Demon Rising: Demon's Fire Book 3: Dream Walker Chronicles, #6

By Christopher Patterson

Erik Eleodum is known as Wolf's Bane, Troll Hammer, and Dragon Slayer. Now, he must become a Demon Killer.

 

As Yebritoch, the Lord of Chaos, regains a foothold in the world and threatens to break free of his prison in the Abyss, Erik must stop him before he destroys the world and tries to rebuild it.

 

Through his alliance with the Lord of the East, the demon Yebritoch has found a pathway from the Abyss back to the world. If they can free the greatest of Yebritoch's Chaos Beasts, his transformation will be complete and there will be no stopping him from raining chaos upon everything.

 

As this ancient evil devises a plan to destroy and rebuild the world, Erik has developed new allies as well as reunited with old allies and journeys into uncharted lands to find the last missing piece of the Dragon Scroll - the Dragon Crown - and a weapon that will help stop both Yebritoch and the Lord of the East. But his confidence is shaken and he questions whether or not he can actually stop the Lord of Chaos.

 

Will Erik have the strength and heart to make the sacrifices needed to stop the Demon of Chaos, or will the world as he knows it end?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher Patterson
• Release date: Sep 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9780578521572

Book preview

1

All Bryon Eleodum could see was waist-high grass that fluttered back and forth, as if there was some breeze, but he felt nothing. He thought he was asleep, but his dreams were never like this. On the rare nights he didn’t have nightmares about his cousin Befel burning, or tunnel crawlers tearing his flesh from his bones or freezing to death alone, he dreamt of women or ale … or both.

He looked around and saw the hill. He was sure it wasn’t there before. A single willow tree stood on the top, and while it was far away, he could see the silhouette of someone sitting under the falling branches. He felt the ground rumble beneath his feet, and when he turned, he saw a mountain range behind him. That definitely wasn’t there before. It was black and, even though the sun sat high in the sky, it was dark over the mountain range, with black clouds that emitted purple lightning.

Damn, this is mad. I think I’d rather dream of mountain trolls or dragons. I must be drunk.

He turned back to the hill with the tree, and now it seemed closer.

Bryon, a voice said and spun around once more.

Erik stood there. He was in his mail shirt, his sword hanging from his belt, his shield strapped to his back. He looked a little leaner, especially in the face, than Bryon had remembered him, his cousin’s shoulders perhaps a little broader. Then he noticed a hint of white touched the edges of Erik’s hair, just above his ears, as well as his beard, right over his chin. He smiled.

Erik, Bryon said.

Cousin, Erik replied.

You look terrible, Bryon said with a short laugh. I hope this isn’t how you’ll look ten winters from now. I don’t think Simone would still love you.

Erik chuckled.

This is how I look now, he said.

Bryon cocked an eyebrow.

But this is just a dream, Bryon said.

It is, Erik replied, but this is really me, in your dream … walking your dream.

To the nine hells with this, Bryon said. I think I want to wake up.

You can’t yet, Erik said. I need to ask you to do something for me first.

"Is this really you?" Bryon asked.

Erik nodded.

What, by the Creator’s beard, happened to you? Bryon asked.

I died, Erik replied.

Bryon rolled his eyes. Erik was always melodramatic.

I was dead, Bryon, and a powerful magic brought me back, Erik said. He reached up and touched his beard, where it had turned white. This is what happened when I came back.

Seriously? Bryon asked.

Erik nodded again.

Bryon stepped closer to his cousin. He felt his stomach knot and a lump in his throat.

Simone has missed you, cousin, he said.

I’ve missed her, Erik replied, more than you could imagine. Thank you for keeping her safe.

We’ve all missed you, Bryon said. His voice turned to a whisper. You damned fool. None of this would have happened if you hadn’t left without us.

Then who would have protected Simone? Erik asked. Apparently, he had heard Bryon. When the assassin came, who would have been there to keep her safe?

Bryon shrugged.

Is this what your dreams always look like? Bryon asked.

Mostly, Erik replied. Sometimes it changes here, but this is normally the place that greets me when I sleep.

Not bad, Bryon said with a shrug.

Erik laughed lightly.

I’ve missed you too, Erik said.

What do you need me to do? Bryon asked.

I need you to meet me in Finlo, Erik said.

Bryon sighed.

You just told me you needed me to stay here and protect your family, Bryon said. Your wife is closer to giving birth than not. You better come home for that or she might throw you out of the house permanently.

Erik’s face turned down, and he looked at the ground.

I don’t think I will be there for the birth of my child, Bryon, Erik said. My journey isn’t finished.

To the nine hells with your journey, Bryon said.

I couldn’t agree with you more, Erik replied, but there is so much at stake right now.

Erik’s voice was so serious, but Bryon remained dubious.

Meet you in Finlo, Bryon repeated. Leave your pregnant wife and soon-to-be infant child and meet you in Finlo. Alright. Simple enough.

Bring the dwarves, Erik said. Turk and Nafer. Tell Bofim to stay behind.

Seriously, Erik, you are a confusing son of a goat, Bryon said. What about Raktas? His friend, or companion—or whatever you want to call him—Terradyn left two weeks ago or more.

He’s with me, Erik said.

Oh really! Bryon replied, throwing his hands up in the air.

Bring him as well, Erik said.

Right, well, Bryon said. He felt his irritation rising and put his hands on his hips. Suddenly, his cousin didn’t seem like a seasoned warrior, and he was an annoying teenager again, nagging and aggravating to be around. Should I leave tomorrow then, right when I wake up?

No, Erik said, and Bryon cocked an eyebrow. Wait until the elves arrive.

Oh, sure, Bryon said, rolling his eyes, the elves. Will they have any unicorns with them?

I doubt it, Erik said, his voice and face flat. I haven’t seen any in Ul’Erel.

Ul’Erel? Bryon asked, his brow furrowing.

That’s where I am right now, Erik said. Bryon shook his head with a dismissive expression.

Does any of this truly surprise you? Erik asked. We have fought mountain trolls, evil wolves, a dragon, giants, and a wizard. We’ve befriended dwarves and wielded magic swords.

I guess you have a good point, Bryon said, now chuckling to himself.

He looked around this dream world one more time, nodding and looking resigned to accept what his cousin told him.

Why do you need us? Bryon asked.

