Legend of the White Dragon: Destiny

By M. A. Nilles

The thrilling conclusion of the Legend of the White Dragon five-book epic fantasy.

Chaos is unleashed on Gairdra and the Darklord calls his servants forth to finish the task he started thousands of years before—to extinguish all life.

Once before the Darklord was nearly destroyed but survived. This time the forces of Light intend to finish the task.

The time has come for them to unite, but some still hold out. Old scores must be settled before the world can know peace, whether it is the peace of extinction or the end of a war that started with the creation of the world.

One way or another, destiny must be fulfilled.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Prairie Star Publishing
• Release date: Oct 27, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452406176

M. A. Nilles

M. A. Nilles is the darker side of Melanie Nilles. Her published works under the name Melanie Nilles are young adult and adult romantic science fiction and fantasy, including the Starfire Angels series, the Adronis series, The Luriel Cycle trilogy, and other romantic-leaning works. As M. A. Nilles, she writes dark fantasy and science fiction, including Tiger Born, Spirit Blade, and the Legend of the White Dragon epic. More can be found at www.melanienilles.com.

Book preview

LEGEND OF THE WHITE DRAGON: DESTINY

Chaos is unleashed on Gairdra and the Darklord calls his servants forth to finish the task he started thousands of years before—to extinguish all life.

Once before the Darklord was nearly destroyed but survived. This time the forces of Light intend to finish the task.

The time has come for them to unite, but some still hold out. Old scores must be settled before the world can know peace, whether it is the peace of extinction or the end of a war that started with the creation of the world.

One way or another, destiny must be fulfilled.

Copyright Page

LEGEND OF THE WHITE DRAGON: DESTINY

by

M. A. Nilles

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or situations is purely coincidental.

Legend of the White Dragon: Destiny

E-serial Copyright © 2010 by Melanie Nilles

E-book Copyright © 2010 by Melanie Nilles

Cover Art

Copyright © 2013 by Paul R. Davies

Published by Prairie Star Publishing; North Dakota.

All Rights Reserved.

For information, contact Melanie Nilles at [e-mail] or online at www.melanienilles.com.

Table of Contents

__________________

1:Istaria

2:Makleor

3:Tyrkam

4:Greechik

5:Jayson

6:Tahronen

7:Jayson

8:Marjan

9:Gaispar

10:Istaria

11:Marjan

12:Calli

13:Galen and Gaispar

14:Marjan

15:Gaispar

16:Calli

17:Jayson

18:Lêath

19:Gaispar

20:Nekreth

21:Gaispar

22:Greechik

23:Jayson

24:Marjan

25:Gaispar

26:Nekrethe

27:Greechik

28:Tahronen

29:Tyrkam

30:Calli

31:Marjan

32:Makleor

33:Jayson

34:Lêath

35:Jayson

36:Marjan

37:Gaispar

38:Makleor

39:Tyrkam

40:Gaispar

41:Greechik

42:Calli

43:Makleor

44:Calli

45:Galen

46:Soul Eater

47:Jayson

48:Tyrkam

49:Makleor

50:Tyrkam

51:Galen

52:Jayson

53:Galen

54:Makleor

55:Jayson

56:Tyrkam

57:Gaispar

58:Greechik

59:Lêath

60:Gaispar

61:Lêath

62:Makleor

63:Tyrkam and the Soul Eater

64:Makleor

65:Istaria

66:Gaispar

67:Jayson

68:Istaria

69:Marjan

70:Calli

71:Gaispar

72:Jayson

73:Makleor

74:Gaispar

75:Istaria

76:Greechik

77:Lêath

78:Calli and Jayson

79:Makleor

80:Marjan

81:Lêath

82:Makleor

83:Gaispar

84:Galen

85:Calli

86:Istaria

87:Galen

88:Lêath

89:Calli

90:Marjan

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LEGEND OF THE WHITE DRAGON: DESTINY

*

Istaria

The scenes in the orb of magic in the center of the ring of dragons turned Istaria's blood cold. Only Darius's closeness kept her from running.

