Draecyn

By Andrew Saul

Nearing the climax of the spell, Elowyn slowly clenched her fists, and harvesting every last drop of power she could, she opened her eyes and plummeted to the ground, slamming her fists into the surface with every last fibre of her being. The resulting detonation of her impact, threw Vitiri backwards through the air, into the wall of the cottage twenty feet behind him.

Simultaneously, the white hot spheres of the meteor storm plummeted from the sky, smashing into the huge gathering of barghest waiting for the breach of the southern gate. With a colossal impact that shook the entire valley, the meteors exploded amongst the barghest ranks, obliterating the majority of their number instantly. With an eruption of blood, fur and limbs in all directions, a deluge of viscera hit the battlefield and its occupants, as they were hurled to the ground by the magnitude of the blast...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Saul
• Release date: Mar 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370160419

Andrew Saul

After a varied employment history, including commercial diving and integrated circuit design to name two of the main highlights! Andrew held off his passion for writing science fiction and fantasy until now. Draecyn is his first novel in an intended trilogy of books, chronicling the cataclysmic chain of events that occur in the war between the Draecyn and the Wyvani...

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Draecyn

Andrew Saul

All characters in this publication are fictitious, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Draecyn

Book one

Copyright © 2016 Andrew Saul

1

Elowyn awoke with a start; the bloodcurdling screams of the arena above her brought back the harsh reality of her situation. She had been caught stealing a fusion injector from the local merchant Jaras three days ago, and was surprised and somewhat impressed at the speed and efficiency of the Tyrilian justice system. All advanced life sustaining planets in the known universe had their own unique and interesting ways of meting punishment for crimes against their respective states, but Tyril Prime was certainly one of the harshest.

Within hours of the theft she had been apprehended, charged and processed and was now waiting for her execution in the arena above, at the hands of one of Tyril’s justicars. Although it was a slaughter, the weekly spectacle drew in crowds of loyal followers from across the continent like obedient ruminants. Raucous cheers and celebration filled the cell with reverberations that intrigued her senses as to their propensity.

She snapped back from her aural musing, to the acrid stench of the cell around her. Its walls luminesced with condensation on the black stonework, reflecting the moonlight that filtered through the small window above her. The floor beneath her prone body was covered in matted straw, which had welded itself together from the urine of previous occupants. She had gathered the driest of it to sleep on in the corner.

Voices in the corridor outside barked incessant orders to her fellow inmates to line up and await their fate, she anticipated the unlocking of her cell door and even welcomed its arrival when it came.

Get to your feet scum! the guard rasped through clenched teeth at her.

Make me! the words had left her mouth involuntarily before she could arrest their momentum. She knew it was a mistake, for the instant reaction from the guard was to meet the words with a wry smile.

I was hoping you’d say that, the guard whispered viciously to her as he summoned reinforcements; within seconds two more guards appeared at the entrance.

Persuade her, he said with an acidic undertone that left her in no doubt that this would be a painful and regrettable outburst.

With great enthusiasm and delight the two hulking brutes brandished Syrpentus batons, (a flexible tritalumin based instrument of torture some three feet in length) and menacingly advanced to where she cowered in the corner of the cell.

Heavy blows rained down on her in an unsurpassed deluge. She raised her arms instinctively over her chest, holding her hands to her face, in order to protect her near naked body as best she could. Curling herself into a foetal position, she minimised the availability of targets to her oppressors, behind her hands she couldn’t help but give a wry smile of her own.

After what seemed an eternity, the ferocity of the attack subsided. Sensing his point had been reinforced, the guard in the doorway called a halt to the proceedings. She knew the onslaught received would have to look convincing. Slowly and deliberately she rolled back to face them, giving voluntary muscle convulsions to aid in her deception, for she was completely unharmed by the process.

Elowyn feigned a crippled state and made a laborious effort to stand without assistance. She half stumbled and held the forearm of the nearest guard to incite the reaction to help her to her feet. Feeling a small amount of compassion, the guard obliged her efforts and she stood on trembling legs to face them.

Morok, now leaning against the upright of the doorway, felt some admiration for the detritus covered blonde woman before him. She was almost his height at six feet and had a lithe yet muscular frame. He regarded the welts and bruises forming across her skin, and knew she had shown courage to stand after such a beating.

Get in line. The words were calmer now, but they carried no less intent than his previous statement.

