The Dragon Hunters Read online

  The army became a good home for young Grelic. He excelled in every aspect of training and soon found himself being groomed for a leadership position. With age and experience he became a man and one of the most feared combatants in northern Malweir. Unfortunately, becoming a man led to the discovery of drink and women. Grelic played as hard as he trained. His excesses became the talk of the barracks, ultimately proving his downfall. Discipline slipped and he lost everything.

  Grelic slipped from his cot and stared out the small circular window at the pale sun. Great sadness filled him.

  “One more day in the sun,” he whispered. “One more chance to prove my worth.”

  A deep voice behind him replied, “Be careful what you wish for.”

  Grelic turned. He knew the voice almost as well as his own. He looked back at Rentor. Neither blinked. Grelic showed no fear. Either Rentor had come to finally finish the job or he hadn’t. It was that simple.

  “Come to do the job personally eh?” Grelic said with a smile. “I expected no less.”

  “Think what you will of me but I saved your life more times than you know. For the life of me I can’t figure out why. You’ve cost me more in hospital expenses and tavern upkeep than the rest of the army combined.”

  Grelic’s cheeks flushed. “You’ve no need to justify yourself to me, King Rentor. I know what I’ve done.”

  “Damn you, Grelic,” Rentor cursed. “The ministers want to see you finished. They’re tired of punishing you and think having you banished or executed will send a clear message to other lawbreakers. If I could find a way to put them on the front lines of a battlefield I would. Then again I don’t care to lose a battle.”

  “You mentioned about being careful what I wished for?”

  Grelic wasn’t in the mood to bandy with the king. There wasn’t any point in aimless pondering or supposition for a man trapped in a dungeon with death hanging around his neck. That made the whole conversation terribly frustrating.

  “You want a war, to feel the power of the blade one final time before Lord Death comes to claim you,” Rentor stated.

  “I’m listening,” Grelic replied.

  “I’m offering you the chance.”

  “Against who?” Grelic asked, mirroring the king’s movements. “There is no war that I know of.”

  “I’m trying to keep it that way.”

  Grelic laughed. “By involving me?”

  The king nodded. “As odd as that sounds, yes. We’re already under attack. An unknown enemy has been raiding small towns and villages outside of the protective blanket of the army.”

  “You want me to find out who’s doing it and stop them?”

  “More or less.”

  Grelic slowly reached up and wrapped his curiously strong fingers around the slightly rusted bars. “Tell me why I should care.”

  Rentor wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting but selfishness was certainly on the list. Still, he nearly walked out before realizing Grelic was testing him. “It gives you back your neck. Or perhaps you’d prefer the enjoyment of the ministers while your neck snaps after the drop. Take your pick. Go on the hunt one last time or inspect the gallows. The choice is yours.”

  “Not much of a choice when you think about it,” Grelic replied without thinking. “It’s too drafty down here for me anyway. Who do I have to kill?”

  “That’s what I need you to figure out. Once you get released, come to the rose gardens behind the palace. Make use of the back gates. Climb the wall if you need to. Just don’t get caught. The last thing I need is to be seen consorting with you.”

  Grelic nodded, finally noticing Rentor’s casual attire. He didn’t come dressed as a king. If it weren’t for his naturally imposing stature, people might not recognize him. He wondered what game the king of Thrae played at. Grelic praised the decisions though doubted the reaction of the public once they discovered he’d set himself free. Or is it escaped? It didn’t take much to imagine betrayal at the end of this foolishness.

  “You trust me to do this alone? What’s to keep me from grabbing a horse and heading south? I think I’ve had enough of cold winters and jail cells,” he said.

  Rentor stifled a small laugh. “Don’t be absurd. No other land will take you and you know it. As for going alone, let me be perfectly honest. I think you are the best chance we have at avoiding a war. We lose if you fail. No, I’m not sending you alone. I need you but don’t trust you a lick. The others chosen will have just as much experience as you. Perhaps in different arenas but skilled nonetheless. Grelic, you and I may not see eye to eye any longer but you’re the finest warrior this land has seen in a hundred years. Thrae needs you. I need you. If ever a man had a calling it is you.”