I can’t tell you right now, Erik replied. I don’t have a lot of time. But rest assured, I need you now more than ever.

Alright, cousin, Bryon said. I will wait until the elves come—I can’t believe I am saying that—and I will bring Turk and Nafer … and Raktas with me, and I will ask Bofim to stay behind, with your wife. When should I expect the elves to arrive?

Within a fortnight, Erik replied.

So we will meet you in Finlo in three weeks then? Bryon asked.

Erik nodded his head.

And when we get to Finlo … where do we meet you there?

Go to Rory’s, Erik said with the slightest hint of a smile. "Go to the Lady’s Inn."

And from there? Bryon asked.

South, Erik said. We go south.

How far south? Bryon asked.

As far south as need be, Erik replied as his image began to fade.

Do you want me to tell Simone anything? Bryon asked. Do you have a message for her?

Erik seemed to think about that for a moment, even while he faded. He shook his head.

No, he said. I am sure she hates me. A message from me would only cause her more pain.

If you think Simone hates you, Bryon replied, then you are truly more foolish than I ever thought. And as for pain, each day she goes without you seems like more pain than a thousand deaths. If I tell her I must leave because you told me so in a dream, and assuming she believes me, and you have no message for her, she might then begin to hate you. And me.

Tell her I love her, Erik said. Tell her I love her more than life … and that is why I am not there.

Bryon opened his eyes and sat up. He kicked off his blanket, sweating even though it was near freezing and still dark outside. He rubbed his face hard. Was that really Erik? It was like no dream he had ever had. He looked at an empty clay jar next to his bed.

Too much ale, he muttered.

Bryon stood and, not wanting to wake up Simone, walked as quietly as he could to the front door of Erik’s house, eased it open, and stepped outside, carrying his elvish sword. He took it with him wherever he went. Paranoia. Suspicion. Whatever it was, it made him feel safe. The cold bit at his shirtless chest, but it felt good in an odd way. The moon hung low and large in the night sky, where the Gray Mountains loomed as shadows to the north. Bryon looked around, and Raktas leaned against the fence that surrounded the house, smoking a pipe. He rarely slept, and Bryon suspected magic.

Andragos’ bodyguard saw Bryon and gave him a short nod. Bryon returned the gesture. He looked to the barn, where the dwarves stayed most of the time. They could have stayed in the house—Simone had insisted on it several times—but they always said they didn’t want to be a bother, as if they could be. Firelight glowed from underneath the barn door. They were also awake.

Something caused his stomach to flutter, and he remembered campfires, adventure, the open sky, and camaraderie. A foolish, boyish excitement overcame him, and he couldn’t help smiling. He unsheathed his sword and watched the blade glow purple against the dark, nighttime horizon.

If elves truly are coming, Bryon said to himself with a shake of his head, they can’t get here soon enough.

2

Syzbalo stood on the dais of his keep, hands clasped behind his back. In the esteemed place of honor given to the advisor to the Lord of the East, Melanius stood haughty and proud to his right; his shoulders pulled as far back as his arthritic bones would allow. In any other time, in any other life, he would have never held that position. He was a trickster, and his magic paled in comparison to that of Andragos’, even with the extra power both the Lord of the East and Yebritoch had given the man, and he was a snake. But he was a loyal snake, which was more than Syzbalo could say about the deposed Black Mage.

The witches—Kimber and Krista—stood behind him, one on either side. Their power was growing as well, and unlike Melanius, Syzbalo trusted them fully. Akzûl, the goblin and now commander of his personal guard stood to his left. His one hundred and twenty-one Black Wolves also stood in the keep, along with the rest of Syzbalo’s personal guard. The goblin had surpassed expectations in leading the most elite military force in Fen-Stévock—now that the Soldiers of the Eye were gone. He was ruthless and demanding and not at all fair, but that was exactly what Syzbalo wanted.

Syzbalo tilted his head when he heard a low grumble come from Akzûl. Over the last few weeks, the goblin had served him well and without question, even giving him a different perspective on military advice and movements. The groan was directed towards Syzbalo’s guest, a large warrior walking through the colonnade of the keep and towards the raised dais.

You disapprove, Syzbalo said, looking down at Akzûl.

The goblin looked up at the Lord of the East, and his eyes said he did, but he shook his head.

This is the will of my lord and our master, Akzûl replied. It is not my place to disapprove.

Syzbalo looked up as the large Moorian warrior stopped just several paces from the dais. His appearance was alarming.

The people of Boruck-Moore—Moorians—typically kept to themselves and their island and were far less social than their cousins who populated the island of Boruck-Kilith. People of Antolika and Háthgolthane typically referred to the Kilithians as cat people, with a humanoid body and the head of any of several large cats one might find around the world. Syzbalo had yet to uncover what manner of dark magic created the race, but one could find a dozen or more of them in any large city in Háthgolthane; they were avid adventurers. The Moorians were much more reclusive.

With pallid green skin, pointed, elf-like ears, long, jet black hair, and lower canines that grew up from his lower jaw and along his cheeks, the Moorian standing before Syzbalo looked otherworldly. His eyes were simply white with the slightest tinge of red, and he was taller than most men, perhaps just a head shorter than most antegants. His arms, shoulders, chest, and legs bulged with muscle any soldier would envy. He wore a mail shirt that extended just past his waist and knee-high boots capped with iron. His left hand rested on the dragonhead pommel of a massive long sword—one that resembled the swords used by the northern barbarians of Hargoleth—and he held a rolled-up piece of parchment in his right.

Welcome, Ankathurg of the Second Clan, Syzbalo said with a small bow.

His retinue standing with him on the dais followed suit, although he noticed Akzûl hesitated at first.

The Moorians divided themselves into twelve clans, and where the dwarves and goblins and even humans gave their clans names of strength or fear—like Skull Crushers or Death Dogs—the Moorians simply numbered their clans one through twelve, the First Clan being the most powerful.

Why has the Lord of the East summoned my Chieftain? Ankathurg asked, his voice deep and reverberating, matching his size.

Ankathurg was the Champion of Second Clan and second-in-command next to the clan’s Chieftain, Tugrim. When Syzbalo sent for Tugrim, he knew, even if the invitation hinted that it was Yebritoch who truly wanted them to meet, the Chieftain would not come himself.

You know why, Akzûl replied, surprising both the Moorian and Syzbalo.

