Dragon Sword

By Richard Dawes

Initiated onto the Warrior's Way as a boy, Valka earns his name of Wolf Slayer by using his sword to kill the vicious wolves infesting his father's estates. Becoming a master swordsman, he fights his way across the ancient world, finds romance with the King's daughter, then faces his greatest challenge when he battles the dreaded Dragon of the North.

~ SWORD OF DOOM, Book 2 of the WOLF SLAYER SAGA ~
* Preorder on February 2, 2016
* Available on February 13, 2016

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melange Books, LLC
• Release date: Nov 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781680462012

Richard Dawes

Richard Dawes was born and raised in California and now resides in a small town in Texas. After a tour of duty in the Marine Corps, he spent fifteen years in management in the Moving and Storage, Computer and Credit Union industries. He began writing short stories as a boy, and has written several historical novels. A long time student of Native American traditions, he includes positive references to those traditions throughout the Tucson Kid series. Other sub-themes explored in the series are authentic masculinity, relationships and power — what are they and how do they manifest.

Book preview

Special Smashwords Edition

Dragon Sword

A WOLF SLAYER SAGA #1

by Richard Dawes

Published by

Melange Books, LLC

White Bear Lake, MN 55110

www.melange-books.com

Dragon Sword, Copyright 2015 Richard Dawes

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should go to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-68046-201-2

Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Published in the United States of America.

Cover Design by Stephanie Flint

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Dragon Slayer

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

About the Author

Previews

DRAGON SWORD

by Richard Dawes

Initiated onto the Warrior's Way as a boy, Valka earns his name of Wolf Slayer by using his sword to kill the vicious wolves infesting his father's estates. Becoming a master swordsman, he fights his way across the ancient world, finds romance with the King's daughter, then faces his greatest challenge when he battles the dreaded Dragon of the North.

For Don Root

Rest in peace

Chapter One

The night was crystal clear and so cold the air seemed as if it might shatter. Moonlight danced and shimmered like witch fire over the snow-covered ground. It was past midnight, and Valka shivered and hugged himself within his wolf-pelt cloak and pressed the sword he held in his left hand to his chest. Surrounding him were vast farmlands, barren with winter. In the distance, a village slumbered beneath a shroud of white powder.

His grey eyes studied the shadows within the dark, tangled forest running in a jagged line from west to east and extending southward for many leagues. A cold wind moaned through the trees and underbrush. The bell-like chiming of the ice-fanged branches as they clashed provided a pleasant undertone to the frostbitten night.

After what seemed like an eternity, Valka caught a whisper of paws shuffling through the snow. At last! he breathed.

Stepping forward, he shrugged the cloak from his broad shoulders and let it fall to the ground. Moonlight glinted off the black leather tunic encasing his deep chest and ran like frosted flame along the edge of the sword he unsheathed with a flick of his wrist. As he held it up to the light, the twin dragons etched along both sides of the curved blade burst into life, coiling and spitting fire.

The sound of paws crunching the snow, yelps and growls increased as the pack approached the edge of the trees. Then they came into view—sinister shadows slinking within the darker shadows of the forest. At the tree line, they paused and cautiously thrust their muzzles into the open, sniffing the wind.

Wolves—huge, dark, shaggy, gaunt from winter. Their eyes blazed in the moonlight, and their sharp fangs glinted like daggers.

The wind was blowing toward Valka, and the beasts had not yet noticed him. Then, as they began to move toward the village, he brushed back his shoulder length black hair, lifted his sword above his head and stepped forward. At twenty-one, he was inches above six feet, and his long black shadow fell like a portent of doom across their path. The lead wolf swung toward him with a growl. The others stopped and snarled, their hackles rising menacingly as they tested the air for signs of other humans. Catching none, they became bolder and turned to face him.

Followed closely by the pack, the lead wolf moved toward Valka. Its eyes flamed eerily in the frosty light, and long strings of saliva dripped from its bared fangs. Lowering its massive head, it growled deep in its throat and gathered itself to spring.

Digging his boot-heels into the snow, Valka braced himself for what he knew was coming. As he watched the beast inch menacingly toward him, tremendous power surged up his spine and spread out over his back and shoulders, making him arch forward with eyes distended and teeth bared. His sword cleaved to his hands, becoming their extension, like a long glittering claw.

Like the ravening wolves stalking him, Valka had become a beast of prey, and his blood raced with the lust for battle. A growl rumbled up from his chest as he leaped to meet the advancing wolf. They collided in mid-air, and Valka thrust the point of his blade into the beast’s throat just below its gaping jaws.

While still in the air, Valka freed his sword then swung around and cut off the wolf’s head, sending it spinning through the air on a jet of crimson. By then, the other beasts were upon him. Howling with fury, they swarmed around him, slashing at his legs and arms with their fangs in an attempt to drag him down.

