The Dragon Hunters Read online

  “Look at him! Squirming like he can escape. Don’t you worry, Scourd knows what to do with you.”

  Rough fingers gripped his hair, pushing him away. Reben quivered but stayed quiet. Anything he had to say would only give his enemy more power. The best he could hope for was a quick death. He looked around, trying to get a better view of his surroundings. The cave was small; walls were covered in greenish slime. Rusted chains hung in no apparent order. Bits of rotted flesh and more than a few bones still clung to several. Reben thought the wretched odor of Gend was bad, but this went far beyond. Soiled straw was strewn across the uneven floor. Dark stains, probably blood, ran up to his body.

  Reben looked up and stared into the third set of eyes. Unlike the other two, these eyes didn’t glow yellow. They were cold, calculating. If he didn’t know better he’d have sworn he’d seen them before. The figure slipped back into the shadows after noticing Reben staring. Exhausted, the scout dropped his head and tried hard not to weep. He didn’t know where he was or how he got here. The last thing he remembered was Notam leaving him and Ele at the strange ritual site. A dark fog rolled in the moment Notam turned and left. Reben tried to scream, to shout out at his sergeant for help. Darkness took him and he awoke to Ele being speared.

  “Has he spoken?” asked a voice laden with centuries of pure hatred.

  A more human voice replied, “We haven’t asked him anything yet.”

  Reben heard bones cracking.

  “Good. We begin.”

  A smaller figure bowed and knelt in front of the prone scout. “What were you looking for in Gend?”

  Reben’s eyes widened. That voice. Those eyes. He cringed in shock, knowing he had met this man once before.

  “I know you,” he said. His parched throat burned. “Traitor!”

  The man rocked closer, giving Reben a long, hard look at his face. “Traitor? That depends on which point of view you take. So you can’t say that I’m not a generous man, I’m going to ask you one time. Forsake your allegiance to Rentor and join us.” He held out his empty palms. “In this hand I can give you life. A kingdom of riches and wealth. The freedom and debauchery that comes with owning your own lands. This hand brings only death. You will die without anyone ever finding you. Lost to the vagaries of time and forgotten by history. What is your answer?”

  Reben spit in his face. The man didn’t even blink. Calmly wiping his face, he tucked the rag back into his tunic pocket, smiled, and stood. He turned to the yellow-eyed Goblin and said, “Cut his hands off. Perhaps he’ll be more reasonable afterwards.”

  The Goblin snarled and drew a rusted sword. The same one used to kill Ele. Reben screamed as the jagged steel hacked down through flesh and bone. Rivers of blood poured onto the straw and stone.

  “It doesn’t need to be this way. Tell us what we want to know and I promise to kill you quickly. Why did Rentor send you to Gend? What does he know?”

  Reben could barely cry. Pain threatened to steal his consciousness. His body already felt cooler. It takes a grown man roughly five minutes to bleed out. Time was not in his favor. If he could only last long enough without answering questions.

  “Last chance. Tell us now,” the man barked sharply.

  Reben lost himself in the pain. Tears cleansed his cheeks. He wet himself. His bowels emptied. Unexpected calmness spread through him, making the experience almost peaceful. His eyes drooped.

  The man looked down at the blood-spattered hem of his robes in disgust. He had no qualms with ordering someone’s execution though the actual deed was revolting. Blood never washed out, staining clothes and soul equally. “Send his head to Rentor. I’m leaving for Kelis Dur.”

  Scourd, the Goblin, snarled, “What do we tell Ramulus?”

  “Tell him the king knows nothing. Ride back to Druem and find the shard. I’ll keep the king busy long enough so he won’t become a problem. The sooner we find the shard the sooner Ramulus can make his war on men.”

  He pulled his hood up and left the Goblins to their murder. Reben was so close to death he barely felt the cold blade sawing through his neck. Even if he had, it would have been a welcomed relief.

