“One of the men…he said the sword that the young woman was using…” Hex was too afraid to finish the rest of the sentence, for he knew the rage it would bring to his leader. He also knew he was likely to be executed. The leader had a habit of ‘shooting the messenger’.
“What, Hex!? What?”
“He said…he said the sword was the same one Anwyn used to destroy Odarth, all those millennia ago.”
Hunter let go of Hex’s throat.
The man fell to his knees in the rocky sand, biting his tongue in the process. His mouth filled with blood as his heart filled with fear.
Hunter looked away into the night sky, his mind seemingly elsewhere.
“Master?” Hex ventured. A few moments had passed, and he felt it was enough to distance himself from Hunter’s rage—as if that would matter. Both men knew Hunter could turn Hex into a pile of ash in the blink of an eye—but Hunter was not one to use magic for that purpose. No, he enjoyed using his blade for that; he liked the way the life drained out of his victim’s eyes as his sword pierced their vital organs, and the blood fell from their wound, spewing out like water from a cracking dam.
“That can’t be,” Hunter finally said in a low voice. “That’s impossible. The sword was destroyed in the great fires, during the fall of Rhazdon.”
Or so it was said, Hex thought bitterly to himself.
It was well known among the remaining Dragon Tongue—not the new recruits Hunter had picked up on their quest of raising a Rogue Dragon from the grave, but the original six—that Hunter spent much of his youth searching all over Oriceran for that sword, following blind leads and ancient texts. He had never found it, had never even gotten close to finding it. But in his travels, he had found the Dragon Rites, so all was not lost.
Until now.
If the young witch possessed Anwyn’s sword, that meant she possessed his power. Hex had not seen what she could do firsthand, but he had seen the aftermath—five Dragon Tongue slain as if they were nothing but lowly commoners, and not the practiced dark magicians they truly were.
“Master?” Hex said again. Beneath Hunter’s facial tattoos, his skin had gone pale.
It was only then that Hex noticed that most of the workers had stopped doing what they were supposed to be doing and were now watching the two of them with morbid curiosity.
Hunter must’ve seen Hex taking in all of the workers, for he whirled around, his eyes burning brighter than before and anger etched across his face, and screamed at them. “Back to work, or I’ll have all of your heads!”
They quickly returned to their tasks, rolling the barrels toward the fishing boats while the others lifted them into their cargo holds.
“Master, I know, it cannot be true—” Hex began only to be cut off by Hunter.
“Where is he?”
“Who?”
Hunter growled. “Who do you think? The one who has seen the young woman and her sword. Was it Macran?”
Hex shook his head slowly, looking downward. “No, I’m afraid Macran was murdered.”
“Good. I never liked him.”
“It was Lance,” Hex finished.
“I never liked him much, either. Where is he?” Some calm started to return to Hunter’s voice. Somehow, this was just as frightening.
“He is still in the prison keep. Some of my men—”
“My men,” Hunter interrupted.
“Yes, Master, your men— are back at the keep, investigating the situation. It seems the young woman came in from sewage pipes.”
“What of the Gnome?”
“Gone, my lord.”
Hunter ground his teeth so hard that Hex could hear his master’s molars turning to bone dust in the back of his mouth. He cringed at the noise. It was one he could almost feel.
“I told Macran to dispose of the Gnome if he wouldn’t talk! No matter, I’ve gotten the information I need, and the plans are in motion. We light the lake on fire in less than half an hour. It’s amazing what one can find if they search in their own heart.” He tapped his chest with a fist.
Hex didn’t think there was much of a heart inside there. Just as it should be. He spoke up again. “Perhaps they were just here to break the Gnome out?” His voice was hopeful.
“No, no, if it were that simple, this young witch wouldn’t have Anwyn’s blade. No matter. There will be no stopping the resurrection now.” He turned toward the men and shouted, “Fuel it up!”
“But sir—” one of the soldiers said.
“No ‘but’s. Move out! Now!”
The soldier nodded and the skin around his burning eyes bunched into a pained stare. “As you wish.” He motioned to the men near the boats, who nodded in return. Those on the decks hopped down and began pushing, guiding the small ship into the lake.
“Now,” Hunter said, turning back to Hex. “Take me to the wounded soldier.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
They arrived at the prison keep not long after the ships made their rounds around the surface of the lake, dumping the contents of their barrels into the water until the lake shimmered with oil and gasoline. Hunter told them to round up the prisoners they had left, which now was not many. Some of those that had escaped from the keep had been recaptured, but it would still prove a small meal to Odarth. Pitiful when compared to the feast the queen deserved.
When Hunter walked into the keep’s courtyard, his black robes trailing out behind him, the soldiers that were streaming in and out of the building and milling about the spotty grass stopped dead in their tracks.
Hunter was used to this reaction. His men feared him, as they should.
He stomped up the walkway and into the keep. It stank of magic fire and scorched metal.
“Just through there, to the left, my liege,” Hex said behind him.
Hunter entered the small room. It was the guards’ headquarters, now