Although he was rapt in the ecstasy of battle, Valka’s brain was crystal clear, and his body was under perfect control. Without pause, he pivoted and sheared through the skull of another wolf. As blood and brains splattered his boots, he plunged his blade into the chest of another. His sword had become a Demon of Death, and it flashed and burned like the flames of Hell. Moving with the speed of a panther—leaping, pivoting, lunging—Valka fought with greater ferocity than the wolves surrounding him. The red-churned snow became a grisly swamp of blood, brains, severed limbs and mutilated bodies.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the battle ended. Deathly silence descended like a shroud over the clearing.

Valka looked about and found himself standing in the center of a circle of blood-drenched snow, littered with the grisly remains of what could no longer be recognized as animal.

Shaking from reaction, he moved out of the pile of mangled bodies and into an area where there was clean, fresh snow. Kneeling, he scooped powder up with both hands and with loving care used it to clean the gore from the hilt and blade of his sword. Sheathing it, he set it aside, then washed his hands, face, tunic, leather trousers and boots. Satisfied, he walked to his cloak, picked it up and threw it around his shoulders.

Then he started across the fields toward the village.

* * * *

With long, powerful strides, Valka walked through the empty fields along the wagon road still faintly discernible beneath the glittering snow. On either side, twisted trees sent bare branches skyward, like gaunt fingers reaching for the stars. It was late winter, and the previous day’s snowfall was probably the last of the season. But it was still bitingly cold, and the layer of powder blanketing the land made it seem to Valka as if he was striding over some strange, alien planet.

As he approached the village, the acrid stench of sheep and cattle added to the cold stinging his nostrils. The village itself was one main street running from north to south, smooth now with a carpet of snow, with alleys running off to west and east. The buildings were made of wood and stone, well-built and maintained. Barns and sheds for sheltering animals and storing crops were scattered beyond the village.

Moving down the main street, Valka kept to the shadows rather than expose himself in the half-light. The village was silent and shuttered against the cold, but it was habitual with him to take no chances.

At the end of the road, he halted before a stone house slightly larger than the others, with a barn set to the rear. He rapped smartly on the oaken door, paused, then rapped again. Presently, he heard a shuffling within and someone grumbling as they approached the door.

It swung inward, and a tall, gaunt man holding a candle stood in the entrance. He wore a nightshirt, and a cap covered his tousled grey hair. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he recognized his visitor, gasped with surprise and jerked off his cap.

Lord Valka, he stammered, bowing low. Please forgive me. I had no idea it was you. He gestured toward the interior. Please come in out of the cold.

No, thank you, Valka replied. I am sorry for disturbing your sleep, but as headman of the village, I thought I should tell you that I have killed what I believe to be the last of this season’s wolves. With any luck, the sheep and cattle will be safe.

Thank you, Lord Valka. The headman bowed again. I will let the villagers know. We will feel safer now.

Fine, Valka said. Send a messenger up to the castle if you see any more of the beasts.

Of course, Lord Valka, the headman answered as he closed the door. Have a good night.

Valka walked to the barn and let himself in through the side door. It was dark inside, and the air was heavy with the odors of horses and moldering hay. A nicker from one of the stalls guided him through the gloom. He opened the gate, led out a magnificent black stallion, then guided it down the aisle and through the door.

Once mounted, Valka walked the horse so it could warm up and stretch its cold, stiff muscles. Then he nudged it into a canter and headed north toward the castle. The crisp air struck his face and cleared his brain of the last effects of his battle with the wolves. Leaning low over the stallion's neck, his black hair whipping out behind him, he urged it on as it ate up the leagues with an effortless stride.

The road was a ribbon of silver winding around the rocky cliffs overhanging the seacoast. The crash and roar of the surf far below blended with the rhythmic pounding of the stallion’s hooves, and they beat against Valka’s ears like the deep throbbing of kettledrums. Half an hour later, the castle loomed up ahead in the darkness, etched against the stars like a huge mountain of stone. Perched like an eagle's eyrie on the edge of a high precipice overlooking the sea, it melded with the raw granite upon which it rested.

Cantering past the buildings scattered around the walls used by his father’s retainers, Valka rode through the castle gate and on into the stone-paved courtyard. He dismounted, gestured casually to the guards saluting him from the gate, tossed the reins to the sleepy groom who came out of the stable to greet him, then started across the courtyard toward the main building where his family lived.

The sound of his boots striking the flags brought the guards on duty at the entrance to attention, and they raised their halberds in salute. Bounding up the steps two at a time, Valka paused on the landing to greet them.

How goes it this night? he asked cheerfully.