  * * * * *

  Rage consumed Cron. He’d lost men before, more than he cared to remember. But that was in battle. Men were supposed to die in battle. Reben and Ele were the first he’d lost on a routine patrol. Not killed. Lost. Disappeared without a trace. Cron took personal responsibility and went to inform the next of kin for both men. He’d offered his resignation to King Rentor. The king waved him off, saying there’d be a time soon enough when brave men would lay down their lives under the auspice of war. Cron knew Rentor still wasn’t telling him everything. When he stopped to consider it, he didn’t think he wanted to know the full truth.

  He stood looking out his window, barely noticing the fresh spring morning. Blooms were popping out along the branches. The snow was nearly gone. Song birds had come back, filling the courtyard with joyous melody. Days were gradually warming up. The sun was shining. Cron cared less. His every waking thought was dedicated to his missing men. Nightmares plagued his dreams, often waking him in a cold sweat. He swore on the gods of his forefathers to discover the truth.

  Weeks went by without any clues. Numerous patrols were sent back to Gend without proper authorization. Every one of them returned without anything to report. Cron decided to step up the training schedule. Several junior officers agreed that battle was coming. When it arrived, there would be little time to prepare. Cron needed to be ready for the storm to strike. Finally, after nearly a month of agonizing over Reben and Ele, Rentor summoned him.

  Stewards escorted Cron to the king’s private quarters. None of them spoke once Cron announced himself. Their slippered feet stole over the gold-streaked marble. His own footsteps were heavy and cumbersome by comparison. Statues of past kings and heroes lined the entrance halls. All seemed to glare down on him accusingly. Cron ignored the statues and marched on. The stewards escorted to a door twice as tall as a man and made of rich mahogany. They bowed and left the captain to find his own way inside.

  Scowling with contempt, Cron turned the gold handle and pushed the door open. The sight nearly stole his breath. Six pairs of black marble pillars supported the vaulted ceiling. Stained glass windows stretched nearly ten meters high. A hung, many tiered chandelier hung from the ceiling. The wooden framework lined panes of lightly colored blue. Reflected sunlight filtered through the windows, producing a star-like effect. Cron had never seen such a sight. Potted trees and various plants from the southern jungles of Brodein lined the walls of the circular chamber. Flowered vines crawled up the pillars and a light mist was in the air. So taken by the sight, Cron failed to notice Rentor’s imposing figure standing beside a bubbling fountain, feeding ornamental fish.

  “Impressive, is it not?” Rentor asked. “I had it built after my first year as king. Even then the stress of leadership was more hassle than it was worth. I needed a place to relax where I could come to be alone and reflect upon my decisions.”

  Cron went to the position of attention and stayed silent.

  “Perhaps you need such a place,” Renter suggested with a sad smile. “The disappearance of those two men…”

  “Reben and Ele, sire,” Cron firmly said.

  Rentor nodded. “Reben and Ele. It still bothers you?”

  A scarlet bird with dark purple tail feathers chirped from atop a pillar.

  “Our enemy has finally deemed it necessary to tell us what happened.”

  Cron’s throat tightened for reasons he wasn’t sure. Deep in his heart he knew both men were long dead. He stared at the king with bitter apprehension, not daring to hope.

  “A constable discovered the bag outside of one of the taverns in the middle of the street. He brought it straight to the palace after inspecting the contents. Reben and Ele are both dead, Cron.”

  “I’d like to see for myself, sire,” Cron whispered.

  The sack sat atop a ceramic pedestal on the
far side of the room. He smelled the rot and decay from where he stood. Visions of Gend sickened him. Cron knew what was in the sack. He didn’t want to look in, to see what remained of his scouts. But he had to. He’d never forgive himself if he didn’t. First step unsteady, he pushed forward lest the demons plague him further.

  Cron cursed himself for the foolishness of it. He was in the presence of king and friend, the garrison commander of Kelis Dur. Righting himself back to the proud warrior he was, Captain Cron purposefully strode to the pedestal and opened the sack. A swarm of tiny gnats flew up in his face. The smell of raw death assaulted his senses. Cron caught the glint of sunlight reflecting off of a glazed-over eye. He closed the sack and exhaled a long, slow breath.

  “Do we know who did this?” Cron asked.