  Grelic pretended to give the matter some thought. He’d known his answer the moment Rentor gave his proposal. Truthfully he couldn’t wait to have a purpose again. Too many aimless nights were spent getting drunk and whoring. The chance to swing a blade again was almost a dream. A violent demise was something he’d planned for a long time. Rentor almost offered him one. As a youth he’d gone to see a shaman. The wizened old man confirmed he was going to die in battle.

  He casually turned from the king and went back to his window. His one outlet to the real world. A flock of brown geese honked nearby, returning to their spring roosts. “Battle is all I’ve ever known. War. Duels. There is thrill in swinging the blade. I want to have some say in the men coming with me. Battles are won by men who live, breathe, and die together. The people you send will just get in my way and probably won’t return. This is my only demand.”

  His words were slow, calculated. Rentor immediately recognized the underlying threat. He was being warned not to send anyone along that was going to betray Grelic once the mission was complete. If suspicion kept the giant on his toes, so be it. Ever so slowly, Rentor closed his mouth and turned. He’d done what he set out to do. The rest was on Grelic.

  The giant didn’t bother turning back around until after the king was long gone. That’s when he noticed the key placed expertly in the lock and an empty hallway beyond.

  NINE

  Secrets

  Fitch Iane shot up from a troubled sleep. Sweat pooled in the grooves of his forehead. His eyes were streaked through with red. Dark bags circled around his eyes gave him a haunted look. Lightning crashed outside. Fitch jumped. His heart pounded. Fragments of the dream infiltrated his waking self. It had been the same one since the monks of Harr first revived him. Since then he hadn’t awoke on his own, until now. Brother Arabub, half asleep himself, nearly jumped at the commotion and excitedly ran to find Father Seldis. The old man had requested to know the moment anything important happened.

  The aged oak door groaned close, leaving Fitch alone again. Panic threatened to set in. He struggled to slow his breath, quietly battling the demons leaping up from the darkness. He tossed back the bearskin blankets and eased his feet to the cold, stone floor for the first time in weeks. Fitch wanted to stand but not even the magic worked by the monks of Harr was enough to give him back his previous strength.

  Fitch breathed the strange air and looked around. He was clean and shaved. The monks were adamant about taking care of him as much as possible. His bedding was fresh and scented candles burned softly against the far wall. Appreciating everything the monks had done for him, Fitch knew there was no way he could ever repay their hospitality. He used to frown upon the Order. The monks of Harr were often persecuted through primal fear and a lack of understanding. After this he intended on being an ardent supporter until the day he died.

  Father Seldis entered the room and smiled warmly. “I hear you’ve recovered, my boy. Congratulations. You had us worried for a while.”

  Seldis buried his doubts. He’d figured Fitch for a dead man from the moment he was brought in. There was an unmistakable darkness in the man’s heart. A decay so deep and hurtful no amount of healing could help. That darkness was eventually going to claim him. It was just a matter of time. Seldis wept i
nwardly. No man deserved such torments before going to join his forefathers.

  It was all Fitch could do not to laugh. “Father! I’ve never felt so alive. It’s almost as if I’ve been reborn. What have I done to deserve such treasures?”

  Seldis returned his smile with equal enthusiasm. “Perhaps the gods decided they have need of you. Perhaps the pain in your soul is finally healing. We could spend the rest of our lives discussing the finer points of theology and still not come close to the true answer. The world is strange and mysterious. Who are we to contradict the will of the gods?”

  “I’ve never been a believer in the old gods,” Fitch admitted almost ashamedly. “A farmer’s life is practical more often than not. Praying doesn’t grow crops or put food on the table. My people, my family, saw little need for the gods. We struggled through life on the merits of our own hard work and determination. I’ve never seen proof of a god.”

