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- Herausgeber: Dragonfire Press
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Serie: Dragons of Isentol
- Sprache: Englisch
King Torian's evil is spreading across the realms.
Conal and Gwen are hard-pressed to evade Torian's spies and armies while gathering support to combat the evil king's quest for total domination. But they can't do it alone and must seek out the help of dwarves and elves - with unintended consequences.
The sudden arrival of dragon-hunters causes some to wonder if the people are filled with madness or if dragons, which were exterminated 150 years ago, might possibly still exist, especially as these fanatics are obsessed with their mission of finding and killing dragons. But why now? What has caused these zealots to abruptly appear, demanding to know where the dragons are?
Just when things might be looking up for the rebellion, they discover there are traitors among them.
Rune Marked is the second book in the series Dragons of Isentol, a tale of dragons, magic, and a growing rebellion against tyranny.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Seitenzahl: 249
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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Rune Marked
Dragons of Isentol Book 2
Richard Fierce, pdmac
Rune Marked © 2020 by Richard Fierce and pdmac
This is a work of fiction. All events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form without the express permission of the publisher.
Contents
Gwen could smell rain in the air.
Her mount’s ears perked up as thunder rumbled ominously overhead, but otherwise, the animal continued trudging along the road undeterred. Aimil rode next to Gwen, her attention focused ahead.
“Should we try to find shelter?” Gwen asked.
Aimil shrugged. “A little rain never hurt anyone.”
Gwen decided that was a fair point, but she didn’t find the idea of getting soaked very appealing. Since she had no idea how to get to their destination, she was left with no other choice but to continue following Aimil.
The rain started as a gentle sprinkle and quickly turned into a downpour. The road was worn from wagon traffic and the indents left from the wheels quickly filled with water, tinted brown from the dirt.
Between the storms and the complete lack of civilization, Gwen was glad to have Aimil’s company over the last few days. The woman had her quiet moments, but she never shied away from conversation. Any time Gwen started to think about her father or Tobias, she would divert her mind by asking Aimil a random question. If Aimil had grown tired of her, she did well to hide it.
They rode through the storm and the sun eventually returned, making the air feel thick and humid. Gwen’s wet clothes stuck to her skin, irritating her and making her mutter foul curses under her breath. The two traveled a half-mile after the last of the rain fell before Gwen spotted a town ahead. A poorly made sign displayed the town’s name: Woodpine.
“Have you been here before?” Gwen asked.
“I usually pass through without stopping. There’s not much to see.”
Gwen frowned in disappointment. Aimil hadn’t set a breakneck pace by any means, but it was steady with few stops. Unless she had to relieve herself, Aimil barely left the saddle. As the road led them into the heart of Woodpine, Gwen found the place similar to Dawsbury. They even had an inn, which made Gwen question what Aimil meant when she said there wasn’t much to see. There was always something interesting to see at an inn.
Aimil continued through the town without stopping and as they were about to cross over a small bridge, a group of armed men stepped into the road in front of them. They wore piecemeal armor and their weapons were more rust than metal.
“Halt!” One of the men shouted, pointing a spear at Aimil’s horse.
Gwen pulled on the reins, forcing her mount to stop. Aimil continued ahead until the spear tip was inches from her horse before she directed the animal to stop. The man with the spear seemed uncertain and glanced around at his fellows.
“What’s the issue?” Aimil asked.
“You’ve got to pay the toll,” the man with the spear said.
“Yeah, pay the toll!” Another chimed in.
“Are you in service to the king of Steepcross?”
“Bah! The king is a fool,” the spearman replied. “He’s off in his castle ignoring all the problems around here. So, you know what we said? We said, ‘we’re going to make our own laws.’ And one of those laws is you have to pay a toll to cross this bridge.”
“And if I don’t want to pay the toll?” Aimil asked calmly.
“Then we’ll take it from you by force,” one of the other men threatened.
“Move out of my way,” Aimil said.
The group of brigands exchanged looks and whispers with each other, and Gwen assumed that they must not have received a reaction like Aimil’s before. They seemed confused about how to handle Aimil. Finally, the spearman poked the horse and said, “Pay first, then we’ll move.”
Aimil looked at Gwen, then back at the brigands. Gwen saw the look in Aimil’s eyes and guessed trouble was going to ensue. She was about to turn her horse around when Aimil lifted her left arm and said, “Tine!”
Flames erupted from her hand, catching the spear on fire and causing the group of men to stagger back from the heat. The apparent leader dropped the spear and threw his hands up in defeat.