If I wished to speak with dogs, I would have visited the alleys of this wretched city, Ankathurg said, his face flat and emotionless.

Akzûl took a half step forward, his sloping brow furrowing and his beady eyes squinting. His lip curled around his little fangs. Syzbalo shot out an arm and blocked the goblin so brusquely that he almost staggered back.

You will stand, Syzbalo said to Akzûl, his voice cold iron.

The goblin bowed half-heartedly, and Syzbalo dropped his arm, turning back to the Moorian.

My Captain of the Guard is right, however, Syzbalo said. You know why I have summoned your Chieftain.

"You expect us to ally ourselves with a man who appoints a dog as his Captain of the Guard?" Ankathurg said, the first hint of emotion crossing his face as one corner of his lips barely tipped upward in a smirk.

I expect you to show respect amid the Lord of the East, Syzbalo said, containing himself as best he could. This was the will of Yebritoch, after all, and disobedience was dealt with harshly. "And for the summons of our master."

Not all the Moorians followed Yebritoch. In fact, Syzbalo only knew that Second Clan did. They all had, as a people, once, but over the eons, most of the Moorians had turned from the Lord of Chaos, blaming him for their isolation. But Second Clan blamed their people’s unbelief for their isolation and clearly, the return of Yebritoch meant a return to glory for their people.

The Lord of Chaos is the only reason I am here, Ankathurg said. He threw the rolled-up parchment—the summons—to the ground. We have no respect for men. You have no honor.

Syzbalo ground his teeth. Ankathurg was trying his patience, and he could see all one hundred and twenty-one of the Black Wolves, twitching, ready to strike and kill given the opportunity. The Lord of the East didn’t quite know the history between goblins and Moorians. He knew it was bad. They hated each other. Much of it probably had to do with the way Moorian culture and society operated. It was based on strength and resilience, rigid laws and strict rules and guidelines, ultimate loyalty to the clan, and most of all, honor. It seemed the goblins’ codes were the exact opposite.

Syzbalo, hands now clasped behind his back again, walked forward and stepped down the stairs of his dais. Standing in front of the Moorian, he had to look up, even though he was a tall man.

Your people do not deserve to live, secluded, on a small island in the South Sea, Syzbalo said, just as the Second Clan does not deserve its subservience to First Clan.

Your honeyed words will not work with me, Ankathurg said. He smirked and gave a quick, mirthless laugh. I am dealing with a dog and a snake.

How dare you? Melanius said.

Syzbalo could feel the magic the Isutan was conjuring and, even though he wanted to stop him, he didn’t. He was curious as to what this Moorian warrior would do. His response came as a surprise. He laughed.

Isutans, the Moorian said. A snake, a dog, and now a rat.

The magic of Melanius increased, a current of power, and Ankathurg seemed unfazed.

That’s enough, Syzbalo said, putting up a hand, and as soon as he said something, he felt the magic dissipate. He looked at Ankathurg. Yebritoch has commanded we form an alliance, but I do believe this can go beyond what our master desires. The warriors of Boruck-Moore are a proud and powerful race.

And … Ankathurg said, knowing there was more to what Syzbalo had to say.

And an alliance with the most powerful nation in four continents could only help solidify not only your clan as First Clan, but also open up trading routes and commerce you have not engaged in for many years.

And what does this alliance do for you? Ankathurg asked.

No one compares to the warriors of Boruck-Moore in battle, Syzbalo said matter-of-factly. And no one compares to the navies of Boruck-Moore. Having both Moorian warriors in my army and Moorian ships in my navy would only serve to increase the power and might of Golgolithul.

And in return for our swords and ships? Ankathurg asked.

Gold. Slaves. Lands.

Ankathurg seemed to think for a while. If Tugrim and the Second Clan weren’t interested in an alliance with the Lord of the East, Ankathurg would not have come in the first place. But now that he was there, in Golgolithul, an alliance seemed unsure.

I will send a message back to Tugrim with news of your offer, Ankathurg said. You will draw up terms for an alliance. I will review them. If I find them favorable, I will send for Tugrim to join us.

What of Yebritoch? Syzbalo asked.

We will serve Yebritoch, with or without you, Ankathurg said. We do not need some alliance with men … and goblins … to serve our master.

Even if it is what he demands? Syzbalo asked.

"He demands this of you," Ankathurg replied.

I see, Syzbalo said.

Second Clan holds alliance with Third Clan and Sixth Clan, Ankathurg explained. They will follow where we go. I am sure both clans will want something in return for their loyalty as well.

Syzbalo nodded. Ankathurg did not return the gesture.

Provide me with the details, and I will let you know what Tugrim’s response is, Ankathurg said, his reddish-white eyes squinting.

Very well, Syzbalo replied, and Ankathurg simply turned and left the keep.

If it were not for the master, I would not treat with the Moorians, Akzûl said.

If it were not for Yebritoch, I would not treat with you, Syzbalo said. Remember that.

The goblin bowed, and Syzbalo turned to Melanius.

Put spies to watch the Moorians, he said. Not that we need much worry about them; make sure my citizens do not harass them.

Your Excellency, Melanius said with a bow.

Syzbalo looked back at Akzûl.

Any word from your Death Dogs?

They are in Crom, waiting, my lord, Akzûl said. However, the Stone Claws are in Bard’Sturn, waiting for the Isutan bitch Ankara, just in case she crosses there instead of Crom. Out informants say she might.

Stone Claws? Syzbalo asked.

Loyal to the master and looking to advance their position, like the Death Dogs, Blood Hawks, and Black Wolves, Akzûl replied.

Good. Keep me informed, including news of the scheming bitch, Syzbalo said. He looked to his witches. Come. I am apprehensive and could use some rest.

They smiled, each taking an arm, and followed him into the darkness behind the keep’s giant curtain.

3

Patûk Al’Banan—a name that once struck fear into the hearts of men. It would now be forgotten within a generation. He had thought his name would go down in the history books, that it would be uttered with admiration and used to describe the favor of the gods. It would be spoken for ages to come. He would be the one to have toppled an empire and overthrown the most powerful man in the world. And then … a boy took it all away.

Patûk’s memories were marred, blurred as if he saw bits and pieces through smoke and broken glass. His childhood. His training. His rise and fall from grace in Golgolithul. But there was one thing that stood out to him as clear as the sky on a cloudless day. Erik Eleodum. Patûk ground his teeth as he walked through the ethereal plane separating the world of the living from the world of dreams and ghosts and supernatural creatures.