Since the battle of Candro, the war had changed. From the views the dragons provided, she had seen the C'Lupuc succeed in reaching Ayrule through ports other than Candro. The people suffered worse than under Tyrkam, facing immediate death without hesitation at the claws of the monstrosities rather than simply the threat. These creatures showed no mercy, killing every living creature in their path.

But the war was a long ways away. She had other concerns besides the death of people she knew nothing about.

Gilthiel had changed. Although not six moon cycles old, he was no longer an infant. His growth far exceeded that of normal children. In less than half a year, the baby had transformed into a child. Damaera said he looked to be four or five years old. The depth of his knowledge, however, demonstrated his true age. His spirit remembered events from the thousands of years since his birth as a dragon. In that way, he had never been a child.

The fact saddened her.

He stood among the small council of the four remaining elder drakes and four of the oldest younger drakes. The orb in the center of their large circle showed images of death and destruction. A battle waged between men of a culture unfamiliar to Istaria.

Sethirngal blinked his deep green eyes and let out a sigh that sent smoke curling from his nostrils.

The demons awake have come

and guide men to destruction.

We know now the shadow lies

to make all men despise.

The others we have lost

but pained us at life cost.

Frendal lifted his head, his dark, blue-green eyes gazing into the activities shown in the orb.

Hope comes from hidden places

that through the darkness races

the descendants of those we trust

whose worth is fair and just.

An image of Jayson and Calli surrounded by the First Race made Istaria sit up straighter. Her friend had gone cycles ago to travel to her father's homeland of Loringale. Frendal had returned with news since carrying Lêath, the brother of Kaillen, home and helping to rescue them from the nekrethe. The Ancients had trapped one demon and hidden it on their island home, but when another attacked to free its brethren, the dragon insisted they let both escape.

Upon Frendal's return to the Second Realm, Eyr Droc in the Ancient tongue, the dragons spent many sessions planning how to end the ages old war once and for all. Istaria understood the dragon's logic for releasing the last nekreth, although she pitied the victims the two demons had killed since. Only by driving the demons back to their master, of whom they were a part, could the dragons disperse the darkness. Once the parts rejoined the whole the whole be destroyed for good. That would be the Majera's job.

The dragons had to face the Darklord before then, to weaken him so he would call the nekrethe to him and absorb their power to rebuild his own. At least, that was the only solution they could think of. He did it long ago—before the time of the magi—when the dragons weakened him through their magic. Of the eight nekrethe he made from himself, three remained after the last great war.

The end to this war would be the end of the Darklord for good. Gilthiel had promised that, but they had to make sacrifices.

Istaria wished he had not made his promise or his prophecy. She knew what he intended to draw the Darklord out and it sickened her. Although she knew he was born for this purpose, her heart ached to think she might lose her child. Despite his full awareness and his lack of childhood, she had borne him and considered him her child. No mother would let her child die for any reason.

She wished Calli, her closest friend, could be there with her now; but Calli had her own part to play. She and Jayson with Lêath's and Frendal's help, had convinced the First Race to join in the war. Calli and Jayson now helped to organize the First Race, who lived on three islands they called home, in preparation to battle the forces of the Darklord.

So much work, and all for one.

Gilthiel turned his magnificent blue eyes to her with a reassuring smile. He knew her heart, and his father's. Neither of them wished to give up their child, not even to save the world they knew as home; but both of them knew since before he was born that he had chosen this time for a reason.

He turned to the orb, which now showed a group of dragons battling against several of the Red Clan. The Red Clan used their numbers against the large dragons, attacking two or three to one.

Several times a day, Gilthiel joined the dragons, who gathered to observe events.

Istaria and Darius joined a few times, usually in fear that Gilthiel would decide his time had come to fulfill his prophecy and hoping to stop him.

He had foretold his own return, and he would be needed soon.

She prayed every day to push back the moment a little further.

When Darius pulled her close, Istaria laid her head against him. The warmth and strength of his touch chased away some of her worries.

One of the younger dragons of a deep greenish blue added her thoughts to the silence. She shook her head, which was crowned by short spikes and two spiraling horns.

Through sacrifice our kindred lay

to make promise of a better day,

but I've a wonder of the cost

whether 'tis worth the lives we lost.