“I don’t like repeating myself,” Aimil said.
“No need to,” the man said hurriedly. “Let’s go, boys. Clear the way!”
The brigands dispersed from the road and Aimil flicked her reins. Her mount continued along the road and Gwen urged her horse to follow. As they crossed the bridge, Gwen thought she could hear someone crying out for help. There was a shack on the left, old and dilapidated. She guessed the sound was coming from there.
“Do you hear that?” Gwen asked.
“It’s probably a trap,” Aimil replied.
“Maybe, but what if it’s not?”
Aimil stopped her horse and turned her gaze on Gwen. “If it is, are you prepared to have the blood of these fools on your hands? We can easily leave right now, but if it’s a trap and we have to fight our way out, these men will die. Swords and spears cannot overpower magic.”
Gwen hesitated. The cry for help sounded genuine. She couldn’t leave knowing someone might need help, but the thought of killing the brigands didn’t sit well with her, either.
“I think we should check it out.”
“Suit yourself,” Aimil said. She dismounted and headed for the shack. Gwen slid out of the saddle and jogged to catch up. The brigands watched them until Aimil opened the door of the shack. The leader stalked toward them.
“Stop!” He shouted. “Don’t go in there!”
Aimil ignored him and stepped inside. Gwen peeked through the doorway curiously, but she kept her focus on the men around them. Gwen lifted her arm, facing her palm at the approaching leader. He stopped in his tracks, but his expression revealed his anger. Aimil stepped out a moment later, followed by a young elf.
Despite his disheveled look and dirty clothes, Gwen thought there was something regal about the elf. His blond hair was matted and a smear of blood ran the length of his forehead. Twin pools of emerald green stared at Gwen and she averted her gaze, somehow feeling inferior.
“That’s our elf,” the brigand leader said.
“Says who?” Aimil questioned.
“Says me. We captured him fair and square. You aren’t stealing our reward.”
“Reward?” Gwen asked. “What do you mean?”
“That elf is the prince of Auleavell. He ran off and his father is offering a reward to anyone who returns him. Me and my boys are going to do just that.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Aimil said. “He’s coming with us.”
“Are you deaf, woman? I just said you aren’t stealing our reward.”
“How much is the elven king offering?”
“A thousand gold astrals.”
“How about a wave of flames and death instead?” Aimil asked.
The leader’s bravado disappeared and he spat on the ground. “Blasted mage,” he grunted.
“He’ll ride with me,” Aimil told Gwen, then she walked back to where they’d left the horses. The brigands eyed them with hatred, but none of them were brave enough to risk testing Aimil’s promise of death.
Gwen mounted her horse and waited for Aimil to take the lead. She continuously looked over her shoulder to make sure the men weren’t doing anything. Aimil’s horse began trotting along and Gwen urged her mount into motion. They put a decent distance between them and Woodpine, then Aimil guided her horse to the left, off the road. They rode into a thicket of trees and Aimil dismounted, trying her reins to a tree branch.
“What are we doing?” Gwen asked. “It’s still daylight.”
“I want to make sure those fools don’t do anything stupid,” Aimil replied. “The last thing we need is to be surprised in the middle of the night.”
“Good point,” Gwen said, dismounting and tying her horse next to Aimil’s.
The elf they’d rescued was subdued. He sat down on the ground among the trees. His eyes moved back and forth from Gwen to Aimil.
“Let me guess,” he said. “You’re going to take me back to my father and take his money.”
“Possibly,” Aimil replied. “Then again, maybe not. What are you doing out here, anyway?”
“I left my father’s court willingly,” he answered. “His closed view of the world around us is suffocating, at best. I’ve heard the gossip among my father’s servants. King Torian is threatening our peaceful way of life. My father doesn’t believe Torian is a menace, so he’s ignoring the rebellion’s pleas for help. I refuse to stand with my father on this.”
“So, you ran off to a human kingdom?” Aimil asked. “You do know Auleavell and Steepcross aren’t exactly on friendly terms, right?”
“I know that,” the elf said. “I’m not a fool. I was on my way to Isentol to find the rebellion when those humans attacked me. Attacked me! Within Auleavell’s borders, no less. How they managed to get past our patrols is a mystery that’s been plaguing me for days.”
“Well, it seems you are in luck,” Gwen said. “Aimil and I are part of the rebellion against King Torian.”