Patûk cursed this place. It was as inconsistent, incongruent, and as hazy as his memory. It was the realm in which he existed, the one he had been relegated to by powerful magic and in which his master had stationed him after saving him from darkness and oblivion.

Damn elves, Patûk muttered to himself, his voice an almost animalistic growl.

It was his encounter with elves outside the forests of Ul’Erel, that had sent him back to this place, preventing him from entering the world of the living, at least for a time. He could still see into that world, watch people, and even speak to them for a short while. Before the encounter, his strength was growing, all thanks to his savior and master, Yebritoch, and he could fully exist in both planes. He was beginning to feel alive again. He could feel warmth and cold, smell scents, taste, and even touch. He felt alive enough to drive his sword hilt deep into Erik Eleodum’s belly. The boy had died, and Patûk had rejoiced, his vengeance fulfilled. Patûk knew he had really died.

Before in the Dream World, Erik had an aura about him, the aura of the living. The ogres had it. The few other men and women who were aware of the Dream World had it. The dead did not. But after he had driven his black blade—another gift from Yebritoch—into Erik, the aura was gone when he saw him next. He was dead. But now, once more, he wasn’t.

I will have my vengeance, Patûk whispered to himself.

Patûk knew he was somewhere in the Gray Mountains, east of the Giant’s Vein. His master had tasked him with finding the Diamond of the North, the prison-stone of Andarag, the most powerful of Yebritoch’s Chaos Beasts. He traveled within an Abyssal Realm. It wasn’t like traveling in the world of the living. He sensed places and locations more than anything. The sights in this place were different—chaotic. A tree would be there one moment, and then shift into a rock, and then change again into some creature Patûk had never seen before, a grotesque mixture of a dozen animals. This was the Realm of Chaos, the realm of the Lord of Chaos. There was no true sky or land or sea. Everything twisted and coalesced into one thing and then separated again. Sometimes, water would replace the sky, and Patûk would be floating through it. Others, the land would turn to fire, and water to acid, and the sky to a choking smoke. Colors shifted sporadically, dark to bright, muddled to crisp, but always there was a sheen, a shadow, a layer of darkness behind everything.

Any living man would have been more frightened in this place than he had ever been. As much as Patûk could remember of his life, he would have found this place terrifying, but this could almost be called home, his realm as much as it was Yebritoch’s. The creatures ignored him, only paying attention to the poor souls the Lord of Chaos had harvested from the damned and feeding on their decaying flesh. And as much as this was the realm of Yebritoch, even the demon couldn’t come to this place, relegated to the deepest of abysses by the elves eons ago. It was only because of his great power that he could reach into the Realm of Chaos and the world of the living and influence men and women, like Syzbalo.

Patûk’s brow furrowed at the thought of the Lord of the East, but his memory of the man or his father wasn’t as clear as his memory of Erik Eleodum. Perhaps it was because his hatred for Syzbalo wasn’t quite as strong as his hatred for the boy who thought he was a hero, but he knew he hated him. Such a fool had no business ruling the most powerful country in Háthgolthane. Then Patûk laughed as the branches of a tree he passed morphed into green serpents with yellow eyes and fangs. They hissed at him, but he waved them away with a hand as he would a fly. Patûk had once wanted Háthgolthane for himself, but now he knew it was such a small part of the world, most of which sat unexplored by men. His allegiance to Yebritoch had revealed much to him, and for that, he was thankful.

Freeing the Chaos Beasts would help release Yebritoch from the deep abyss in which he was imprisoned, and when that happened, it didn’t matter how powerful these nations were. They would all fall to fire and flame and darkness. Yebritoch would destroy them all, destroy the whole world, and create a new existence. And in that, Patûk would share in the Lord of Chaos’ victory. Fools. All those feeble-minded men, goblins, Moorians, and any others who followed Yebritoch. They all thought the demon lord simply meant to bring the world to heel under his foot. No, no. He meant to come as a destroyer. He would slaughter everything and eradicate all the Creator and the Shadow had touched, including those who worshipped him. All that existed would do so in the name of Yebritoch.

Patûk Al’Banan stopped and stared at a purple rock, more crystal than stone. The grass beneath it was blue, and the sky overhead had turned white. A thing that looked like a two-headed frog—its skin warty and black—croaked atop the rock, its wide, white eyes staring at Patûk. The rock began to shift, and the weird animal bounced away, suddenly sprouting dragonfly wings and flying off. The rock grew taller and wider, and its surface became translucent. It was now a mirror. Patûk stared at the surface, watching the wind sweep snow across a narrow path cluttered with rock and spiny, green bushes. He knew what his master wanted from him. He stepped through the mirror, and colors swirled around him. His boots should have crunched as they displaced snow, but they didn’t.

In the Gray Mountains, far north of the Plains of Mek-Ba’Dune and east of the Giant’s Vein, it should have been bone-chillingly cold, but Patûk felt nothing—no wind against his face, no gentle touch of snow on his skin, and no freezing bite of the weather. He was a ghost in this place, a simple reflection from another pane allowed to walk about, to see and hear the world through the sheer power of his master. He saw a shadowy figure in front of him, approaching slowly. The figure wore a heavy cloak, and he was short—a dwarf. Patûk reached for his black blade, drew it, and held it in his hand. He reveled in its touch, but he knew it was useless in this place. It was only habit. Even his magical abilities—something he found abhorrent in life—that Yebritoch had given him wouldn’t work in the land of the living, at least, not yet.

Do you not recognize your master, minion? a deep, booming voice asked, coming from the direction of the dwarf, now fully appearing despite the wind and snow. The dwarf’s skin looked ashen, his hair and beard gray, and his eyes dark, almost completely black.

Master? Patûk gasped as he fell to his knees and bowed low. He saw boots under his face but didn’t dare to rise or look Yebritoch—currently using this dwarf as some shell—in the face.

Rise, worm, the demon commanded, and Patûk obeyed, keeping his eyes on the ground.

Master, how is this possible? Patûk asked.

My power grows as I near the Diamond of the North, close upon Andarag, my most powerful pet, Yebritoch replied. The dwarf’s mouth moved, but not in complete unison with the words it spoke. His power was growing, but it was stilted, still weakened in comparison, especially in the world of the living. I am now beyond simple influence.