Dethanea turned her unadorned golden head, her dark eyes peering aside at the younger drake.

Not the last great war you hatched

but seeing this you are detached.

A noble deed our kindred make

to lure the darkness for our sake.

Many gave their lives for this. She paused.

Darmîndren we already miss.

Istaria sighed at the news Jayson and Tahronen had brought back with them after rescuing Calli several moon cycles ago. Of the five elder drakes, Darmîndren was the first to be killed in this new war. He had destroyed Wynmere castle in his fall, and three of the Red Clan with him; although Sethirngal made sure the third died after surviving the fall.

Our kind are protectors made

to safeguard every land and glade.

Once more people believe

but their suffering we relieve.

Sethirngal blew curls of smoke from his nostrils and blinked his eyes. One large eye swiveled back at Istaria before he lifted his head and gazed into the orb.

The magic dissipated into nothing.

A large green-blue dragon named Jêrafînas spoke:

Our actions must we take

if this Darklord weak to make.

With the others we will fly

where light touches not the sky.

Istaria understood. They meant the Dark Hills, the western mountains of Ayrule. Within the mountains dense with volcanoes hid the lair of the Darklord, where he oversaw the hatchlings of his Red Clan, which needed the heat. He rarely left his lair, even to command his minions.

The dragons stirred from their quiet gathering. Jêrafînas volunteered to lead a group of the younger drakes into the Dark Hills. Sethirngal and Frendal chose groups to lead over different areas of the world. Through their observations, they found a few places where the activity of the Red Clan was concentrated.

Dethanea had mated with another recently, though she would not say which male she had chosen. She had not carried her duties as one of the three matriarchs for almost a thousand years. The last matriarch had been Jêrafînas, and her most recent offspring were only thirty years old, and little more than half the size of any of the Red Clan.

The remaining elder drakes selected their roles, and the time came to take their places.

Except for Gilthiel.

Istaria let out a sigh that he said nothing about leaving. He would stay with them a while longer.

After the others parted, he walked back to them. Istaria moved away from Darius to kneel at the child's height with her arms open. His white hair, like hers, glistened in the sunlight. He walked into her embrace and she held him tight, afraid to let go.

The thunder of the dragons leaving rumbled beneath them.

A warm hand on Istaria's shoulder squeezed gently.

She loosened her arms around the child but still held him.

Worry not, mother. The time is not yet. The boy kissed her cheek and pulled away.

Istaria studied him, restraining her tears of joy and pain. With a hand, she smoothed down the wavy, white locks outlining his beautiful face. He smiled and looked up at Darius standing behind her.

I have work to do. He spoke in a tone too mature for his age but ran from her grasp like a child in play. A sudden spike of power gave only a moment's warning before he disappeared.

Istaria stared at the place where he last stood, her eyes burning with the lump hardening in her throat. Although she knew he returned to the crystal palace, it felt like he left them. Every time he disappeared, her heart ached with worry he would never return. I want my child.

I know. Darius stepped around before her, cutting off her view of the dreaded empty space. He took a gentle hold of her shoulders and pulled her to her feet.

Istaria rose into his arms and held onto him, wishing she could escape the pain aching through her heart.

He was never our child, even if he is. We knew that.

It hurts yet.

Darius squeezed her for a moment before loosening his hold. I'm sorry…Maybe some practice will take your thoughts from this.

Reluctant but knowing she needed the practice, she agreed. The fine-tuning of her skills with magic had not come easy. However, with Darius and Gayleana—her mother's sister from the Lumathir—teaching her, she gained better control.

It usually helped in moments like this, but each day Gilthiel aged beyond childhood stole a part of her. Each passing day broke her heart, because it took them closer to the time when he would have to fulfill his prophecy and possibly give up his life for good.

_______________

Makleor

Makleor gazed at the scenes in the orb, tickled by the images of hope. The Ferdrai had been found, by none other than the brother of Istaria, Phelan Isolder. From what he observed, the prince had joined the tribes of the Caveshan Plains of Rivonia to find the horses. The descendants of the mare and stallion ridden by Haiberuk and Tahronen in their last battle against the Darklord swelled over the prairie. Their numbers exceeded the numbers of m'athêrred rî Lûmea, the only riders the Blessed horses of the Majera would accept.