Elowyn bowed her head in submission to the command and made her way unaided out into the corridor. Submissively she stood in front of the Tyrilian that had been ousted from the cell next to her. She could feel his warm breath on the nape of her neck, as it came in suppressed gasps of nervousness. Waiting for the guards to move further up the corridor, she addressed him with a soft and eloquent whisper.

What’s your name? she inquired.

Hadrik. My name is Hadrik, he stammered, almost trying to convince himself that he wasn’t standing where he was.

How did you wind up in here, Hadrik? her whisper was melancholic, and she tried to lighten the mood considering the circumstances.

As much as he wanted to refrain from a response Hadrik couldn’t help but whisper back.

I had an illicit nocturnal meeting with the daughter of a Consul, he almost blurted it out as if it had been bottled up within him under pressure for some time.

They put you in here for that? she smirked, but quickly regained her composure as a guard walked past her, counting their number as he progressed down the line.

Hadrik waited for his opportunity to speak, as if explaining before the hour of his death would help carry his soul to the afterlife.

Yes, we are in love, but my social standing prohibits my eligibility to court her. He bowed his head at his admission, and Elowyn felt his breath move down her vertebrae.

Hadrik noted the extensive bruising from her beating, and questioned in his mind how she could be standing after such punishment. He had been only a few feet away and had witnessed the full savagery of it. He felt compelled to ask the inevitable question:

Are you alright? he chirped sympathetically.

No I’m half left! Elowyn couldn’t resist the insufferable humour and emphasised it with a subtle wiggling of her left hand. If it was to be Hadrik’s final hour on Tyril, it would be better for him to die calmly, rather than hysterically, like she had seen in countless others from different planets over the years.

Hadrik and the two nearest inmates within earshot of the whisper let out small involuntary chuckles at her haughty nature toward the situation. Their brief levity was cut short however, by the shout from the back of the corridor announcing to Morok there were seventy four inmates ready and in line.

Morok continued in his ascendance of control, commanding the first ten inmates to proceed forward up the slope at the end of the corridor to their destinies. Chants and the stamping of feet echoed down the corridor towards them as the inmates arrived in the arena above; shortly followed by more screams and resulting cheers from the crowd as they were dispatched with malevolence.

Without straying from the topic of conversation, Elowyn pressed Hadrik further on his romantic involvements.

So what’s her name then? she said a little louder now, so she could be heard.

Lenara, her name is Lenara. He was starting to stammer again, as he wrestled with his emotions, through the invasion of horrific sounds assaulting him. His breathing had quickened and his heart was racing.

Will she be in the arena? Elowyn made the inquiry knowing it would unsettle Hadrik further, but it was a line of questioning she had to pursue.

Yes, her father commanded it, so she can witness there is no possibility of us ever being together.

Something had been triggered in Hadrik, a combination of anger and the desire for vengeance now burned within him. He was unsure of where it was coming from, but it engulfed him and he embraced the emotion with open arms. If he could have seen the face of the woman in front of him, he would have witnessed her momentary trance like expression as she cast ‘true heroism’ upon him.

Elowyn gathered her senses for the forthcoming battle and began to focus on potential scenarios. She visualised the arena above her and how the combat would play out. She couldn’t afford to reveal who she was or what she was at this stage of her subterfuge; just a win would suffice, for a win would mean her pardon, such was Tyrilian law. Defeating a Tyrilian justicar was no mean feat, and it would take all of her guile to pull it off in her current guise.

They shuffled forward as a group and were halted by Morok. Their group would be next into the arena and she could hear the crescendo build, as the last of the previous inmates were hunted down and disembowelled. Morok sauntered over to her and looked her up and down with a seedy expression on his face.

I’m going to have fun with you after they’ve finished princess, he licked his top lip and laughed at his own perverted visualised humour of what he wanted to do to her corpse.

Elowyn shot him a surprised glance at the statement, but refrained from any outburst. She would need to focus for the fight and couldn’t afford any distraction or another beating at this stage. She simply stared back at him, unflinching and unyielding, in an unspoken war of minds. Morok found himself unable to speak, as he gazed into her eyes, hoping there would be enough of her corpse left for him. The roar of the arena above quietened to a murmured hush in anticipation of the arrival of their group.

After what seemed a lifetime to Hadrik, the order came from Morok that he had been waiting for. Now was his time to prove to Lenara, and everyone in attendance that he was worthy of her.

