Jean Rabe - Dragons of a New Age

Feril was at his side in an instant, helping him up. “So much blood,” she said in an awed voice.

“It’s not mine.” He sheathed his sword and tore the silk shirt from his back. Feril breathed a sigh of relief to realize that he wasn’t badly injured.

“Thanks for the rescue,” Rig said.

Dhamon nodded an acknowledgment, then his eyes widened as he took in all of the carnage. Groller had taken out four ogres singlehandedly with his club, and now was plodding toward another group that was struggling to their feet—the ogres Palin had momentarily downed with his magical shards of light. Fury stood on the chest of the largest ogre, blood dripping from his fangs. He cast his head to the sky and emitted a howl.

Dhamon slipped past the mariner and Feril and he rushed toward Groller. Jasper followed. Groller charged one of the four remaining ogres, abandoning his club and leaping on the brute’s back. The pair rolled over and over, dust flying, and the commotion drew the attention of the other three. Leaderless, they were confused. Outnumbered, they were frightened.

Dhamon waved his sword in the air. “Surrender!” he called to the few still standing. “If you value your lives, yield now!”

A cracking noise echoed through the campsite. Groller had snapped the neck of his foe and now was rising to his feet.

“We give,” one of the ogres said. “No kill us. We give.”

Jasper stepped forward. “Why’d you kidnap us?” The angry dwarf shook his small fist at them.

The ogres stared dumbly at their ruined campsite, their fallen comrades. “For the Dark Knights,” the spokesman said finally. “The dragon wanted people.”

Dhamon strode up to the ogre, flashing his sword. The light from the still-blazing campfire caught the blade and made it gleam threateningly. “The Blue?”

The ogre looked to its brethren and then up at the sky. “Don’t know.”

That was answer enough for Dhamon. “Where’s Skie?”

“Don’t know. Don’t want to know. Somewhere in the desert, but don’t know where. Muglor know. But Muglor dead.” The ogre glanced toward Fury, who was pawing over the large, dead ogre. “That Muglor.”

Dhamon sighed. “Why’d Skie want these particular men?”

The ogres looked at each other and shook their heads dumbly.

“Then for what?” Dhamon persisted. “You don’t kidnap people for no reason.”

“Don’t know,” one ogre stammered. “Muglor said the Blue wants more spawn things.”

“Spawn?”

“Don’t know!” shouted the original spokesman.

Jasper tugged on Dhamon’s sword belt. “You got any idea what spawn is?”

“We’ll tell you later,” Feril said. She and Rig had come up behind them.

“Get out of here!” Dhamon screamed at the ogres. “Before I change my mind and decide to finish off each and every one of you anyway.”

The ogres turned and ran, too frightened to look back.

Meanwhile, Palin had climbed down from the large, flat rock. His face was flushed, his breathing labored. The few spells he’d cast were potent and took quite a bit of energy out of him. “Let’s get out of here,” the sorcerer said softly. He turned and headed toward the men who waited among the rocks. Dhamon was the only one who lingered, praying briefly over the bodies of those who had died.

They traveled only a few miles, just far enough to put some distance between them and the camp. There were nearly six dozen freed prisoners. Only half of the men were sailors who had been taken from ships in the Palanthas harbor. The rest were farmers, traveling merchants, and visitors to the city—all who had been attacked before they reached the city gates.

They were ravenously hungry, and Feril, who had been healed by a spell from Jasper, had all she could do to scrounge up enough food to take the edge off their hunger. Dhamon occupied himself talking to Palin about the dragons and spawn, and what their next step ought to be in combating the menace.

The sorcerer rubbed his chin. A short, though uneven, beard had sprouted from his face, making him look almost distinguished. “We’ll assemble the lance and talk with Goldmoon before we decide on a course of action. I trust her counsel, but I suspect the decision will be to go after the Blue that’s nearby.”

Across their makeshift camp, Rig was rubbing the Kagonesti’s shoulders. “I thought I was done for,” the mariner admitted. “It’s funny. I can remember only one other time in my life when I really feared for myself...”

Feril turned her head and glanced up, her eyes encouraging him to continue.

“Shaon and I once sailed on a ship called the Sanguine Lady in the Blood Sea. There’d been a mutiny. It was supposed to be bloodless, and I was designated the new first mate. I had a lot of respect for the captain, and I thought the others did, too. We agreed to set him ashore with a few coins and enough food to last him until another ship came by. I myself went in the longboat with the captain and a handful of others.

After we landed, I watched as the others fell on him, cutting and beating him until long after he was dead. I couldn’t do anything—not unless I wanted to die with him. We rowed back to the boat in silence, I never told Shaon what really happened. And the next time the Lady made port, I grabbed Shaon and we disappeared. We kept low for a while, and I’m sure she was curious why. But she knew better than to press me. Eventually we found our way to New Ports.”

“You must really care about her,” Feril said. “It’s obvious she cares for you.”

The mariner’s hands lingered on Feril’s shoulders. “We’re good friends ,” he said.

Dhamon was looking for the Kagonesti and spotted her across the camp. Rig was hovering closely, touching Feril. Dhamon felt a surge of jealousy. He’d thought Feril had been showing interest in him. She’d only been teasing, he decided. Dhamon balled his hands into fists, but didn’t budge from Palin’s side, where their discussion continued.

Khellendros stretched as comfortably as the confines of his underground lair allowed, his muscles rippling, his tail twitching like a contented cat’s. He’d slept the better part of eight days, replenishing his energies, and now was ready to devote himself to creating more blue spawn. The ingredients should be arriving soon, herded across the desert to their doom. After that, he intended to enlarge his lair—to give himself more room to relax and to provide an underground barracks for his growing army.

The dragon flexed his claws and rumbled happily, the sound growing loud enough to vibrate the cavern’s walls. The regiment of blue spawn that stood behind him looked warily toward the ceiling and at the sand that spilled down through the cracks. The floor was covered with more than an inch of fine, white sand now, for the dragon’s agitation had continually weakened the lair.

The dragon eased forward. It was time to bask a bit in the sun, luxuriate in his sparkling, pale desert. He’d lie on the hot sand while he waited for the new arrivals. Two or three days at the most, he suspected, and they’d be here. He moved ahead slowly, extended his neck and rubbed it against the ceiling to ease an itch. Then he paused. His vast nostrils quivered uncomfortably.

“Show yourself!” his voice boomed. More sand trickled down through the cracks in the ceiling.

A lone ogre shuffled into the mouth of the cave. The dragon shot a claw out, intending to smash this insolent creature who dared to defile the sanctity of his lair. Then Khellendros paused. Perhaps this was a messenger from the Strongfist Tribe, announcing the arrival of the ingredients. But even as he entertained this thought, the ogre’s form shimmered and melted away, replaced by the tiny body of the shapeshifting huldrefolk.