Chapter 1 - A Killer At Dawn

                                PART 1: THE ROAD TO GATHRAX

                                    Chapter 1 - A Killer At Dawn



Snowflakes whirled through the pale sky, landed gently on the peaceful face of a sleeping dwarf then slowly melted away and ran down his face like tears.             
 
His dream, in which he was walking through vast hills and fields of delicate flowers, was turning into a horrible nightmare. He lost his footing on the bank of a peaceful stream and fell in. It was a pleasant stream moving slowly and, though he couldn’t swim very well, he knew he would escape this slow current. He started moving his arms when something grabbed his ankle and tightened its slimy grip. He tried pulling himself free but it only tightened. Another one grabbed his other ankle and another two his arms, leaving his head to see the stream turn into dark blood. Even worse though was what the stream was carrying. Some were still alive but most were dead; their cold, dead hands brushing against his face as they passed. The ones that were still alive were screaming for help, before they too were grabbed by something beneath. Among them he could see his father who was shouting something to him, but over the screams and the crying he couldn’t make out what. It was too late, his father was being dragged down screaming, the others following. He too was now being dragged down, blood filling his lungs and choking him. He coughed and spluttered silently, drowning in his own father's blood, still being dragged deeper and deeper. He lost consciousness.
 
Borgon Bigli bolted awake and looked around frantically. Beads of hot sweat melted snow flakes on his forehead. He let out a shaky sigh of relief. In his sleep he had rolled off the thick fur bedding and ended up a few metres away. He pulled himself up with a long yawn and moved over to his bed, rolled it up and bound it with a long piece of rope. He hooked this on to a large brown bag that contained all sorts that would help him along his journey: maps showing the whole of Troth, the cold, winter quarter of the world and everything it contained; an adequate supply of various meats, fruits, bread and milk were also inside, purchased from Frost Port’s market. In a large side pouch were about thirty rough bolts made of sharpened rock and thick wood that he had put together himself; ammunition for the large crossbow on his back. In his hand, supporting his fair amount of weight, was a large two-handed axe made of iron; this he did not make himself.
 
Borgon looked up at the ghostly sun that wavered behind wisps of thin cloud. He looked around and called into the trees, “Beyer!?”
 
A deep, gruff voice came from the trees, “What?”          
 
“It’s time we were off; the sun’s already high. We’ll never reach Gathrax before The Storms at this rate.”
 
“You’re right, but I haven’t eaten yet!”
 
“Well can you hurry up then?”
     
There was a rustling and a growl from the bushes and then silence. There was also a squeal. A moment later a big, brown bear emerged from the trees carrying a dying rabbit in its jaws. Blood oozed from the rabbit and after thrashing around it went limp. The bear bit deeply and swallowed. After getting all he wanted from it Beyer let it fall from his mouth. It hit the snow softly with no sound and allowed its blood to spill freely.
 
“Done?” asked Borgon.
 
“Done.”

                                                      ***

The pair had started their journey a week ago and were heading for Gathrax: the capital city of Troth. When there Borgon planned on finding a decent job (as what he didn’t quite know, but any capable man could make a decent living in Gathrax). He thought maybe as a hunter; killing animals for their fur, bones and meat, which, in the cold land of Troth were necessities-the fur for thick, warm clothing especially. When he told Beyer about this he got a look of nervousness and of slight disgust.
 
His real motive for going there, though, was to try and find out what the piece of gold that hung from his neck was. It had a perfect edge and bore strange markings along the circumference. It wasn’t whole and Borgon guessed it must be a quarter of the complete thing. He didn’t know how he had acquired it, he had had it for as long as he could remember and vowed to find out what it was.
 
The Library Of Ages at Gathrax was where he would find the answer; he was sure of it. The Library, he was told, was a marvellous structure. The spire on the top was said to pierce the clouds and the contents even went deep below the ground to be stored. It was rebuilt hundreds of years ago after something fell from the sky; great and terrible, most of which split on the peaks of Stone-Frost Mountains that overlooked Gathrax from the east. A large piece of this ‘meteorite’ fell down the east slopes of the mountains: the other on the west. It was this latter half that demolished most of the library (and a lot of the city with it) causing them to rebuild the library. They included more rooms and hired the greatest architects from around the world to make it bigger and better. Also, they crafted tunnels beneath the earth to store the more valuable history just in case another meteorite decided to try and demolish them again. Unfortunately a lot of the history before what they later called ‘The Wrath Of The Sky’ was burned in the fire and not much is now known of the world before this event. 
 
Beyer broke the dull silence, “So, why exactly are we going to Gathrax?”
 
“I’ve told you,” Replied Borgon. “I’m off to make a living.”
 
“What else?” Inquired Beyer.
 
“What do you mean? There’s no other reason.”
 
A pointless question. Beyer knew when Borgon was lying. They had been together too long. He would always turn away from the bear and lower his head. “I know when you're lying, you know...” Borgon didn’t reply. “Anyway, how far have we got to walk? My paws are aching.”
 
“Far enough. Grayhar said it was at least a three weeks walk and that’s without the storms.”
 
“Aren’t we aiming to get there before they come?”
 
“Yep. Doesn’t mean we will though.” Beyer grunted at this and carried on walking silently, his body shifting its great weight from side to side. 
 
Borgon was right though, The Storms were approaching Troth fast: too fast. And soon enough they would be upon the pair, unleashing their extreme fury. Anyone unsheltered when they did arrive would have one rough time ahead of them. The Storms were unusually big, both in their size and in their ferocity, and came once a year. They gathered in the quarter of the world known as Azyora (there being an abundance of high winds and electrical force in that part of the world), crossed south-east through Azyora, crossed the borderline Wind-Crest Mountains into Troth and died with amazing anger in the south over the ocean.
 