When will you fully be able to return, master? Patûk asked. He heard a grumble come from the dwarf’s throat, recognized it as the sound of irritation and anger his master gave, and he ducked and bowed lower.

As if a worm should be privy to such information, Yebritoch said through his host. But I will tell you, nonetheless. My body has long decayed so that only my essence roams the abyss. I must take over a suitable host for my spirit when the preparations for my return are complete.

The Lord of the East, Patûk whispered to himself as realization came, his eyes wide.

Yes, the demon lord said in a voice almost light in tone. You are, perhaps, a little better than a worm.

You never meant to ally yourself with Syzbalo, Patûk said, a smile spreading across his face, and he dared to look directly at the dwarf. Despite the concern that his boldness might infuriate Yebritoch, the avatar the demon had chosen smiled.

No, the demon replied as part of the gray beard of the dwarf smoldered, hair falling away. The skin on his face became splotchy, reddening as if burnt, cracking, and then flaking off with the hair. As I increase Syzbalo’s power, I increase the chances he will be a viable host for my essence. As you can see, any lesser creatures will too soon decay and fade away. But him, prepared properly, will be my host for many years as I gather my armies and reunite my beasts to finally destroy a world not made in my name. After that, I will gather the females I spare to me, including his witches, and I will breed with them, my seed growing within them. They will birth a new race, and I will establish them as the rulers of my new existence.

The dwarf, his hands now nothing but bone, his beard burnt away, and smoke rising from his clothing, looked at Patûk, the dimming gray eyes meeting the general’s as he continued to wonder what this new existence would look like. Would the demon use this world, would it be on a different plane, or would it even be a recognizable existence?

And you, General Patûk Al’Banan, will be by my side as this all happens, Yebritoch said, the dwarf’s eyes disappearing, leaving hollow, black holes.

A sense of pride welled up in Patûk, and he felt foolish for smiling. He bowed.

Continue the search for Andarag, the demon commanded. I will show you the way. As you near my beast, your power will increase. Some of my essence was trapped with each beast, but Andarag has the most. You will need to continue in this wretched place in order to retrieve the stone. But once that is done …

Yebritoch hated this world, but Patûk wanted nothing more than to walk in it again. Would that be possible in the future?

Master, Patûk said with a bow and then watched as black smoke rose from the dwarf and the short body fell to its knees. Reflecting the final death of the host, the voice gave a quick and terrible scream as the skeleton collapsed in a pile of ash and bone.

I will do as my master bids, Patûk said before continuing along the mountain path as an ethereal specter. As he moved on, blurred, muddy visions of the faces of all the men who had crossed him passed through his jumbled mind, finally stopping at Erik Eleodum.

And when my time comes, I will have my revenge as demon fire burns you away.

4

W e are almost there, Beth El’Kesh said.

Myanor? Erik asked.

The she-elf nodded.

I don’t understand why we need to go to an elvish city, Terradyn grumbled.

Garrick Torrwyn is a good friend … and an ally, Beth replied, her gaze on the forest ahead.

Stop complaining, Erik added before Beth, yet again, told them the trek through Ul’Erel was anything but safe and that the mayor of Myanor would house and hide them before they made their final way to Waterton. Terradyn was still going to retort when Beth put a hand up.

Silence, she said. Troops are coming.

She began to chant, an aura glowing around her hands, eyes closed.

I am casting a spell upon you, Beth said.

What kind of spell? Terradyn asked.

Transfiguration, she replied. It will be painful, but do not make any noise. Do not say anything. I will do all the talking. Do you understand?

Both Erik and Terradyn nodded.

The transformation was indeed painful and, as Erik looked up at Terradyn, he couldn’t believe his still smarting eyes. The elves called bulegants kishma, and that was what Terradyn was … or at least, looked like. As the pain quickly dissipated, Erik fiddled with his ears, long and pointy—elf ears.

Stop it, Beth said, swatting his hand away as a unit of Sylvan soldiers came closer, revealed by the sound of talking and marching. Believe it or not, elves aren’t that fascinated with their own ears.

She had explained that even being the esteemed Lady El’Kesh, a member of the royal family, and a grandmaster and teacher of elvish magic, a squadron of elvish soldiers finding men in Ul’Erel would not bode well for any of them, especially her.

Beth told Erik she expected as much. They had spent a week living in the El’Kesh tower, an academy for elvish girls wishing to expand upon their innate magical abilities. Erik and Terradyn were safe behind the walls of the white tower, those studying and living there were loyal to Beth, but outside those walls, many had been allies with the Jart’El El’Kesh, Beth’s late brother, and shared his sentiments towards men and anyone else outside Ul’Erel. Upon leaving the tower, they now headed south towards Waterton and then on to Finlo.

Erik and Terradyn grabbed the reins of their horses, getting ready to lead them to cover, but Beth shook her head.

Give me their reins. They’ll be fine, and they would be hard to hide.

And Thala? Erik asked. He was still getting used to the fact he uttered Elvish words even though he spoke in his native Westernese. The sound was higher pitched than his usual voice and, to his ears, sounded exotic.

Erik looked down at the great snow cat; although, she didn’t look like a snow cat. Rather, she looked like a large Plains cat, her fur tan save for a few black spots around her shoulders and flank and her underbelly white.

She will be fine as well, Beth reassured.

She spoke Elvish as well, and one of the only good things, in Erik’s opinion, about being transformed into an elf was the ability to understand Elvish as if it was his native language. Beth had been teaching him, and he was a fast learner, but it was a complicated language, and he had only studied for a week.

Beth and the two horses stood next to a giant oak tree, Erik and Terradyn standing behind her. The tree stood in the middle of a wide, circular clearing—a place of reverence for the elves and other sylvan people. It was a place where people could meet, worship El—their name for the Creator—and even call for help, using the giant tree to communicate through the whole forest. Erik didn’t quite understand the significance of this place, but he trusted Beth.

Twenty elvish warriors, half of them archers and the other half swordsmen marched into the clearing, led by a kaylytha sergeant, the name given to the half-elf, half-horse sylvans that Erik had seen once before. The warriors stopped when the kaylytha leader held up his hand. He bowed when he saw Beth, his whitish-gray hair, matching the coat of his horse body, spilling forward and over his face. His hair was a stark contrast to his brown skin, and the way this kaylytha held himself, as he lifted his head, spoke of his authority.

