Beastslayer : Rise of the Rgnadon Page 34

  “I never expected to leave Yarid-Im. I am indebted to you. The witcher’s spell is lifted. Pygra is dead.”

  Dereas rolled restlessly on his side, gritting his teeth as he listened to Fezoul with half an ear.

  “For saving my life, I pass on to you this charm of good fortune.” And the mountain king pulled the amulet of his ancestors from around his grimy neck and snapped the shiny chain. “Good that Xabren let me keep it in the end. ’Tis the most significant thing I can give you, beastslayer.”

  Dereas graciously but sleepily accepted the talisman in a limp palm. He mumbled a thanks in his daze of exhaustion, feeling a stir of emotion. Without the guidance of the mountain king, he and his company never could have survived the mountain’s horrors. As grey and nebulous as the dwarf’s directions may have been, his cryptic words had rung true and in the end, he had proven himself a hero.

  Drifting to sleep, Dereas thought he saw the slick, scaled beast peering once more down between the two fangs of rock where the waterfall fell glistening in the ruby light—but that was only a nightmarish dream.

  The last fateful image would haunt Dereas’s waking life for the rest of his days, the Rgnadon looking down that grim, daunting cliff with impassive superiority. To either side hung a hundred doomed souls, Xabren’s children, Children of the Lizard people, overshadowed by the statues of the lizard and the snake of a dead realm...He felt, even in his dream that he was caught in a dream within a dream, that he had been only a figure in a great god’s consciousness, as he walked a path that was not destined to be. A chill raced up his spine.

  While a kingdom had brooded and festered in the bowels of the mountain, the world had lain unaware—of the reptilian storm that would take it one day, as prophesized in the grisly texts of Amar-Amon-Reth...

  Rusfaer nudged and kicked the beastslayer awake some unknown time later with a rough boot toe.

  Cursing and grunting, Dereas hauled himself to his feet, wiping the rheum out of his eyes. He saw to his horror that a wan light now trickled from a low hanging sun in a sky cracked with a thousand wispy clouds. How many hours had passed?

  With grunting curses, Dereas tagged after Rusfaer, a sour taste in his mouth. The mountain king dogged at their side. They left Yarim-Id behind with all its dark secrets. Dereas felt some dark amusement in knowing that he had left his mark on the abhorrent Rgnadon, whose face was scarred for life, as had the snake been delivered her just desserts...Doubtless the lizard folk would crown a new queen amongst their lizard beasts before long, to spawn their loathsome eggs.

  A mirthless grunt escaped his throat. He gave his head an angry shake. It was a joyless victory. Rubbing his temples, he wiped away the awful memories.

  Aches, hunger, privation...the three gnawed at his senses. What now?

  The fugitives foraged amongst the sun-baked bushes, poking blades here and there, searching for food, while the fading light of the afternoon dwindled. A sudden fleeting thought gripped Dereas—lost, hungry, exhausted, physically and emotionally battered, what purpose lay in that journey to the haunted peak? Why the struggle, terror and death? Seasoned warriors reduced to hunted animals? He shook his head. For the life of him, he could think of no reason, outside of the uncanny series of events that had brought him and his brother together in a fierce, fiery, fragile union.

  The Eakors spread wings, still circling above, high enough to not be a threat. Such scavengers had turned their attention east, toward the lizard king and his demented horde who roved farther abroad with the malign beast. Doubtless the birds smelled the trio’s blood below, but they could not or cared not to pinpoint their dimunitive prey amidst the scattered boulders and ragged bushes. At night, they would sneak away, Dereas considered, out of sight of the mountain and the predators that prowled the sky and take to the desert plains north—back to the steppes.

  Rusfaer made a hoarse cry. He pointed to a fresh find of birds’ eggs that had fallen from a nest in a scrawny balebollow tree. Starving as he was, somewhere after the experience of the lizard folk and their cursed, ghastly eggs, Dereas could not suck the life juice out of an egg, especially raw.

  Good men had died. Only three had survived, while Jhidik’s fate remained uncertain.

  The beastslayer looked to the west, in the direction of Ahrion and Pameel, and in his heart leaped a fierce impulse, knowing what he must do...

  * * *

  Other books by Chris Turner:

  * * *

  Ahrion’s Minions

  Fantastic Realms

  The Relic Retriever

  Freebooter

  Denibus Ar

  Future Destinies

  Discover other titles by Chris Turner at Smashwords.com:

  http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/Innersky