“Truly? Oh, thank the goddess. I was afraid I had traded one captor for another.”
“What’s your name?” Gwen asked.
“Kirith of House Euldin.”
“Well, Kirith, it seems your friends aren’t quite ready to give up on that reward,” Aimil said. “Stay low.”
Gwen hid behind a large tree and peered around the edge. The brigands they’d left behind were coming up the road swiftly, all of them riding horses. Gwen guessed they had stolen them from the people of Woodpine.
The leader slowed his mount and whistled, pointing toward the thicket where Gwen and her companions were hiding.
“The tracks go that way,” he said.
Gwen watched the men dismount and draw their weapons. She looked at Aimil. The woman had turned her attention behind them. She tilted her head to the side, listening to something Gwen couldn’t hear.
“What is it?” Gwen whispered harshly.
Aimil held up her finger, a sign for Gwen to be quiet. Kirith’s head jerked to the side and his eyes widened.
“Sentinels are coming!” he warned.
Aimil cursed and beckoned Gwen to come closer. The two women rushed to where Kirith was and Aimil closed her eyes. A moment later, one of the runes on her right arm began to glow with a sickly green light.
“Don’t move,” Aimil said softly. “I can hide us visibly, but noise can still be heard.”
Gwen stood completely still. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until she started to hear her heart beating in her ears.
Kirith slowly lifted a hand and pointed. Gwen looked and didn’t see anything at first, but then she saw movement. It was almost imperceptible. A tall elf wearing leather armor that mirrored his surroundings slipped through the thicket without a sound. He carried a bow in one hand and a quiver of arrows across his back.
The elf stopped when he spotted the brigands and raised his bow, slipping an arrow onto the string. He took aim and paused. Gwen wondered what he was waiting on, but then she spotted more movement. Three other elves, similarly dressed as the first, moved into position and readied their arrows.
At an unspoken command, the elves let their arrows fly at the same time. Each arrow struck a target, taking down half the group of brigands. The leader shouted a retreat, but the elven sentinels fired off another round of projectiles to finish the job.
Gwen swallowed hard and hoped the elves would disappear as quickly as they returned. Kirith closed his eyes and lowered his head into his hands. The elves investigated the bodies of the brigands and then left in the direction they’d come. Gwen looked at Aimil. The woman had her eyes open now, and she was watching the trees intently.
“Are they gone?” Gwen whispered.
An arrow whizzed past her face, so close she felt the wind stir against her lips. She jerked her head back belatedly in surprise and noticed an elf standing behind Aimil. She pointed wordlessly, her eyes widened in terror. The elf pressed the tip of a sword to Aimil’s back.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t end your life,” the elf demanded.
One hand on top of the other, resting on the pommel of his saddle, Conal sat astride his steed on the crest of the road, staring at the city of Hemlin in the near distance, remembering the last time he was here. “Are you sure we have to go in there?”
“We need a place to rest,” Bryok reminded him. “Besides, you’re a different person than the last time you were here.” He flicked his reins, urging his mount forward.
Conal ticked his head at the city. “Tell that to them.”
“I’m hungry,” Torgreth said, squeezing the flanks of his stout pony.
“Why’d we come this way when we’re supposed to be heading to Denhelm,” Conal complained, catching up to ride beside the dwarf.
“Like I’ve already said… several times,” Bryok answered with a hint of frustration, “we need to meet with someone here.” He scanned the road and the surrounding farmland. All seemed normal with the usual traffic headed in and out of the city gates.
“Who is this guy again?” Conal asked.
“He’s a friend. He’s the one who told me about you.”
Conal raised an eyebrow in doubt. “If you knew about me, why didn’t you come get me, before I got branded?”
Bryok paused then said, “Because there were other matters that demanded my attention.”
“Like what?”
Bryok cast a glance at Torgreth. “Like two dwarves that needed immediate rescuing.”
“Yer brother scared the piss out of us,” Torgreth chuckled.
“Drustan can be intense at times.”
“Ya think?” Conal snorted a laugh.
Merging into the ebb and flow of travelers, farmers, clerics, and merchants, Conal was surprised when the two guards at the gate paid them scant attention. “Something’s not right,” he quietly commented as they passed through the gatehouse. “They didn’t even make eye contact.”
“Maybe they’re bored,” Torgreth offered.
“They weren’t bored the last time I was here,” Conal countered. It wasn’t until they were halfway up the main street towards the market square that he blurted, “They’re not real guards.”
“What?” Bryok and Torgreth replied in unison.