  Seldis remained silent, content with letting him vent.

  “I have seen darkness. Pure, uncontrollable darkness. I was lost, Father. I saw demons ruin my home and life. They stole the only person I have ever loved and laughed as they walked away. No, I’ve never seen a god but I have seen what the lack of faith rewards. Will others suffer equal fates?”

  Drawing a deep breath, Seldis replied, “I’m afraid men and women go through such dilemmas every day. Malweir is full of creatures and certain powers we know almost nothing about. I have seen many in my time. I’ve been to where bad gods lurk and fields where gods go to die. Marvelous and dangerous. Darkness is falling on us, as you have guessed. King Rentor tries to stop it though I suspect it may already be too late. More villages will suffer Gend’s fate. War is coming, Fitch.”

  Fitch seemed horrified. “Is Thrae really going to war? With demons?”

  “Difficult to answer. I suspect the king feels the need to defend his lands and people. I would do the same if I were king.”

  “Your words scare me, Father, more than seeing the demons. Are there no good men to step forward? As a child I always listened to the tales of Mages and heroic quests. Now should be such a time for brave men to take the sword and save us all.”

  “I agree, Fitch, but there will be plenty of time to ponder the course of the future. Let us find something to eat and drink. It will be a joy watching you feed yourself for a change,” laughed Seldis.

  Fitch happily agreed and took his first unsteady steps out of bed. To his surprise it wasn’t as painful as he’d expecting. In fact, it was almost as if he’d never been stuck in bed for three weeks. Seldis kept his mind busy through the meal with simple stories and lackluster tales of the Order of Harr. They both liked to think of themselves as simple men trying to make the best out of life. Fitch agreed the monastery was a peaceful place that seemed to have an individual feel of serenity for each of them. He went on to comment how, while he’d never had use for gods or prayers, he’d always respected priests for answering the calling. Just as he believed he was meant to be a farmer and take care of his family.

  Tears flowed freely at the thought. Images of Shar’s soft face mocked him from death. The pain was still too near. Seldis managed to convince him all had happened for a greater purpose. He too had a calling to answer. When Fitch asked what, Seldis simply placed a hand on his forearm and told him all would be revealed when he finally opened his eyes. Fitch had no idea what that meant. His eyes started to droop. He needed sleep, real sleep, not the troubled manifestations of what had happened.

  Seldis noticed his slowing pace. “I can see my conversation is boring you. Perhaps some rest will do you good.”

  Fitch moved to protest, sputtering how Seldis was anything but boring, but he was tired. The nightmares left him perpetually drained. “Perhaps you’re right, Father. I can barely keep my eyes open, though no fault of yours. It’s just…” He left the sentence unfinished.

  “I know, my boy. I know. Come, let’s get you some rest so you can tackle the coming challenges full of vigor and renewed.”

  The weight of knowing Fitch’s fate was nearly unbearable. Seldis wanted to tell him. Wanted him to know he’d been told in a dream what role Fitch was meant to play in shaping events. He wanted him to know he was going to die. But if Seldis so much as hinted at it there was the possibility Fitch might turn his back on the people who needed him the most. Ruin would wash the world. With heavy heart, Seldis helped the drowsy young man back to bed. He blew out the candles and retired to his private study.

  Fitch Iane dreamed of glory and battle.

  * * * * *

  Across the monastery in the simple monk quarters, Brother Ibram struggled with his own troubled dreams. Not nightmares. His visions were of quests and heroes. In the dream he wore the royal blue of Thrae. He fought for the kingdom, for every man, woman, and child incapable of defending themselves. Ibram saw himself swinging his sword against great and terrible enemies. Against a wave of violence so strong it threatened the foundations of the world. He was a hero. Just like Phledian and Mour, the ancient warriors who defended the Order of Harr against the dark creations of the Mages. Men would learn of his deeds and sing praise.