Alright you lot get up there and make a good show of it. Morok knew even the largest and physically fit inmates crumbled within seconds, but he gave the meagre words of encouragement nonetheless, in the vague hope of spurring them on.

Their group began the walk up the slope to the arena; Elowyn glanced about at the nervous faces amongst them. Hadrik had now gravitated to her side and, with the exception of her, was the only face among them that had a determined and resolute look to it during the gradual incline. Upon rounding the corner, they were greeted by the rush of cool air on their faces as they stepped out into the floodlit arena.

Instantly the crowd erupted upon seeing them and taunted them with repeated chants of fresh meat followed by the obligatory stamping of feet and the raising of glasses to toast the success of the judicial system. Elowyn looked across the crowd at the sea of faces surrounding her; she could feel the warmth of the day waning from the sand beneath her feet as she strode toward the centre of the arena.

A small pile of crudely fashioned weapons littered the floor for them to choose from; the edges on the blades had been keen once, but now had a dull and almost ragged appearance to them. She picked up a sword and shield and motioned for Hadrik to do the same; he selected a mace and buckler and was surprised at how light they felt in his hands.

Where is Lenara? she asked him casually. Hadrik squinted in the bright light across the pink and red sand toward the podium reserved for the senatorial class, and indicated Lenara with his mace. He could make out her features, but was too far away from her, to see the tears welling in her eyes, as she looked upon him.

Fight for her. Make her proud! the words pounded into his head from her mouth. Five platforms rose from trapdoors in the sand around their group, causing a thunderous bellow from the audience that seemed to tear at the fabric of their existence.

Their group, now surrounded by five justicars, closed ranks into a ring formation facing outward; the eight men and one woman found comfort and solace in Elowyn’s proximity.

Wait for them to come to us and don’t break formation! she shouted to them, with remarkable clarity.

Upon seeing the tactics employed by Elowyn and her group, the justicars began to circle them. Each justicar wore the finest tritalumin half plate armour that seemed to shimmer, as the light from above, danced and played across the contours. Each of them brandished a darkblade and shield, as was the tradition of their training from childhood.

Differing bloodlines preferred variety in their style of sword. and the knowledge of their use was passed down from father to son over countless generations. Forged in the core of the planet under extreme heat and pressure, the gemstone blades were exquisite to behold, and virtually indestructible, keeping their honed edges for millennia.

Inquisitive in their nature, the darkblades of the justicars probed expertly at their perimeter, waiting for their chance to sink into flesh and sinew. It didn’t take long for weakness to show, and two of the besieged group collapsed to the floor, producing pools of blood that ebbed life-force into the sand beneath.

Fight back or die! were the last words that left Elowyn’s’ mouth before she charged the nearest justicar. She had been waiting for the gap, anticipating the opportunity, when it arrived she exploited it to the fullest. Her surge forward initially surprised the justicar, who instinctively stepped back; his feet making sweeping crescent moons in the sand to avoid imbalance and trip hazards, as he parried her blows expertly.

Hadrik responded to her advance and flanked her; he protected her sword arm from the justicar to her right and was amazed at how comfortable he was in his ability to do so. Gasps from the crowd now mingled with the cheers like a subtle undercurrent. They were to have an unexpected display tonight and they relished the onset.

His mace weaved in front of him as if possessed; the moves he made were graceful and precise with almost a feline quality. He had only served a year at the academy, and combat was certainly not his forte, but the justicar in front of him was struggling to match his pace and skill. Somewhere behind him he heard a thump, as the head of another inmate hit the sand, neatly severed by the darkblade of its justicar owner.

Hadrik didn’t look back at the sound; nothing would distract him in his pursuit of vengeance. He escalated the orchestra of blows at his opponent into a crescendo, revealing a gap in the justicars defence for a split second, he brought the mace to bear on the side of his attackers’ knee joint and heard a satisfying crunch.

Valmar couldn’t believe what was happening in front of him. An inmate with supposedly no formal training was producing the finest quality routines and structure, in an offence, that he had ever witnessed. The deftness of the inmate’s movements, rivalled or even surpassed those of grandmaster Midani himself!

There were no gaps in the defence, no ambiguity in the strikes or their accuracy, and the feints and parries were sublime. He countered the blows with the best that his tiring muscles could muster, but to no avail. He felt the stinging bite of the mace as it tore into his cartilage, sending a lightning bolt of pain up his neural pathways to his thalamus, it didn’t register for long as everything suddenly went black.