My lady, the kaylytha said.

Yanenio, Beth replied, and it was evident she knew him, her bow signifying his importance.

I did not expect to see you outside of your tower following Queen Elbereth’s warning, Yanenio said.

You expect me to stay cooped up for weeks on end? Beth asked.

No, of course not, Yanenio replied with a short laugh. He looked to Erik and Terradyn. And who are your companions?

They are accompanying me to Myanor, Beth replied.

Myanor? Yanenio asked, and the way he said it made Erik believe there was distrust in the kaylytha’s voice. Does the Lady El’Kesh fear so much she needs an escort to travel to Myanor?

His words confirmed Erik’s suspicion.

You mentioned the Queen’s decree, Beth replied, and you know of the intrusion. Should I not be extra careful?

Certainly, Yanenio said with a bow. And these horses? They are not elvish steeds.

No, they are not, El’Beth replied. I found them roaming the forest near my tower.

Truly? Yanenio said, a hint of disbelief in his voice. That is odd. I wonder how they made it this far into Ul’Erel without one of our scouts seeing them.

It does seem odd, doesn’t it, Beth replied. Either we need to revisit our scouts’ training near my tower, or perhaps they belonged to the supposed men who have invaded our forests.

Yanenio’s eyebrows lifted.

If that is so, my lady, he said, then I must take them to Elbereth.

No, Beth said a little too quickly. Yanenio tilted his head. No. I will take them. They are gentle souls, very different from most horses owned and broken by men.

My lady, I insist, Yanenio said.

Insist all you want, Yanenio, Beth said, her voice hardening, but unless Captain Yanenio’s station has suddenly exceeded mine, you will honor my wishes.

The kaylytha’s face flattened. He didn’t like Beth’s retort, but he relented with a quick bow.

May I ask, Yanenio asked, what brings you to travel to Myanor?

Am I not allowed outside the confines of my tower? she asked, her back straightening. Must I ask Jart’El, or Queen Elbereth, even, for permission? I have lived in these forests for over a thousand years.

No, my lady. Apologies. It’s just, with all the recent dangers … Yanenio said.

Hence, my escort, Beth said, presenting Erik and Terradyn. Garrick is a dear friend of mine. I am traveling to visit with him.

Very well, Yanenio said.

Good day, Captain, Beth said, folding her hands together inside the sleeves of her robe.

Good day, my lady, the kaylytha captain said before commanding the score of elvish warriors behind him to continue marching.

The elf maiden stood next to the oak tree, and Erik waited for her. A long while passed, even after the squadron had left, before she turned and nodded to Erik.

It didn’t sound like he trusted you, Erik said.

He didn’t, Beth replied. He doesn’t. He is like my brother. Pompous and proud. But seeing him worries me. Queen Elbereth is scared, and I don’t blame her. But fear creates assumptions, and assumptions create prejudice. There are many in Ul’Erel, however, that harbor no ill feelings against men or dwarves or anyone else who lives outside of these forests. We will need to be careful, though.

You know, Terradyn said as they left the wide clearing, Beth bowing to the large oak tree in the middle before leading them away, Ul’Erel isn’t all that bad when an elf is leading you.

We must still be careful, Beth said. There is great danger in the unknown. And even I don’t know everything that is happening in these forests.

Beth stopped and extended her hands as if presenting two trees that grew with unusually straight trunks. Their lower branches curved and twisted together, creating an arch, the other trees and bushes on either side growing so tightly together they formed a natural wall.

A quick whistle broke the forest’s serenity. The ground in front of the space over the arch rose, shook, and rumbled, forming a mound, eventually taking the shape of a four-legged creature.

A drake, Erik whispered.

Hush, Beth said.

The drake fully manifested, its scales a brilliant green that shimmered gold—like a dragon’s scales—when light hit them just right. Ridges ran above the animal’s eyes and around its nostrils, and moss hung in clumps from its chin so that it looked like a thick, unkempt, green beard. A pink tongue flicked in and out, and it watched them with red eyes.

A second whistle followed. The trees on either side of the arched opening rattled and shook as two figures appeared from the trees’ shadows, tall things with earthen bodies, stumps for hands and feet, and a mound of dirt for a head with a blank face. Golems.

As the three creatures stood and watched them, a company of elves marched forward and stood at attention. All clad in shirts of green mail, greaves, and bracers embossed with the emblems of leaves and dark gray cloaks, they carried longbows in their hands, with long swords at their sides. However, they showed no signs of hostility.

Another elf, with bright yellow hair and silver-blue eyes, followed the guard, wearing a light blue, hooded robe that covered his whole body. He rubbed the drake’s head as a man might pet his favorite dog and, as he reached up to touch the animal, parting his robe, Erik saw the golden handles of two curved blades—falchions that resembled the sword the gypsy Mardirru carried.

As soon as the robed elf faced Beth, he bowed low.

My lady El’Beth El’Kesh, the elf said.

Your pleasantries are so silly, Garrick, Beth replied with a wave of her hand and a flirtatious giggle that reminded Erik of his young sister.

A lady of Ul’Erel and member of our high court deserves nothing less, Garrick Torrwyn, mayor of Myanor, said, straightening his back and smiling. Even Erik had to admit that this elvish man was handsome and striking.

Will you escort us to your manor house, Garrick? Beth asked.

Of course, the mayor replied. Follow me.

5

In a corner of The Drunken Fin, Wrothgard decided he had been drinking much lately—maybe too much—and this night, he had ordered only one drink and barely touched it. Phania and Galexera worked the bar, and as soon as he entered, they had clung to him like flies to shit, but he wanted little to do with them as well. He let them swoon over him and sit next to him, but his attention was on the bar, its patrons, and his dreams. He was far too drunk the night before when the assassin came for him, and he was so engrossed in Nesilia and Nomilia—the whores working that night—that he didn’t see the goblin. The Lord of the East must have been running low on resources to send this pathetic excuse of a killer. Four men—strong, fast, cunning, and wielding an array of exotic weapons—almost got the best of him the month before. Both whores and one of The Drunken Fin’s patrons died in that fight. And then Wrothgard had to evade Finlo’s militia, ever watchful of fighting and brawling. It cost him a hefty fine to convince Morgan to let him back in the bar. And the month before that, his would-be killer was from Boruck-Kilith, the island of cat people. He wasn’t hard to spot with his black fur and green eyes or his bone-white fangs, but it still was all Wrothgard could do to keep his life against such a foe.

