Return of the Stormcriers

CHAPTER 14 - HAL HEARTWICK

   Hal Heartwick ran a hand through the short stubble of his nearly bald head, and sighed heavily; the speed of events over the last several weeks had been dizzying. He would have to accelerate his plans if he did not wish to fall behind his enemies, that could prove catastrophic. It had been a steady stream of bungled and foiled operations and personal losses in every corner of his organization; his remarkable string of luck and success that he had painstakingly built his empire around seeming to falter for the first time. To make his rapid fire month of bad news even worse, his man Vincent had brought him possibly the worst news anyone in the history of modern Verden had ever received, the realization of one of his greatest fears. After a century since humans had emerged from under the shadows of their winged tyrants, dragons had once again been spotted in Verden.

If the five have returned... it was too horrible to imagine but if the information was correct, and he did not doubt his source, they had returned. After all this time, all the sacrifices made by the last several generations of Verden, and the personal losses he himself had withstood, his enemy had still succeeded.

It was a shame that they had lost Andrew, he was a good asset and, more importantly, a good man that had been a trusted ally, a friend even, if he could consider anyone a friend in his line of work, for almost thirty years. Andrew's loss would be devastating to his organization. It was troubling that a dragon had gone to the farm so directly after waking; their ancient resting place must be close to Clearfield, there was no other explanation unless one of his enemies had managed to learn of Andrew's existence, which was a troubling thought of its own. He cursed bitterly, angered that they had never managed to find their hidden bodies before they had awakened. He needed to speak with his contact in High King Castius' inner circle, it was vital he knew what the rulers of Verden knew about the dragons. It was rare that the King's men had amassed information that he himself had not yet discovered, on any subject, so he doubted heartily he would glean anything important from their council. It should, however, be somewhat helpful to know if the nobility had plans on how to deal with the dragon menace before they were plunged back into a world of fire and ruin.

Absently he pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. The nip of the fall breeze was beginning to carry with it a hint winter's wind. It was all very poetic, he mused to himself. The bards of the future would have a delightful time spinning tales of Verden's fall coinciding with the changing of the leaves and their own beautiful demise. If there were any bards left around to ruminate on such things he chuckled to himself. One could never be sure exactly how the future would play out, no matter how devoutly some people believed in the idea of fate. Fate was a simple excuse for people to divert the blame of their sad lives on some invisible master plan rather than their own poor choices, or the cruelness of the world. He chuckled to himself darkly; how easy would it be for him to blame so much of his life on the whims of fate. It would be incredibly freeing, he supposed, to blame the gods for everything that had befallen his life and his organization.

   The sound of rustling leaves below quickly extracted him from his thoughts. It had not been particularly loud, but to Hal's trained ears it could not have been louder if it had been a royal procession with trumpets and drums heralding its arrival. He peered down the side of the small hill, upon which he was camped at the crest, to see several armed men clustered at the base. A quick glance around told him that they had almost completely surrounded the hill. They had been tracking him for several days now, ever since he had caught their eye near Dûnenor's Crest, a large plateau on the southern edge of the Great Plains of Verden. He had kept out of sight at first, believing them to be one of the High King's regiments, but they lacked the telltale insignia of a fist clenching a lightning bolt. Neither did they ride under the banner of Endemoor Provence where he had been traveling, and there were much too many well supplied men for it to be a group of bandits. Realization had struck him at that moment, these men must belong to his old friends. There had been ample time for a man such as himself to escape their notice, but he could not let this stroke of luck pass by. Now the trick was allowing the men to believe that he did not know he was being followed, that would give them the false pride that they were in control of the situation.