At least, he hoped that was the plan, to provide suitable mounts for the army of Light. The Ferdrai possessed gifts of magic and intelligence beyond any other creatures not originally made of magic.

They would need the advantage.

The C'Lupuc, the wolfmen who had chased out many of the First Race from their fortresses by brute force, spread forth from their hiding. They razed whole cities, combing through the populations for survivors and killing every last man, woman, and child. They were almost unstoppable.

Almost.

General Gheorwen had proven they could be stopped as they had been long ago. With Makleor's magic and the brilliance of the general's thinking, they halted an invasion through the port of Candro, although other C'Lupuc landed elsewhere and they had killed General Gheorwen during their invasion of the city.

Gheorwen's cousin, Lagran Fremmer, now commanded the soldiers protecting Candro. Thousands of Rivon had joined them, led by the Sovereign's second son, Kansar Farolkavin. They patrolled the city and the lands around it, with the surviving soldiers of Tyrkam's army. Most agreed to serve under the flag of Cavatar. Summer had been harsh, but winter would prove the true test, if they survived through autumn.

Although Tyrkam conquered the greater kingdom, the leaders and citizens of the city upheld their loyalty to Cavatar. If they survived the war, it was possible that the confederation of semi-independent provinces would be reformed under the banner of a new Cavatar. Both heirs were exiled along with the queen, who stayed with her daughter in the Second Realm. The king might be dead, but his bloodline lived on.

Makleor sighed under the weight of problems. He might consider them nothing but nuisances if he cared not. But he wished to see Gairdra free of the darkness before his end. He always had.

The gray light through his window cast a solemn shadow over his meager room of the Citadel. He missed his room in the tower of Wynmere Castle, but since its destruction under Darmîndren's fall, the castle was not an option. His new quarters were located on the upper floor of Setheadroc Palace, now the central location from which Tyrkam ruled.

The overlord likely wondered what had happened to him, since he had not yet returned after the failed siege of Candro.

The thought brought a smile to his lips beneath the long, gray beard. He had sent a letter to Tyrkam detailing the events here. It bore Kansar's signature, along with Fremmer's and his. They had agreed to a truce with Tyrkam to fight these creatures. For himself, Makleor had said only that he would return when he felt he might be useful.

When that might be, he could not specify. Fremmer had granted him a place on his council, as an advisor. The general saw the value in forging alliances to fight the darkness that came ashore and looked past the heresy believed of magic to accept it.

The world needed leaders like Lagran Fremmer.

And Marjan.

Gaispar should have reached him long ago and returned, but she had not. What happened to her?

He let out a deep sigh and limped to the window overlooking the harbor. He wished she would return, so did Fremmer, but for practical reasons, not the sentimentality of an old man.

Outside in the harbor, a few ships came and went. The soldiers had rebuilt a portion of the dock Gheorwen's men had torn up. Supplies entered the city but at a much slower pace than previously.

Candro would stand a chance against the enemy, but what of the rest of the continent? With winter coming, the survival of the people would depend on the harvest. The C'Lupuc had interfered with the harvest and the milling of grain. The people needed the resources of the First Race and the countries across the sea to pull through the rough times ahead, but the forces of the Darklord made life difficult around the world and for Cavatar's allies also.

Makleor sighed. We will be alone in this.

A touch of magic interrupted his thoughts. It originated from the top of the Citadel. Had Gaispar returned?

No. The power was too vibrant to be her, too deep in its core power of Light. Only a mage affected the magic that way. Only one mage could have reached the observation dome of the Citadel of Paranor so swiftly—Galen.

Makleor leaned on his staff and hobbled from the room.

Perhaps the other shapeshifter could find her. The two had their differences, but she had returned after Galen delivered the message to Fremmer before the battle of Candro. Makleor fancied Gaispar as a daughter, something he never had. He worried about her in these perilous times.

What news would Galen have brought? Why had he returned already?

Those questions hurried his feet through the rounding corridor outside his door. The tap of his staff echoed through the empty passages.

