Dragon's Son

By AJ Cooper

The Ulfr conquest is complete. The towns of Badelgard lie destroyed, abandoned, or suffering under the rule of Fell Lords and their dark ladies. Against all odds, Kai Riverhall—the Dragon’s Son—seeks to put an end to the Great Witch and her eternal winter.

The final book of the Ulfr Crisis trilogy narrates three distinct lives.

In MY BROTHER THE MORGUIS, a man meets his long-lost sibling but begins to question his true identity. In QUEEN OF NOTHING, the new High Queen attempts to evacuate all survivors to another land. And in DRAGON’S SON, Kai makes one last effort to defeat the Great Witch before the statue of her goddess is fully pulled from its icy tomb.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Realms of Varda
• Release date: Jan 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301959006

AJ Cooper

Cursed at birth with a wild imagination, AJ Cooper spent his youth dreaming of worlds more exciting than Earth. He is a native Midwesterner and loves writing fantasy, especially epic fantasy set in his own created worlds. He is a graduate of the Odyssey Writing Workshop and the author of numerous fantasy novels and novellas. His short stories have appeared in Morpheus Tales, Fear and Trembling, Residential Aliens and Mindflights, among others.

Book preview

Dragon’s Son

Copyright © 2013 Andrew James Cooper

Published by Realms of Varda

wwww.vardabooks.com

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any print or electronic form without permission.

Part One:

My Brother the Morguis

CHAPTER ONE

Thorsten—or Huge Thorsten, as the small people of lowland Badelgard called him—had never seen anything like it. Nor had he, at any point in his life, thought he might. The Golden House, home of the High Kings of Badelgard, burning in a towering inferno. A column of smoke rose up high into the sky, easily visible from where Thorsten stood.

Perhaps it was even more disturbing from his vantage point: outside the door of the low-town inn. Now the lowborns, long poorly-treated, could see for themselves the unmaking of the king and his nobles. The outsiders—the foreigners who entered the city—had freed them from their shackles. But were they better off? Food was in scarce supply. The crops had, in all likelihood, failed. Soon starvation would set in.

Thorsten shivered at the thought.

The sight of the burning Golden House awakened in him something he had tried, in recent days, to suppress. For most of his adult life, Thorsten’s lust of gold had ruled him. He had given no heed to the sanctity of life; he cared only about accumulating wealth, and the lives he had ended were without count.

But he had atoned. The goddess herself had come to him in a dream. He had thought himself beyond morality or compassion, beyond help… but one look in the eyes of the goddess, pure and holy, and the weight of his crimes fell upon his shoulders like a mountain. He had gone to Vanaheim, to the goddess’s holy temple, and offered all the wealth he could to her—all the gold he had not spent on whores and mead. The goddess had forgiven him, but Thorsten knew someone who would not.

Thorsten’s mother lived in Adal Vale. By all accounts, she was alive. Who knew how such a saint had given birth to such unfortunate twins—Gunstein and Thorsten, both thieves and murderers of the lowest degree. Was it her husband? That was anyone’s guess. But Thorsten’s mother, though close in flesh, could not be further from Thorsten or Gunstein in spirit. Pious to the last, making offerings every week to the gods—at least, from what Thorsten remembered of his childhood. She would never accept him.

And yet, did he have a choice? Winter was coming, and it promised to be the harshest in history. Who knew what had happened to Gunstein? In all likelihood, he was dead: food for worms. And no one would know or sing of him; no one would care. Thorsten and Gunstein, after a falling-out over gold, had split up. And Thorsten could only envision death in his brother’s future. It was the price one paid for the kind of life they led.

But regardless, Thorsten had to go to Adal Vale before starvation set in. The evil that had entered Badelgard would not climb so high into the upper mountains; it had not in ancient times, and it would not again. Even if starvation touched the lowland, the valemen were hunters, not farmers. And no matter how cold it grew, no matter how deep the chill, the hunter’s bow could always find its mark. Venison and bear meat, trout and mutton from highland goats—those would remain. The greatest question for Thorsten, the one that meant everything to him, was whether his mother would forgive him for the way he led his life.

But he had to go. The burning of the Golden House—the bright flame and the column of dark-gray smoke—showed that the old Badelgard was coming to an end. He would have to go back to Adal Vale. Everything he had was gone; in the high mountain passes rested his only hope.

He had to go now.

He had to prepare for what would be a long journey. Market stalls, set up in the middle of low-town, offered the last scrapings of road-biscuits. The shopkeeper had long abandoned his post, in all likelihood due to the commotion at the Golden House. Thorsten took a handful—perhaps more than was warranted—and tossed it in his sack. But as a gesture of his changed persona, he left the remainder of his money there on the desk: a dented silver penny, and two farthings. All that was left of his life of crime, wasted on years of whores and drunkenness.

A tear fell as he heaved the sack over his shoulders. Past the streets of low-town, beyond the frantic screaming that rose above the crackling flame, Huge Thorsten walked out of the Golden Gate and into the snowy lands beyond.