But to lose his life to a lowly goblin assassin barely Erik’s age … Erik. That fool boy consumed his thoughts as the untouched tankard of ale sat in front of him, and two mildly attractive women kissed his neck and rubbed his crotch. He rarely dreamt, drink sweetly taking him into a deep slumber every night. He always woke with a pounding headache and a sour taste in his mouth, but the drink was there to greet him again and dull the pain. And if anyone had asked him why he wasn’t drinking and whoring this night, he would have told them it was because some goblin scum almost stabbed him in the back, but that wasn’t it at all. It was a young man he had once trained. A young farmer who had unwittingly found his way into the company of mercenaries, the friendship of dwarves, and the leadership of him, Wrothgard, former eastern guardsman turned sell-sword.

He tried avoiding thoughts of Erik, or Bryon, or the dwarves, for that matter. He wasn’t allowed to be happy. He was an eastern guardsman, a mercenary, a killer, a thief, and a backstabber. And yet, those times with the dwarves and the Eleodum boys were some of the fondest memories he had in many years. And he had turned his back on them. He walked away from the men—the cousins—who wanted nothing more than to be his family. So, he drank, whored, and fought. He used the wealth he had earned from his many escapades, culminating with the founding of an ancient, lost, dwarvish treasure room, to buy whatever he wanted—women, friends, expensive clothing, anything. But, at the end of the day, none of it filled an empty pit in his stomach, and so he did it all over again.

Wrothgard had dreamed of Erik Eleodum. His former pupil, a man who he had ended up following as his captain even though he was half his age, was fighting another figure from his past—General Patûk Al’Banan. Patûk had killed Erik, driven his sword hilt deep into his friend’s belly. He remembered crying out in his dream, but it was a silent scream. Then, he was in a forest, dark and haunted. Erik was there again, very much alive. But as he stood among looming trees in the darkness of dense woods, hands burst from the ground—dead hands that ended in vicious claws. They grabbed Erik, ripped his clothing and skin, and finally pulled him down into the earth. His dream had faded again and, once more he saw Erik, now standing in front of a tall white tower, a man and a woman in front of him. Their pointed ears were unmistakable—Elves. Erik fought the male elf, and he fought him heroically, but before long, the elvish warrior had driven a slightly curved, single-edged blade into Erik’s belly and killed him. The three scenes played repeatedly in Wrothgard’s head, and along with making sure he avoided goblins, he had decided that a clear head might relieve him of such dreams.

He pushed the whores out of his way, left his unfinished drink, and walked outside, heading onto Fisherman’s Avenue, Finlo’s busiest street.

Watch out, you old washed-up sailor, one man said as he bumped into Wrothgard.

Piss off, Wrothgard grumbled. Fighting was punishable by death these days in Finlo, but he didn’t care.

What did you say to me, the man said, turning and stepping close to Wrothgard. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and bald with the typical, blue-inked sailor tattoos all over his arms and neck.

Wrothgard gave the man a hard look and spoke through gritted teeth.

You heard me, you pile of fish guts, Wrothgard said, straightening his shoulders.

Perhaps the man realized Wrothgard wasn’t drunk, or the look in his eyes said he wasn’t a man to be trifled with, but the bald man backed up.

Just watch yourself, he said, turning and walking away.

Wrothgard walked down Fisherman’s Avenue, ignoring anyone who happened to bump into him, ignoring the constables shouting at people as the city’s curfew neared, and ignoring the whores calling out from their small apartments. Unbidden, gooseflesh rose on his arms, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He looked over his shoulder. It was just a dense crowd, at least, that was what most men saw. He kept walking, pulling the hood of his shirt he wore under his jerkin over his head. He took a left, down a less crowded street, and then a right, down an even quieter one. Another left and another right brought him to an almost deserted lane, close to the docks.

Wrothgard backed up into the shadows, almost stepping on a drunk, homeless man, and waited. He closed his eyes for a moment and slowed his breathing. He hadn’t prepared for battle in a long time; the last three times assassins came for him, he acted out of instinct. But this time felt different for some reason—and someone had come for him only a day after the previous attempt on his life. A month or two typically spread them out. The Lord of the East must have been getting desperate for some reason.

Wrothgard opened his eyes. Nothing. Just the shadows of homeless beggars, whores, and frail children sifting through trash while their fathers lay at home sick and their mothers worked the streets. White rats, fat on fish guts and filth, squeaked as they scurried from body to body, hoping to find one dead, or incapacitated enough they wouldn’t notice a little nibble here or there. Then he saw it, him, her … the thing following him.

Wrothgard gave a quick sigh of relief. For a moment, he thought he had imagined someone following him, drink, tomigus root, and pipe weed making him nervous and suspicious, addling his brain. It moved quietly—this shadow—from one hiding spot to the next. His attacker knew how to use the darkness to its advantage. This wasn’t some goblin runt paid a few gold coins to try and stab him in the back.

As the shadow moved closer, Wrothgard stepped into the street, dimly lit by a winter moon and stars, dwarvish crafted sword in hand. The shadow stopped. Wrothgard heard the soft sliding of iron against leather but didn’t see any weapons.

I get tired of slinking around in shadows and looking over my shoulder, Wrothgard said. Let’s get on with it so I can go about my night.

Wrothgard heard a soft cackle come from the shadow.

Is the Lord of the East so concerned with me that he sends two assassins to kill me two nights in a row?

He heard another cackle.

Is he really so desperate? Wrothgard asked. I heard he dismissed the Messenger of the East and has moved more troops across the Giant’s Vein. What does he care about me?

The Lord of the East is a puppet, the shadow said in a croaking, metallic voice.

I could say the same about you, Wrothgard replied.

He follows an upstart demon who thinks he’s more powerful than the true master of darkness, the shadow said, ignoring Wrothgard’s insult.

Wrothgard cocked an eyebrow and tilted his head.

What are you talking about? Wrothgard asked. If the Lord of the East didn’t send you, then who did?