  Rentor’s face darkened. “Whispers. Shadows in the dark, but nothing substantial enough to chase. Whoever it is doesn’t want us snooping around Gend. That makes me want to know what happened more. I’ve noticed you have patrols routinely going out there now and your training exercises have increased. What do you know you’re not telling me?”

  Cron cleared his throat, eyes never leaving Rentor. “We both know, sire. War is coming. I understand your hesitancy but I am a military commander, not the king of a land. When the call does come, your army will be prepared to fight.”

  “All the more reason for me not to involve the army any more than necessary.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Cron let curiosity get the better.

  “Doesn’t a king always?”

  Cron wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He bowed once and excused himself, taking the sack with him. Rentor excused him and stayed in the chamber. The song of the scarlet thornbill soothed his raw nerves.

  EIGHT

  Council

  “Exactly where do you propose I send the army, General Huor?” Rentor asked, agitation grinding through his tone. “Shall we invade the Dwarves? Just in case? Or is Averon more to your liking? It’s been a long time since they last went to war. Tell me, Huor. Whom do we bring the hammer of justice down upon?”

  The gaunt Huor flustered. His face speckled red with embarrassment. Veins pulsed on his temples. “Cordon the area. Reinforce the border stations and bring the army to full alert. Personally, I doubt this is the work of an organized enemy, sire. The people need to be our primary concern. When word of this reaches the ears of the general public there will be panic and fear in unmanageable amounts.”

  Cron gently cleared his throat, hoping to stop the argument from escalating. “Mobilizing the army can also have a negative effect, sir. We move too soon and risk giving ourselves away.”

  “Smart words from the man responsible for losing two men without a battle,” Huor snapped. “You are the garrison commander for a reason.”

  “Pointing fingers is hardly useful,” Codel Mres said and smiled. “This is time for us to band together, not fragment.”

  “Prime Minister, when was the last time you swung a sword in battle?” Huor asked with a sharp glare lesser men shied from.

  Codel’s face flushed but he refused to look away.

  “Politicians make laws, not fight wars. My troops are constantly defending Thrae against raiders and insurrectionists. Most of the time this information never makes it back to Kelis Dur. Malweir is not as safe as you’d like to think, safe here in the palace. Leave the war making to the soldiers.”

  “No one is arguing the diligence of your men, Huor. I, however, am questioning your reasoning for alerting the entire army,” Rentor said with a calm, steady voice. “Please don’t misdirect your ire to the Prime Minister.”

  He missed, or ignored, the heated look Mres shot him.

  Some of the color left Huor’s face. “Let me mobilize my men and deploy them to forward positions. Should the enemy strike again we will be in position to react.”

  “Unless they attack where the army isn’t. How many of your precious civilians will perish then, General?” Mres asked.

  “React is the key word, Huor,” Rentor interrupted.

  All bickering ceased and eyes turned to the king.

  Cron asked, “Sire?”

  “I don’t intend on reacting, gentlemen.”

  Huor shook his head, confused. “I don’t understand.”

  Rentor offered a devious smile that only a king could get away with. “As I said, plain and simple. We’re going to force our enemy’s hand. Make him react to our plans.”

  “Are you sure that is wise, sire?” Codel asked.

  Rentor barked a laugh. “Who said anything about being wise? I’m going to strike and make the enemy so angry he can’t help but fight back but it will be at a time and place of our choosing, not his. Take the advantage away and make him fight on our terms.”

  “I’m in,” Cron said quickly. Anything to reduce his seething sense of self-hatred since the incident at Gend. “When do we leave?”

  Huor snorted.

  “Not so fast,” Rentor said and held up his hand. “I’ll need my commanders here, planning the offensive. You stay in Kelis Dur.”

  “They were my men, sire. Could you sit back and watch?” Cron asked, barely managing to control the anger in his voice. “Honor deserves no less.”

  “Could a king sacrifice one of his top military men for petty revenge? We have all lost men, Cron. Make no mistake about what I tell you. We are at war. Thrae will have need of our combined military genius before this is done.”

  “But I…”

  Rentor cut him off before he could finish protesting. “Good soldiers follow orders, Captain.”

  Cron clamped his mouth shut.