Very well, My Lord, one of the guards answered. All’s been quiet since you left, sir.

Good. Valka clapped the man on the shoulder. About to enter the building, he turned back and asked, How is your son, Walden? Is that broken leg mending as it should?

The guard beamed. It surely is, My Lord. Thank you for asking. He will be right as rain in a couple of weeks.

I am happy to hear it, Valka replied, then passed on.

* * * *

Moving to the left of the entranceway where a wide stone staircase rose to the upper floors, Valka paused with his boot on the lowest step and glanced back to the other side of the marble-paved hall. As his fingers stroked his square chin, he considered an iron bound door leading into the living quarters of Aldritch, the court musician. Valka had spent his childhood studying the kithara under Aldritch, so he knew that suite well. But it was not the musician Valka was interested in at the moment, but his daughter, Belina.

Making up his mind, he strode quickly across the entranceway, quietly lifted the latch on the door and entered.

Valka moved through the darkened chamber, easily skirting the furniture and cabinets strewn about the floor as he made his way to a door on the opposite wall. Pausing to glance down the hallway to the room where the old man slept, Valka eased the door open and slipped inside. Moonlight streamed into the small chamber through a casement opening onto a garden, fallow with winter, a silver sheen covered the chairs, and cabinets set against the walls.

In a canopied bed, her pale beauty caressed by the soft light, Belina slept on her back, one arm thrown across the covers. Her yellow hair fanned out over the pillow. Valka paused to admire her full red lips, slightly parted in sleep, and the gentle rise and fall of her heavy breasts beneath her nightgown.

Then, in a single bound, he reached the bed and kissed her on the mouth.

Belina’s eyes flew open. By the gods, Valka! she whispered fiercely. What are you doing here? She looked around. What time is it?

Glancing out the casement at the sky paling toward dawn, Valka replied, It is a few hours before sunup, I imagine. He kissed her again. I am here because I had an irresistible urge to see you.

I wager you have been out killing wolves again, she commented, stretching lazily. Why is it that you always come to see me after you have been fighting wolves?

Coming to you after I have fought wolves seems perfectly natural to me, he answered, dropping his cloak to the floor and unlacing his tunic.

Belina’s laugh was light and musical. Well, I am happy you came. Resting on an elbow, she watched him undress. As he dropped the last of his clothes, her eyes raked hungrily over his tall, leanly muscled frame. I know your body so well, but I never seem to get tired of it.

Valka's eyes had the ardent vitality of a hawk sighting its prey as he moved toward the bed. Belina sat up, pulled her nightdress over her head and tossed it onto the floor. Moving over, she threw back the covers then held out her arms. Come in here where it’s warm.

* * * *

The first rays of dawn awakened Valka from a sound and restful sleep. Feeling refreshed, he rolled over and glanced at Belina, who slept peacefully beside him. He had known her since they were young, when he and the court children had taken music lessons from her father.

He remembered how he and Belina had become casual lovers as teenagers. Accepting their affair for what it was, neither became jealous when one or the other took different lovers. Valka was happy she was receptive when he came to her late at night after fighting wolves, because he felt an almost irresistible urge for sex at those times.

Quietly, he lifted the covers, swung his muscular legs out, put his bare feet on the cold floor and stood up. He dressed quickly and, carrying his sword and cloak, slipped out of the room, crossed the main chamber, then let himself out into the main hall.

At that hour, only the guards were about, and the entranceway was deserted. He mounted the stairs two at a time to the second floor where his quarters were located. Good morning, Tulla, he called cheerfully to his servant as he entered.

Good morning, My Lord, Tulla answered, showing no surprise at Valka’s condition or the hour. I have just drawn your bath, sir. I hope it is as you like it.

I am certain it is. Valka dropped his cloak on a chair and headed for the washroom, still carrying his sword. Has anyone been asking for me?

Not to my knowledge, My Lord.

Good! Valka breathed a sigh of relief and disappeared into the washroom.

Chapter Two

His sword lying on a stool close at hand, Valka closed his eyes and leaned his head against the side of the marble tub. The warm water relaxed his muscles and allowed him to slip into a reverie in which the previous night's battle blended in his mind with the time, when he was only ten years old, that he killed his first wolf.

Baron Ulrich, Valka's father, took the responsibility for ridding Valentia, his fiefdom, of the marauding wolves during the winter months. That day, Ulrich took Valka and his older brother, Roderick, with him to teach them how to hunt. The wolves of Valentia are especially large, rangy and vicious, he told Valka and Roderick as they rode through the forest behind their hounds, followed by a few aristocratic retainers. If we do not stop them, they can decimate our herds of horses, cattle and sheep.

Up ahead, the hounds started barking and howling at the top of their lungs, then they took off running through the underbrush.

"They are hot on the