it raced toward the shaman.

  “We’re doing it!” Aiden said, eagerness in his voice.

  But right at the moment the arrow would’ve hit, the shaman raised his hand casually, stopping the arrow in its path, holding it in mid-air. Then the shaman raised his eyebrow to Logan, as if wanting to make sure he was watching. The shaman spun his hand, the arrow turning along with it. The shaman flicked his wrist, sending the arrow screaming back toward Logan.

  There was no time to react. But the arrow didn’t find Logan.

  It found Aiden.

  The sound of the arrow hitting meat, then bone, filled the air, followed by a choking and gurgling. The arrow was buried in Aiden’s neck. Logan’s eyes flashed wide, his free hand going to his friend’s neck as blood bubbled up around the wound.

  But the shaman wasn’t done. He twisted his hand upward. The arrow did the same, pushing into Aiden’s neck and traveling up toward his skull, then into his brain. His choking and gurgling stopped, the light fading from his eyes.

  Logan’s best friend was dead before he could even say a word.

  The arrows from the rest of the rangers kept flying, stopping only when the men had run out. But whatever target they hit was replaced by another orc, and by the time the singing of the arrows through the trees stopped, it seemed as if the rangers hadn’t done any damage at all.

  Logan rose, his hand clenching his axe, a rage flowing through him that I’d never known before. All he wanted was to kill, and the looks on the mens’ faces declared that they wanted that very same thing. Logan was ready to lead the remaining rangers to the glorious deaths they’d all dreamed of since they were boys barely strong enough to lift wooden swords.

  “Rangers!” he shouted. “Kill every last one of these bastards!”

  The rangers rose, bladed and blunt weapons in hand as they roared out their war cries. Elderwood Rangers could be as silent as a blade to the throat, but within each of their hearts dwelled a berserker warrior who craved nothing more than the blood and sweat of hand-to-hand combat.

  The magical runes etched onto the skin of the warriors all glowed, Logan’s wolf rune turning a deep, thrumming blue as the power and rage of Fenrir filled him. A berserker rage took hold, images of blood and gore and gruesome revenge flashing before Logan’s eyes.

  He was ready.

  Axe in hand, Logan grabbed the scimitar from Aiden’s body and rushed with the rest of his men toward the orcs. If he was going to die, he decided, he was going to die like a ranger. The orcs roared back, raising their weapons into the air as they barreled toward the rangers. And behind them all, the shaman stood with his arms crossed over his barrel chest, that same, pleased sneer still on his face.

  You’ll die last, Logan vowed as he gazed with murderous eyes at the shaman. He turned to face the nearest orc, who noticed Logan at the same time, his piggish mouth curling into a snarl.

  Logan raised the scimitar and flung it at the orc, the blade flying end-over-end through the air and planting in the forehead of the soldier, blood as dark and thick as tar gushing from the wound of the now-dead beast. Logan allowed himself a grin, glad his friend’s blade had found a home in the skull of an orc.

  Logan didn’t keep his eyes on the orc for long enough to watch it drop into a heap. His hand axe gripped tightly, he flew with wolven speed and power toward the next-nearest orc that emerged from the trees. The orc raised a fearsome greatsword as he howled, ready to cleave Logan in half from scalp to groin.

  Amateur. Logan grinned. The orc had left his entire body exposed. Logan feinted, goading the orc into taking his swing. As the sword screamed through the air, Logan danced well out of the way. The sword struck the ground with a dull thump, missing him completely. With the blade stuck, it was a simple matter of bringing down the hand axe in an arc of its own, burying the blade in the orc’s forehead, the skull splitting like a ripe melon.

  Logan placed his foot on the orc’s chest, pushing off as he yanked the blade from the creature’s skull.

  Two, Logan thought. Two is nothing. If this is where I die, I need to take more than two with me.

  He grinned like the wolf spirit that fueled him, his warrior rage honed. Screams erupted from his men as they fought back, and as he turned to find his next target, he laid eyes on Horvath, another Rank One ranger. An orc wielding dual short swords approached Horvath with the same downward arc ‘tactic’, but Horvath wasn’t fast enough to avoid it. A blade hit home, cleaving down to his throat, blood jetting out from the severed artery. Horvath’s body staggered for a few steps before dropping.

  This one's for you, friend, Logan thought as he locked eyes on the orc who’d killed Horvath. Logan held his axe with two hands, watching the orc spin the blades before him in a flurry. Then the orc pulled both blades back to his right and swiped them in Logan’s direction. Two blades could be deadly in the right hands, but these weren’t them.

  Logan stepped back before the blades could come close, the momentum pulling the orc along with them. When the orc was half-facing him, Logan rushed in and slammed his shoulder hard into the gut of the orc. The beast stumbled forward and tripped, falling eye-first onto the tip of one of his own blades. The sharp point jutted out the other end of his skull. Logan felt some small consolation, knowing his friend was avenged
.

  Two growls sounded out, and Logan turned to see a pair of orcs barreling down on him. Two-on-one—the odds were not in his favor, so he pulled the hand axe back over his head with both hands and tossed it at the orc on the left. Logan had won more than a few axe-throwing competitions in his time, and his skills paid off in that moment. The blade connected just below the orc’s right eye, the orc’s feet flying out from under him, thick, dark blood arcing through the air as the creature fell dead onto his back.

  The other orc still remained, close enough to kill. Logan slipped the Skofnung daggers from his waist sheaths, the razor-sharp edges of the blades glistening in the dappled forest light. He roared as he lunged toward the orc, the hapless creature not even having a chance to raise his broadsword before Logan jammed the daggers deep into his chest, yanking them out only to drive them in deeply once again, then again and again. An expression of dumb confusion painted the orc’s face as the life drained out through the twin wounds. The orc was soon dead on his feet. He hung for a moment before falling backward and landing with a thud, the daggers still plunged into his flesh.

  Logan placed his boot on the orc’s belly and yanked the blades from the beast’s thick chest, the ends dripping foul blood. He breathed in and out as he watched the carnage unfold, ranger after ranger dropping around him, arms and legs and heads being severed left and right.

  Aesir Skalbad—another friend from Logan’s youth, a boy with whom he’d spent many summer nights exploring the outskirts of their town, catching fireflies in their hands—fell to an axe to the face. Brynjar Fjord, who as a boy had boldly asked if he could have Logan’s sister’s hand in marriage upon their eighteenth year, a request Logan had only laughed at, fell to a volley of arrows to the stomach, ragged howls of pain sounding from his throat as he died.

  One by one the men of Logan’s town died. And he could only take solace in the fact that they’d died like warriors, that their souls even at that moment were being reborn in the Hall of Heroes, and that he would join them soon in the blessed afterlife of eternal battle and feasting and song.