“You ever been to Gathrax before?” Asked Beyer.

“Nope,” replied Borgon, shrugging his long wolf-skin cloak back onto his broad shoulders. Beneath it he was wearing a normal shirt with patches of leather sewn on to act as a light armour; beneath this he wore a simple white silk shirt. “Not been any further north than the south banks of the Ice Witch’s Lake.” Borgon’s face went blank and he stared off into space with a hint of fear in his eyes.
 
“What is it?” Asked Beyer, concerned.
 
“A tale for another time.” He looked west and saw bright purple-white flashes filling the spaces between the peaks of the Wind Crest Mountains. “I really hope we don’t get caught in that.”
 
Beyer turned his head as well. “We’ll have one nasty time if we do Borgon. Is there anywhere we can take shelter?”
 
“Not that I know of - the forest wouldn’t do much good.”
 
Just then, something happened that chilled Borgon and Beyer to the bone - wolves began howling close by.
 
“Wolves of the Mark?” Asked Borgon looking down into the bear’s eyes.
 
“I’m not sure - how far have we gone?” Replied Beyer, looking up into Borgon’s worried brown eyes.
 
“We’ve gone about sixty miles I think - we’re about thirty from Darcinnus’ Tower…”
 
“We can’t go there. You know we can’t.”
 
“I hope to avoid it, yes. But The Storms I also hope to avoid.”
 
There was more howling as the sun started to set in the north, casting long shadows behind them on the dusty road.
 
“Hmm… let's go into the woods and set up camp for the night.”
 
“What!?” Exclaimed Beyer. “Towards the wolves??”
 
“Don’t worry, they are still very far away. Seven or eight miles maybe.”

They headed off the road and into the woods, toward the howling of blood thirsty wolves, while the small shadows of snow fell, and The Storms came.

                                                  ***

They had made camp in a small clearing just off the road and were now sleeping; they had drifted off to the sound of howling in the distance. The moon was a large silver disk lighting the land from it’s place in the inky black skies to the south. The last embers of their fire, where Borgon had cooked two strips of beef (Beyer ate his as they came), were still glowing and crackling the last of their energy away.
 
Borgon woke suddenly from another bad dream, involving wolves and Darcinnus’ Tower, and looked around. There was the sound of a twig or branch snapping in the bushes to his left. He could faintly see the shadows trees against a black forest but could hear nothing else. He thought of the wolves, then brushed the thought aside. It was just a rabbit or some bird, he thought. To his right Beyer was snoring loudly and sleeping deeply. There would be very little chance of waking him before Borgon was mauled, if what he did hear was the sound of a prowling wolf.
 
He got up and grasped his crossbow with a tight grip, loaded it with a self-crafted bolt, then listened. He stood as still as the moon in the sky and listened intently; now wide awake. If there is something moving in those trees, he thought, Beyer’s snoring is stopping me hearing it. Then he heard something moving again - the bushes on the edge of the clearing rustled and shook. Whatever it was, it was circling him; moving round the edges of the clearing, and with great agility and speed.
 
Borgon followed the movement until it eventually stopped. The tree next to it started to shake slightly. It was climbing the tree. And then it stopped. The clearing went silent, apart from the crackling of the dying fire and Beyer’s snoring. Borgon raised the crossbow and aimed it at the tree that was holding the thing stalking him.
 
Borgon used the heel of his foot to kick the sleeping bear, still keeping his aim and focus on the tree. “Beyer. Beyer!” He hissed. The bear didn’t stir. “Wake up. Wake-”
 
A sharp silver something, shaped like a diamond, shot out from the tree, flew just past Borgon’s  head,  over the bear and landed in the fire, knocking embers into a swirl. As soon as Borgon’s brain had registered the object (less than a second after it had left the cover of the trees), he pulled the trigger and sent a bolt whistling towards the tree. It buried itself in the bark - just wide of the mark - and the stalker leaped out of the tree landing nearly silently on the soft snow.
 
In the glow of the dying fire, and with help from the setting moon’s tints of silver, Borgon could now see what it was. It was a man. And now this man was quickly slipping another sharp diamond from a belt around his waist. He raised it and threw, but the dwarf was more nimble than his size suggested and he rolled out of the way before it could open his left cheek. It did end up, however, in the showing back of Beyer, who immediately woke, full of pain, and roaring with rage. Beyer turned to the man and charged; baring teeth, dripping saliva. As Beyer leaped, the man dived to the right.
 
Borgon fumbled another bolt. The man drew a thin sabre from its silky scabbard. Borgon raised the crossbow. The man lunged at the bear. The bolt cut through the space between Borgon and the man and found its way into his side, cracking bones as it did so. The man performed a barrel-role in mid air above Beyer and was thrown to the ground by the force of the bolt.
 
Borgon ran over to Beyer and commanded him to stay still. He pulled the diamond-shaped weapon from the bear's back and threw it to one side. The fur around the wound was a deep red and matted with the blood that was running in a thin stream. He grimaced in pain as the diamond left its place in his back.
 
“What’s going on Borgon!?”
 
“An assassin.”
 
“What makes you think he’s an assassin?”
 
“This isn’t your average bandit - look at him.”
 
The assassin was clad all in black and only his eyes showed through the black headwear he wore.
 
Borgon reached inside a pouch and pulled out a small scrap of paper. “Look at this Beyer.” The bear came closer to view what Borgon was showing him. Dawn was at hand and Beyer could see clearly what Borgon was holding.
 
“That’s a sketch of your medallion.”
 
“It is,” said Borgon holding the gold that hung from his neck. “Someone wants it. We have to get to Gathrax soon.”
 
As if confirming this there was a long drum roll of thunder in the west and wolves howled at the rising sun.