  Despite the pleasing nature of his dreams, Ibram found them a curse. They haunted his waking moments in ways no nightmare possibly could. Monks were peaceful, having washed their hands of armed conflicts long ago. He’d been selected as a youth to heed the calling and take the robes. Violence of any sort was frowned upon. Infractions often resulted in expulsion. Ibram felt his vows were constraining him more and more, keeping him from achieving his true potential. Just once he wanted to feel the grip of leather tongs wrapped around a sword hilt. He doubted he could take a life. The thought proved disturbing.

  The Order of Harr maintained that all men were inherently good natured. When Ibram argued how that could be, especially after the devastation of the Mage War, he was met with disdainful looks and muttered prayers. The old gods still had a strong presence despite most people having stopped believing. Light or dark, the gods still clung to hope. Ibram was no fool. While he didn’t want to offend any deity, he knew there had to be more than what the monks taught. The wisdom of Harr wasn’t enough.

  Ibram awoke sometime in the middle of the night. The now familiar gleam hungered through his dark brown eyes. He’d had the dream again. There was an ancient myth about a sword made from a fallen star by Elven smiths. No one ever knew what happened with the Elves, only that they kept to themselves whenever possible. The thought that Phaelor, the Star Silver sword, might come to rest in Ibram’s hand enthused him to great ends.

  An unseen force guided his thoughts, desires. Ibram wasn’t tired of the robes or the daily toil in the monastery. He found it peaceful and solitary. There was tranquility that he could only find here. The monks were his friends, his family. They were the one group of people he could trust without worry. But Ibram knew his heart. There was only one way to make the dreams stop. He dressed and headed for Father Seldis’s private chambers.

  The dust-covered tome was remarkably thick and well written considering how old it was. Seldis carefully thumbed the pages like a loving father. Most of the pages were worn and cracked. Time and age slowly wore the book down. He sighed. Even treasures such as this book succumbed to age. Seldis carefully rewrote every single letter once a decade. The process took nearly a year to complete, but as far as he was concerned, this book was the single most valuable possession in all of Malweir.

  He leaned back in his favorite, worn chair and rubbed his tired eyes. The candle in the middle of the desk was already burning low. It was time for bed. Seldis wasn’t as young or spry as he used to be, a reluctant admittance that took far too long to accept. Now time was against him. He took another look at the image in the book before moving his chair near a window. An almost pale-gold light came down from the half moon. Seldis swirled the spiced wine before drinking. It was a weakness from a previous life, but every man had weaknesses. Besides, he never drank in excess and Antheneon made the best wine on the c
ontinent. He savored the warm sensation as it passed down his throat.

  He had been expecting the light knocks on his door and glided almost effortlessly across the room to present his sincerest smile upon opening the door. Brother Ibram bowed politely and entered with a flurry of apologies.

  “Awfully late for a random stroll about the monastery,” Seldis said once they were both seated.

  Ibram couldn’t look him in the eyes. “I’ve had trouble sleeping of late.”

  “Bad dreams?”

  “My dreams make me question myself.”

  Seldis narrowed his eyes. “You doubt your faith?”

  “I doubt my ability to follow it through. Father Seldis, I dream of wars and battle. Glory and honor. These are not our ways. Why do I dream such?” Ibram’s voice bordered on frantic. His eyes held a cagey look.

  “Who knows what lurks in our hearts, my son?” Seldis asked. “Long have I been in this position and even longer have I lived as a monk. Harr teaches us that everyone has a place in this world. A purpose. Perhaps we are not so fortunate as to decide for ourselves.”

  “That would mean my life has been a sham thus far,” Ibram protested.

  Seldis leaned closer and said in a deep voice, “Tell me your heart, Ibram.”

  Ibram exhaled a deep breath. “I want to know what it’s like to swing a sword. I want to be that man riding out on grand quests and saving the helpless. I want to feel the camaraderie only brothers in arms can feel.”