Before he reached the stairs to climb to the peak, steps hastened toward him from behind. Makleor continued, knowing they would catch him.

Mage!

He smiled. He had finally earned their respect, but they would not use his name. From soldiers, he expected titles to supersede the use of names.

The heavy steps slowed next to him. Makleor recognized the trimmed stubble and deep-set eyes of Fremmer's second, Korson. Although he had the blue eyes like the m'athêrred rî Lûmea, he was not mageblood. Makleor saw none of the telltale shifts in the colors of magic.

One of the first things Fremmer had inquired about in his curiosity about magic was the magi. All magi had blue eyes, but not all people with blue eyes were magi. The eye color was the only consistent sign of one's inheritance of magic, regardless of skin color, but even that could not be relied upon.

The general seeks an audience with you.

I've business to attend before his.

He wishes your counsel. Governor Kirkmyr demands a timeline.

Makleor grunted in distaste. The governor of the city had never approved of Makleor's presence, nor of the tearing up of what he considered his city to fight the invaders. It slowed trade and with it slowed the flow of wealth into his pockets. Neither had the governor approved of taking on the soldiers who defected from Tyrkam's army in order to find safety from the C'Lupuc. And he never approved of the authority given the Rivon army under Kansar Farolkavin.

I have no timeline. The enemy works in their own time. If Kirkmyr wishes a timeline tell him to ask the Darklord. I'm sure he'll satisfy the governor.

Korson's eyes narrowed and the muscles of his jaw flexed. Makleor recognized the look of frustration restrained—he had seen it many times on Tyrkam.

Despite the lieutenant's frustration, he left without an argument. Makleor guessed he went to relay the message to the general.

Just as well. He would attend to Kirkmyr and the others in his own time.

At the moment, speaking with Galen was his priority, as the shapeshifter may have news concerning them all.

Makleor ascended the steep steps in his own slow pace. When he pushed open the trapdoor, the wind caught it and yanked it from his grasp. Makleor blinked in the gray light. A hand materialized before him. He took the assistance and let the owner of the hand pull him from the narrow opening of the stairs with the strength of the man attached to it.

He grunted as he stepped up to the windy peak of the tower under the protective dome. In the center of the dome stood a large concave dish behind a pile of logs and kindling. Eight archways faced exactly the four cardinal directions and their midpoints. Standing between those archways and the balcony encircling the top level, four guards looked out over the primary directions. They made no move nor sound but remained quiet sentries ready to act when necessary.

The wind billowed the cloak about the man once known as Shadow, a former Sh'lahmar guard who had forsaken his pledge to preserve life, until Gilthiel's touch returned him to that promise. Galen now wore a neutral expression beneath the hood.

After a step away from the trap door, Makleor waved with a touch of magic to close it, lest he fall back. He might be immortal, but he would not risk a nasty fall.

After the slam of the door, he focused on the hooded figure. Thank you, my friend.

A wry smile curved up cheeks covered in black stubble.

Thank me when I bring better news. Despite the smile, Galen's voice carried an icy calm foreshadowing bad news.

Makleor glanced at the four guards near the rail encircling the top. None of them stirred, but he did not doubt they listened.

The C'Lupuc and the Red Clan gathered at Caprion. Tahronen was with the priests at Euranê, but she would not fight for them. That was seven days ago. I came direct from there, but on the way saw many C'Lupuc in ships heading east to the smaller islands.

Makleor frowned. They've started their 'Purge'. Once all islands are cleansed of life, they'll converge here. They'll make their way to the Dark Hills, to the lair of their master. The packs of wolfmen had tried once before to carry out their master's precept to destroy all life, but the Second Race had been as fierce in their determination to survive, aided by the magi. In the end, the C'Lupuc had been the ones nearly purged. The world would have been better off.

With the Red Clan aiding them, few communities can stand against them.

Makleor turned his eyes out to sea. Waves crashed against the barrier encircling the harbor, except for the opening in the middle through which ships passed in and out. He could not save them all. Those in the path of the C'Lupuc would have to fight for themselves.

The demons feed on the weak. I almost fell victim, except for Tahronen. His voice lowered when he said the last.