The shadow moved forward, out of a patch of darkness and into the moonlight. The would-be assassin was slight, a hood pulled over its face and Wrothgard couldn’t tell if the killer was a man or woman, or even a human. Thin fingers gripped the edge of the cowl and pulled it back, revealing a soft face and pale skin, white hair, and thin, red lips.

What are you?

A servant, the assassin said, lifting a short curved sword so that Wrothgard could see the weapon this killer intended to murder him with.

Of whom? Wrothgard asked, and as if his question was somehow offensive, the assassin jeered, pulling back, and bearing bone-white teeth that had been filed to sharp points so they looked like rows of fangs. Who, other than the Lord of the East, wants me dead?

Who doesn’t want me dead might be a better question?

You woke the mistress, the assassin said. You infected the lands of those I serve. You allied yourself with that scum that still treat with surface dwellers.

What? Wrothgard asked. This killer’s riddles were lost on him. He didn’t know if it was too much alcohol of late or just incoherent ramblings.

The Chosen Ones will have their vengeance, the assassin said, and, in return for my obedience, their shamans will grant me acceptance into their ranks and eternal darkness.

The killer’s lips pulled back again in a rictus snarl and his eyes widened, showing light blue pupils, and his white eyebrows arching high, giving him a look of insanity. Chosen Ones? Mistress? Eternal darkness? Infecting his lands? Pale skin? White hair? Filed teeth. Wrothgard’s own eyes widened.

The dwomanni? he said, more to himself than the killer.

"How dare you speak their name! the assassin said. One too sacred to pass through your filthy lips."

But you’re nothing but a man, Wrothgard said, hoping his sarcasm would hide his confusion.

The killer spat.

By appearance. A cruel trick, the assassin replied, but one that the god of darkness and my masters’ shamans can rectify.

You mean for them to turn you into one of them? Wrothgard asked, his lip turning up into a small smile. Into a dwomanni?

Yes, the killer said.

Wrothgard laughed. The baring of those hideous teeth suggested the response wasn’t what the assassin wanted or expected.

You are truly a fool, Wrothgard said, crouching into his fighting stance in the hope he could soon be rid of this annoying creature.

The Shadow can do anything through the god of darkness and his shamans, the assassin said and, without any more hesitation, came at Wrothgard.

He still couldn’t tell whether this killer was a man or woman, with their slight build and soft jawline, but they were certainly human. The initial attack was easy to defend—several slashes with their short sword—but they used that as misdirection, throwing small darts at Wrothgard’s face. One grazed his cheek, and the wound immediately burned, revealing they were poisoned. The assassin took several more swings at the easterner and snapped their fingers.

It was as if a black fog rose from the ground and surrounded Wrothgard. It stunk of old, wet dirt and made him cough.

Pesky magic, Wrothgard grumbled, but he was comfortable fighting blind. As an eastern guardsman, he been taught to rely on his smell and hearing.

He heard a swish of wind and ducked and rolled, blocking the slashing of a blade, while he jerked sideways to avoid a dart. Wrothgard kicked out, catching the killer’s calf with his shin and loosening his stance before he punched with his left hand, his knuckles connecting with soft flesh. Wrothgard heard a low grunt, and a body hit the ground. The dark cloud around him dissipated.

Wrothgard swung down hard, but the servant of the dwomanni blocked the blow; however, the strike was so strong, it knocked the weapon from the assassin’s hand. The easterner pointed his sword at the killer, but the assassin swatted the blade out of the way, cutting his wrist as he did, and lunged at Wrothgard, gripping his ankle and trying to bite him. The former soldier kicked back. If this creature’s darts were poisoned, who knew what his teeth might do?

Given enough time and space, the assassin jumped up, gripping Wrothgard’s shirt with both hands. Even though the would-be killer was a good head shorter than the easterner, it took him by surprise, and he fell back, the grip on his sword relaxing as he pushed the killer away when it tried to bite him, snapping at him like a rabid dog until Wrothgard wrapped his fingers around its throat. He kicked the assassin’s legs away again, so he wound up on top, pressing down on the killer’s throat with one hand and digging a thumb into an eye.

You want to be blind, Wrothgard grunted through clenched teeth. His face was hot, and he heard the thump of his heart. Let me help you.

Blood pooled in the socket, and Wrothgard felt a quick pop under his thumb, the yellow fluid of an eyeball oozing from the wound as well. The assassin screamed, his façade of malice and strength waning. Wrothgard let go of the killer’s throat and jammed his other thumb into the other eye.

Wrothgard stood, bending down to retrieve his sword, his would-be killer squirming on the ground, clutching its face and groaning loudly.

I would tell you to let your masters know their attempts on my life will end much like the Lord of the East’s, Wrothgard said, breathing heavily as he walked to the killer, curled up on the ground, but I’m not going to let you live.

Wrothgard spat on the assassin.

Although, I’m sure, secretly, you’re thanking me for taking your life, Wrothgard added. From what I know of the dwomanni, what they would do to you would be far worse.

The groaning stopped as Wrothgard’s steel slid between two ribs and through soft flesh. He pulled the dead killer to the side, piling two wooden boxes and some dirt rags atop the body. The Finnish militia rarely patrolled this part of Finlo, but when they did, decomposition would have already eaten away much of the body’s recognizable features. The Council of Five had declared martial law months before when a large army, led by a Bu Al’Banan, encamped just outside the city.

Wrothgard scoffed at the idea of this man pretending to be Patûk’s son. But even as the army moved away and eventually conquered Hámon, the Council of Five maintained martial law, and their rule was absolute. Fighting and thieving received harsh punishments—even though they still happened quite often—and killing, justifiable or not, resulted in immediate imprisonment in the crow’s cages that lined the Sea Born Road and led to the main gates of Finlo. Just in case someone saw him, he didn’t need stupid, Finnish militiamen asking him questions. He was already a main suspect for many of their investigations.

Wrothgard wound his way through the city and stepped back onto Fisherman’s Avenue. He wouldn’t go back to the Drunken Fin. No. He would go to bed early and sober. And hopefully, if he dreamt of Erik Eleodum again, they truly would be sweeter dreams.

6

The manor of Myanor was a tree, its trunk as wide as a stone-built keep would have been. The inside of the dwelling looked like any other home, save for the inner walls curving with the natural undulations of a gigantic tree. But the furnishings, stairs, bookshelves, and rugs were that of any well-off aristocrat from any society. Garrick Torrwyn led Erik and his companions to a