“They’re not real guards,” Conal repeated, spinning around. “Look at the uniforms. They’re wearing the red jackets, but where’s the rest of the uniform? The boots? The helmet?”
Bryok paused to cast a concerned glance over his shoulder. “We need to find my friend. Find out what’s going on. Follow me.”
Bryok set a brisk pace, taking streets and alleyways around the market square to the stables. Once their mounts were settled, Bryok led them deeper into the back alleys of the city. At the corner of one alleyway, Conal grabbed his two companions’ arms and dragged them into the shadows.
“Wha –” Torgreth began before Conal jabbed a finger to his lips and pointed across the street to a man pretending to be nonchalant, leaning against the wall by a residence door as he studied the passersby.
“That’s Jestyn. Oscon has to be close by.” Conal’s sudden desire for revenge bubbled up as he silently deliberated how.
“Leave him,” Bryok urged. “We’ll deal with him later. We need to find my friend.”
“I’m not going until I see what he’s up to.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Bryok fussed. “We’ll come back for him.”
Ignoring him, Conal lifted a foot to step out when the door opened and Oscon emerged, blinking in the sunlight. “There you are,” Conal snarled.
He was halfway across the street before anyone realized. Jestyn was the first to see him.
“Well look who’s back,” he mocked until he saw the grim determination in Conal’s eyes. Immediately interspersing himself between his boss and the approaching former highwayman, he placed a hand on the handle of the dagger by his side, a warning that he would not hesitate to use it. Remembering the young man’s past with the highwaymen, he was neither intimidated nor worried that he could handle this young pup.
“Hold it right there,” Jestyn ordered, a hand pressed forward.
Conal stared past Jestyn to see the smirk plastered on Oscon’s face, a smirk that said he would repeat Conal’s humiliation if necessary.
Oscon’s arrogance grew when Jestyn slipped the blade out and pointed it at Conal. His smirk abruptly vanished when Conal smacked the blade out of Jestyn’s hand then delivered such a blow to the man’s chest that it cracked several ribs and sent him flying backwards to crash against the stonewalls of the building only to crumple into a heap on the street.
What followed next happened so fast that Oscon wasn’t quite sure how he ended up with Conal’s hand wrapped around his throat, his body lifted inches off the ground. What he did know was the vice-grip squeezing his throat hurt and he couldn’t breathe. In desperation, he grabbed the dagger in his boot and swung up to stab Conal in the gut, only to have his thrust stopped short, Conal’s grip so tight that he felt his hand grow numb, the blade slipping from his fingers to rattle on the ground.
“You set me up,” Conal growled, his anger adding power to his strength. “You condemned me to be a slave.”
He felt a calm hand touch his arm and heard Bryok say, “Let’s not kill him quite yet. We still need information from him.”
“C’mon Conal,” Torgreth urged when Conal hesitated. “You can kill him later. I’ll even help if you want. We can cut off his fingers then his toes, peel his eyelids off and even cut out his tongue.”
Startled at the gruesome details, Conal twisted his head to gaze at the dwarf who returned his look with a loopy grin. “You are one strange dwarf,” he chuckled, shaking his head.
“Mama said the same thing about me.” Torgreth’s grin widened.
Conal relaxed his grip and Oscon sucked in a deep breath.
Bryok stared down at Oscon. “You’re coming with us. You make one false move and you’re a dead man.”
“What about him?” Torgreth hooked a thumb at Jestyn who hadn’t moved, his hands clutching his ribs.
“Leave him,” Bryok answered. “Doubt he’ll be going very far anytime soon.”
Torgreth bent down and picked up Oscon’s dagger, twisting it around in his hands. “Nice dagger. Where’d you get it?”
Oscon shifted a wary glance at them, his hand rubbing his throat. “Bought it a while ago.”
“Really?” Torgreth shot him a ‘you’re a liar’ look. He held up the dagger so that his two friends could see. “This dagger is made from dwarven iron. The smith’s mark is here.” He pointed to a symbol beneath the quillon. “Note the crown in the mark? The maker was a king’s smithy.” He turned to give Oscon a hard stare. “There hasn’t been a king’s smithy in any dwarven land for over 150 years.”
“How do you know that?” Conal asked, impressed.
“Because the last king’s smithy was Gunnar Iron-hammer. He was my grandfather.” Narrowing his stare at the man, his lip curled in anger. “I’ll ask you once more. Where did you get it?”