Galen had never explained his past, but Makleor guessed he had long carried a grudge against at least one of the Majera, if not both. Accepting help from his ancestor could not have been easy.

You're here, Makleor said. That's what matters.

Galen gave no indication of his mood, nor did he say anything.

After a few seconds, Makleor said, I've need of you, if you would take the task. After Galen's travels around the world to carry the warning to others of the dangers unleashed, Makleor would not be surprised if he refused this task. He expected it, in fact.

What is it?

I've not heard from Gaispar for some time.

What about that? Galen jerked his chin toward the stone held by the carved dragon on the top of Makleor's staff.

Makleor frowned and gazed into the stone. The Sôrath Ron could be used like a magic orb, but in Gaispar's case, he saw nothing but smoky gray. He shook his head. I cannot find her.

A shadow passed across Galen's face. "You cannot find her? He paused. If the most powerful mage is hindered, she is dead or—" He sucked in a deep breath.

She's not dead, Makleor quietly said. Only blackness would I see in that case.

You would have me search the Dark Hills?

Not all.

When Galen's eyes lifted to the west, his frown took on a hard edge. Makleor recognized that look from the faces of many men on the eve of a battle they expected to lose. It gave him hope now.

If I cannot see her, she's close to the Darklord's lair. His power blocks me.

I was afraid you'd say that. Galen dropped his eyes to Makleor and pulled his mantle from a head of thick, dark hair. If she's not dead, she's not far from it.

Then I have your answer. Makleor sighed and dropped his head to hide the tears blurring his eyes. Although she was immortal, Gaispar could be killed if the Darklord willed it. Only he or his demons could steal her spirit, her Light.

After a few seconds of silence, Galen growled. You could think of no one else? It had to be me.

Makleor wiped his eyes and looked up, a new hope blossoming within his chest.

Galen shook his head, his jaw clenched. I will not be guilted into going, old man!

No. No. Not guilt. I expected this.

Galen's scowl darkened and his fingers clenched into a fist. By the Creators! He lifted a fist between them, but threw his hand aside. This is the last thing I do for you!

Makleor blinked. Had he heard right?

Where is his lair?

In the heart of a dormant volcano in the southern area.

Galen's cheek twitched. It would be. If neither of us returns in two cycles, consider us dead.

Makleor gave a nod. In a blink, Galen threw up his arms and transformed into a falcon. Shock passed through Makleor. Galen had just returned but had not rested. Gratitude swept away the shock. The man had changed, but he still could not quite accept the friendship of others.

_______________

Tyrkam

The messenger rushed off after handing Tyrkam the scroll, which bore no seal until he touched it. Before his eyes, a dragon formed in ink on the back of the rolled parchment. Only the old man could have made it happen.

That knowledge and the fact that Lee left over three moon cycles ago and sent back no word on his status sharpened his temper. What would the old man say that Lee could not have?

That the battle had been lost. He unrolled the parchment and read.

Not only had the majority of the survivors defected to join Candro's forces, but his closest ally was killed in battle. Dorjan had not survived.

According to Makleor's description in the letter, a new creature known as the C'Lupuc had killed his lieutenant. He said more would come to Ayrule seeking death and destruction of all humans, if they were not already there.

Worse, the old man asked that he, Tyrkam, ally himself with Rivonia. Rivonia!

The suggestion made him seethe. In the quiet of the room, Tyrkam growled and crumpled the paper. He threw the parchment ball into the cold fireplace, where it mocked him with its slow loosening.

In no mood to see it, Tyrkam snatched up the parchment and carried it to the candelabra on the center of the table. He held the paper to the flame and watched it burn in his hand.

He would never ally himself with Rivonia. Farolkavin would pay for his crimes against his people, and his family. Tyrkam would not abandon his quest to see the sovereign suffer. Isolder had been a fool to uphold their alliance, supporting a government that stole and ravaged innocent lives. Ignorance was no excuse.

The paper burned into smoldering ashes until he could no longer hold it in his hands and dropped it to the table, where it burned itself out.

I'll never side with the Rivon. Not only had Makleor signed the note, but Kansar Farolkavin had also signed it, with a pledge to honor an alliance and