  “Sire, perhaps you weren’t listening to your own arguments. Who exactly are we going to attack?” Codel asked.

  “The hand behind the blow. We’re going to flush him out with a small group of men, make him so nervous he makes mistakes. Then we send in the army and end this foolishness. I seriously doubt we’re about to fight demons or other nonsense,” Rentor said. “More like Goblins or Trolls. Evil men at the very least.”

  His piercing gaze unsettled Codel.

  General Huor scratched the stubble on his chin. “This could work. Who do you have in mind?”

  Rentor offered his most kingly smile. “I have the person created for such a quest and no, his name remains mine until he is well away from the capital.”

  “Surely you don’t have one of us in mind,” Codel protested and instantly regretted making the remark.

  “No. Not one of us. Neither do I think the enemy is patiently waiting for us to make a move. Whoever it was knew Cron was coming.”

  Silence gripped the room. Rentor used the break to fill his empty goblet with white wine specially imported from Harlegor twice a year. A content sigh rushed out once the cool liquid hit his lips.

  “Any more questions?” he asked.

  Codel Mres and General Huor slowly shook their heads, still reeling from the unspoken implication. Cron stood with a look of utter contempt. He lacked the experience of concealing his emotions and was notorious throughout the kingdom for having a terrible temper when matters worked against him. Rentor followed suit, dwarfing everyone else in the room.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I have other kingly duties to perform.”

  They bowed and filed out of the private study, leaving Rentor alone among the expressionless statues and endless shelves of leather-bound books. He stared deeply into the marble face of the first king of Thrae. What he faced was insignificant to the first king. A man who faced Goblins and Trolls and won a kingdom.

  “If only a sword could solve my problem,” Rentor sighed.

  He retired to his private chambers and changed from the formal dress to a more subtle ensemble of leather boots, trousers, and a loose-fitting dark green shirt. The rings and necklaces went back in their box beside the heavy crown. He’d often wondered why kings needed such accoutrements. Damned things are more cumbersome and gaudy than practical. Leaving his shirt partially unbuttoned to en
joy the warm spring day, he took a last look in the mirror to convince himself he wasn’t old and headed out the door.

  * * * * *

  Grelic slept on a cot far too narrow to support his massive frame. A half-eaten tray of rations sat on the simple wooden stand beside the bed. Most of it was the rangy grey meat that didn’t look appetizing when the jailor brought it in. He’d eaten his share of rotten food over the years but even this gave him a bad feeling. Maybe if he had a flagon of ale or wine to wash it down, but that was the reason he was locked in this cell.

  Breaking out was a viable option. He’d studied the walls and bars intently as soon as he sobered. The task wouldn’t prove overly difficult but that wasn’t the message he wanted to send Rentor. The first few weeks went by before his mood soured. This was the longest he’d been kept and that worried him. Even if he did escape he had no idea as to where he was. Rentor’s soldiers bound and blindfolded him before Phaes managed to protest. So the days fled with Grelic becoming more convinced Rentor’s executioners were coming for his head.

  He awoke with a sigh. Warriors. He’d been one once. Spent his entire life fighting in one campaign after the other. His mother abandoned him when he was barely five years old. Winter and packs of wolves nearly saw him done but Grelic was a natural fighter. He escaped his tormentors and grew to be a giant of a man. He went east, spending years as a student in a gladiator school in Harlegor. There he learned the finer arts of weapons and unarmed combat. He left at the age of thirteen without suffering a defeat. A roving band of mercenaries took him in not long after and he continued to enjoy the spoils of victory.

  He was sixteen when they went up against a patrol led by the future king of Thrae. Rentor was an unassuming soldier, barely a leader, but he was wily. The boy king disguised his caravan as a pay unit to lure the mercenaries into a trap. Grelic alone survived. Not because he ran, but because Rentor watched too many men fall under his blade. It would have been a shame to kill such a warrior. They formed an uneasy alliance. Rentor offered Grelic his life back if the giant agreed to join the army and train it how to fight. He’d even offered a steady salary. Grelic smiled at the memories. What fool would waste the chance for a steady life doing what he enjoyed after so many years wandering?