Oscon looked down upon the dwarf, shrugging in feigned ignorance.
Torgreth turned to Bryok. “Can I kill him?”
“Not yet,” Bryok answered with a curious frown. “What more can you tell us of the blade?”
“It was most likely a gift from my grandfather to the king in Isentol.”
“Kamron?” Conal blurted.
“No, my young friend,” Torgreth answered with an indulgent smile. “It would have been King Cered, Kamron’s great-great grandfather.” He turned back to Bryok. “This is a king’s gift, which means it is also probably elven imbued.” He twisted his head to give Oscon a look of disdain. “And this fool probably didn’t even know it.”
“Elven imbued?” Conal marveled before a curtain pulled back from nearby window diverted his focus and he suddenly noticed passersby slowing their stride to gawk. “We’re beginning to draw attention.”
Torgreth jabbed the dagger point into Oscon’s side. “Start walking. Pray that I don’t accidently stumble and stick this all the way in.”
Oscon’s arrogance returned as he moved away from the door and into the street. Catching Jestyn’s eye, he ticked his head in a quick nod, receiving a nod of understanding in return. “You fools. You don’t know who yer messin’ with. When word gets out what you done, yer lives won’t be worth a copper royal.”
Conal noted the exchange between the two outlaws and calmly walked over to Jestyn who had struggled to his knees. Grabbing him by his shirt, he effortlessly lifted him up to dangle above the street.
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten your part in all this. When I’m finished with Oscon, I’m coming for you. I will make you suffer like never before. Tell the rest of them. I’m coming for them too. You all betrayed me. I don’t care where you run. I will find you.”
His anger growing, Conal spun around, Jestyn whirling like a rag doll, and flung his former associate against the stone wall. Jestyn flopped to the ground, his arm broken.
Leaving Jestyn groaning in pain, Conal twisted his head to glare at the passersby who quickly gave urgency to their steps.
“My, my,” Oscon sneered with false bravura, “such violence. Pity I didn’t know this about you before. I can use a man like you.”
“We need to go,” Bryok intervened.
Leading the way, Bryok led them through streets and back alleys as they moved single file, with Oscon behind Bryok, Torgreth behind Oscon, the dagger’s blade firm against the man’s side, and Conal bringing up the rear. At one nondescript door halfway down a deserted alley, Bryok stopped and knocked in a rhythmic pattern of three-two-three-one knocks. A peephole door slid to the side.
Bryok leaned forward and whispered, “Dragon home.”
The peephole door closed, and the heavy oak door silently swung open revealing a hulking brute of a man whose intimidating scowl reminded those attempting to force their way in that he would personally inflict mayhem on them.
“Is he here?” Bryok asked.
The man nodded and lifted a thick arm to point down the darkened corridor.
By the tine Conal entered, Bryok was hallway down the hall. The door closed behind him and he squinted to see light coming from beneath the door at the end of the hall. Light spilled out into the corridor when Bryok opened the door then stood to the side as the others stepped into a large room sparsely furnished whose sole occupant stood close to the fireplace, reading a book on a tall book stand. Wall sconces surrounding the room provided more than ample light.
Conal startled for the tall individual behind the book stand was an elf.
“Greetings, Galadyr,” Bryok said with a respectful nod.
“Greetings, my friend,” the elf replied with a warm smile, closing the book. Galadyr stood a little taller than Conal. He wore a sleeveless tunic of supple forest brown leather, and woolen breeches the color of faded crimson, tucked into stout leather boots that ended just below his knees. His long blond hair was held back by a braided leather cord wrapped around his forehead revealing the telltale pointed ears.
“This one,” Bryok indicated Oscon, “needs guarding.”
No sooner had he finished that the door opened and the hulking man at the outside door stepped in.
“Take that one,” Galadyr said, pointing a slender finger at Oscon, “and see that he is well contained.”
“What’s going on?” Oscon demanded. “You can’t treat me like this.”
The hulking man growled and went to reach for Oscon.
“Easy Brunet,” Galadyr soothed before addressing Oscon. “You have a choice on how you can leave this room. Choose wisely.”
Oscon’s eyes twitched from Brunet to Conal to the elf, knowing he had only one choice. Snarling, he jerked around to follow Brunet.
Once the door closed behind them, Galadyr shifted his devoted attention to Conal. “Is this he?”
“Yes,” Bryok answered. “What’s going on in the city? Who is guarding the gates?”
“There has been some unrest,” Galadyr explained. “The men you saw were new recruits. They have not had time to be fully kitted.”