The wooden markers rose above the snow, showing the path to Huge Thorsten. The day was fading; the sun, pale and weak, grew ever lower in the sky. Thorsten felt the worm of unease wriggling in his stomach. Something was out there, in the pines clustered along the path. He sensed that the world had changed. The trees no longer seemed alive, and the air was a lifeless miasma. Yet beyond this lack of life, beyond the shadows between the pines, something—moving, yet not living—lurked, and hunted.

In time, the darkness was complete. Thorsten ate a carefully-measured meal of road bread, and prepared his bedroll. There would be no tent; he had one purpose, to get to Adal Vale, and comfort was the least of his concerns. Yet here, at nightfall, there was nothing to protect him from the looming darkness, and often he opened his eyes after sensing something was stirring.

Experience taught him that trying to sleep never worked; the Lady of Dreams had to come to you, by her own accord. The best course of action was to relax. Yet pressure mounted in Thorsten, and he wanted nothing more than the pure light of dawn.

As he lay there, eyes shut, a sound—quiet at first—distinguished itself against the constant moan of the wind. A chittering, like teeth, as if someone were caught ill-prepared in the blizzard.

Thorsten opened his eyes. Through a veil of light snowfall, he made out a silhouette. It was a man’s shape, heavy-set and tall. It was not one of the small lowland Badelgarders, nor was it as hulking and huge as a troll. It was Thorsten’s size, tall and powerfully-built, like one of the valemen.

Thorsten’s axe lay right next to him. He reached for it, grasped the familiar wooden haft, and as it did the silhouette responded in kind, darting toward him.

Thorsten scurried backward, out of the protection of the bedroll and into the snow. He stumbled to his feet, and there, in the moonlight, he laid eyes on his brother.

There was Gunstein—Huge Gunstein, as some called him. He did not look well. He was bald, as normal, but his beard—though present—had turned from black to a bronze color. A closer inspection, as Gunstein stepped awkwardly towards him, revealed that his fingernails had grown abnormally long. Thorsten had never considered Gunstein to have exemplary hygiene, but any sane person would trim nails of that length.

Brother, Thorsten said, you do not look well. A heady stench hung about his brother.

Gunstein spoke. Thorsten. His voice was higher than he remembered, but memory is a cloudy looking-glass. Yellow teeth protruded far beyond his dark gums. I am so glad to see you.

You do not seem yourself, brother, Thorsten said, but indeed I am glad to see you. Gladder than I’ve ever been to see anyone. And it was true. Thorsten’s friends were few by any measure. Now, his own flesh and blood was here, right before him… but he was not the same. He touched Gunstein’s hand, and it was cold. Something wasn’t right with him. It seemed impossible that a living hand could be that cold. Could he be one of them that the rumors spread about? The dead who walked? It did not matter. Living or living dead, his brother was before him.

Thorsten embraced Gunstein. His brother’s entire body was cold. The sickening smell for a second overwhelmed him, and he stepped back.

Where are you going? Gunstein said. This road leads into the mountains. You aren’t going back to the Vale, are you?

I was… Thorsten read disapproval in Gunstein’s oddly sallow eyes.

You don’t really think mother will forgive you, do you? Gunstein laughed. She would never forgive us. She is pious to a fault, thinking only of what is in heaven rather than what is on earth.

Thorsten wasn’t sure if he agreed with the characterization.

She would not let you into her house, Gunstein said. She would send you out in the cold and let you die. Don’t expect forgiveness. You have committed crimes she cannot forgive.

I would not speak of our mother that way, Thorsten said.

You must come with me. Gunstein’s grin was strangely wide, despite his flaccid, drooping skin. We are still friends. I will be your companion. But do not fool yourself; our mother will never forgive us for the lives we’ve led.

Gunstein. As he observed the loose skin, noticing a slight greenish hue despite the lack of light, the transformation of his brother fully dawned on him. What has happened to you? You are changed.

A man slew me months ago, Gunstein said. A swordsman of great skill, a scion of a noble house. Well-trained, well-equipped, and well-born like we never were. He landed a killing blow, but he did not escape with his life.

You are dead, then. But you talk. How is that possible?

Days later I awoke, Gunstein said. I was surprised at first. I stretched out my fingers… they were strangely numb, but I could move them. I took my first steps. I realized I was more powerful than I ever have been. My meager spirit was replaced with a great intelligence. I realized I could live a life superior to my former self. All Badelgard is at my fingertips… and yours, too, if you will accompany me… brother.

I… I don’t know… Mother—

Silence! Gunstein hissed. I told you, mother would never have you back. She despises us both. In her mind, we are vagabonds. She would never forgive us. So stop suggesting it.

Thorsten looked down. I… He could offer no argument. A weight fell over his heart. If only he had made better decisions. Thorsten and Gunstein—devil-children—killing their stepfather, an upstanding valeman. The few who lived there chased them out, and so they