Stunned at what he had just accomplished, Hadrik stood over the crumpled heap of armour in front of him. The mace throbbed in his hand as the blood rushed through it, replenishing the energy expended. Pausing for a moment in disbelief, he reached down and grabbed the darkblade from the sand. The battle continued around him, but it felt like he was trapped in a vortex, from which no sight or sound could penetrate.

He looked up at the crowd towards the podium and saw Lenara gazing fondly down on him; her chestnut hair fluttered calmly in the same breeze he felt on his cheek, as if being caressed by her delicate hand. Transfixed in this moment, he was oblivious to the darkblade thrust toward him from behind.

Elowyn glimpsed other combatants from their group, desperately trying to defend their existence. Predictably, one by one they succumbed to the greater knowledge and savagery of the justicars, until only she and Hadrik remained. Realising that she must expedite her victory, she feigned a low scything motion to draw her opponent’s guard lower than he intended. He duly responded, allowing her to reverse her motion. With a pirouette, she brought the now failing sword in a reciprocal arc, causing the justicar to lower his shield enough for her to begin her manoeuvre.

With a follow up high feint, the justicar raised his shield predictably as she leapt. Propelling her right foot onto the shield, she used it as a launch platform and somersaulted over the justicars head, bringing her left heel squarely down on his cranium. A gasp and murmured silence fell on the crowd as the justicar groaned and fell forward, but it was not her fight that caused the gasp. In her peripheral vision she saw Hadrik picking up a darkblade from his fallen adversary, while another justicar charged him from behind.

There was no alternative, she had to intervene. He was too important at this stage of her machinations, to lose in such a way. With no interruption to her acrobatic display, she rotated horizontally mid-flight and hurled her shield in an intercepting course with the justicar. Ten pounds of circular tritalumin hummed a merry tune, as it sailed through the air at the intended target. It struck the justicar’s wrist as he outstretched for the killing thrust, knocking the sword from his hand.

Her landing was sacrificed for the move, and she crashed to the sand sliding on her back through some entrails. Deftly she used a handspring to right herself and finished perpendicular to the sand once more. A cacophony of cheers emanated from the audience; this time it was not for the justicars and their slaughter, instead it was for her and Hadrik and the fine display they had demonstrated.

Please let them live. Lenara fought through her emotions long enough to make the pleading enquiry.

Her father turned to her to see the pleading look on her face, the tears on her cheeks now sparkled in the moonlight. He glanced up to the royal box looking for deference to a higher power than his own; he knew it was futile however as Emperor Valeris was off hunting on the Monoran peninsula for the next two weeks. Realising he was the highest ranking official; he slowly stood up, and gestured for the crowd to calm their fervour.

In the name of the emperor and under Tyrilian law, it is the decree of this judiciary, that the inmates standing before us, be acquitted of their crimes and are released forthwith. His words were uttered with purpose at the declaration, but they hid his bitterness as to their meaning.

Lenara almost leapt from her chair at the repealing. She wrapped her arms around him, and placed a delicate kiss on his cheek.

Thank you daddy! she had not called him that since he had been promoted to Consul when she was eight years old; ‘father’ was more appropriate he had bade her, at the dinner table on the very evening. Surprised by the affection and outpouring, he couldn’t resist letting his heart soften a little and he hugged her back.

Hadrik could feel his heartbeat calming at the absolution; he looked up at the podium and saluted with his darkblade the decision of the man who had wished him dead. For the darkblade belonged to him now, until such a time he in turn was bested. He turned to Elowyn, and together they strode to the exit ramp of the arena with their heads held high.

At the bottom of the slope Morok grimaced at their arrival, there would be no entertainment for him tonight.

Congratulations, he mumbled gruffly at them.

Elowyn resisted the urge to bury her fist in his face; she didn’t want to incite a potential recall to the arena, so handing him back the weapon she had been using, she left him with a parting shot:

That’s the closest your sword is getting near me tonight! she smirked, as she shoved it into his grasp.

Everything seemed like a perfect dream borne from a nightmare to Hadrik, as they were escorted through a labyrinth of corridors to their destination. Rooms had been provided for them to bathe and to change into formal evening attire for the pardoning ceremony. He marvelled at the opulence of his surroundings as he readied himself, consuming himself with awe at the intricate details of the tapestries on the walls, depicting ancient battles in the arena involving animals from across Tyril. Feeling refreshed and fully groomed,