“Unrest?”
“Rumors mostly… enough to make Pharyl exercise caution.”
Accepting the answer, he nodded for Torgreth to show Galadyr the dagger. “There is also this.”
“Well met, friend Torgreth,” the elf greeted him, accepting the dagger. “The reasons for your escape have been made known to me.”
“And who are you?” the dwarf boldly asked.
Galadyr raised a finger telling him to wait while he studied the dagger. “This is a king’s dagger.” Holding the dagger in both hands, he bent his head and closed his eyes, bringing the flat of the blade up and pressing it against his forehead. A thick silence filled the room as they waited and watched Galadyr’s serene face morph to a heavy frown. Opening his eyes, he inhaled a slow breath.
“The dagger’s name is ‘Bloodthirst.’” He tilted his head to stare at Torgreth, his cobalt blues eyes boring into him. “Where did you find this?”
“Oscon had it,” Torgreth replied. “It’s elven imbued, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Galadyr nodded, shifting his gaze to Bryok. “I will question the other in a bit. We must discern how he came by this.”
“What’s so special about it?” Conal asked.
“It is a king’s dagger,” Galadyr explained.
“Everyone keeps saying that,” Conal interrupted.
“A king’s dagger,” Galadyr patiently continued, “can only be forged by a dwarf, and not just any dwarf.” He tilted his head to narrow his gaze at Torgreth. “The dwarf must be from the lineage of the Iron Hand, like you. Once the dagger is crafted, it is carried to the eleven kingdom of Auleavell where mages imbue the blade with a special gift. Some are warning blades that glow or hum when danger is near. Others are reactive blades that give additional strength to the man who wields it so that if attacked, he can defeat his enemies. Still others, like Bloodthirst here, were designed to wreak vengeance, thirsting for blood and death until the threat is no more. It is a blade to be fearful of, because in the wrong hands it can do much damage.”
Conal’s brow furrowed. “Then why didn’t Oscon have this power?”
Galadyr looked at him as thought the answer obvious. “He is not a king.”
“So only a king can use this dagger?”
“A king or one descended from a king.”
Conal blinked at the revelation. “May I see it?”
Ignoring Bryok’s look of fear, Galadyr handed him the dagger.
Grasping the handle, Conal felt a sudden surge of rage fill his entire body as the clarity of the room clouded so that only the dagger had any visible form. The blade in his hands felt like an extension of his own body and his head snapped up and the cloud vanished as his angry eyes locked on each one in the room, instantaneously measuring each individual’s threat towards him. Then just as suddenly, the seething storm disappeared and he stood in the middle of the room, his heart pounding as though coming off the battlefield.
“What did you see?” Galadyr held his hand out for the dagger.
“I didn’t see anything,” he replied, catching his breath, reluctant to surrender the blade.
“What did you feel?” Galadyr fixed him with a firm stare, his hand still out.
With a disappointed sigh, he handed the dagger to him. “I felt anger, totally consuming anger, like I wanted to kill everything around me. But then when I looked at each of you, the anger went away.”
“That’s because we were not a threat to you.” Galadyr slid a satisfied glance at Bryok.
“I have a question,” Torgreth announced, looking straight at Galadyr. “Who are you?”
“I am Galadyr.”
“Yeah, we know. Where are you from? Why are you here?” Torgreth folded his arms across his chest.
Galadyr paused as if deliberating how much to tell. “I am from Auleavell.”
“Long way from home,” Torgreth observed.
“Yes, that is true.” Studying the dwarf then Conal, he placed the dagger on top of the book he was reading and cupped his hands behind his back. “I am a friend of Prince Kirith.”
“Who’s he?”
“Let him finish,” Bryok chided.
“Sorry,” Torgreth lamely replied.
“Prince Kirith,” Galadyr continued, “is King Falael’s son, one of the few who recognizes and understands the threat the kingdom faces.”
Torgreth was about to say ‘so you ran away’ when reminded of his own flight from Havyrd and King Rorykn. Instead he said, “So you came here to look for help?”
“Yes, which leads me to ask how that fellow came by this dagger. Its original home was in Havengarde. How did it end up here? I think it’s time we found out.”
“He’s not gonna say much,” Torgreth warned. “We tried already.”
Galadyr smiled. “I’m sure you have. Let’s try again.” He held up the dagger and cast a sly glance at Conal. “Perhaps I should give this to you when we interrogate him.”
