Sky-Water Blue

By Keith Jones

When the queen is murdered in her own palace at Tarangar, by those who believe they can govern the land to a better future, they initiate albeit unwittingly the destruction of their world. Evil workings, begun by the arcane weavings of one twisted mage, quickly spread across the land in the form of dragon fire and a mercenary army, operating from a huge fortress, built by the sweat and blood of countless slaves.

Only the Sky-Water Dragons can save mankind, but they, too, have been caught up in the mages workings, their Caller murdered, leaving his apprentice of seven months to unlock the secrets and break the spell a task for which he his woefully unprepared.

A huge army, formed at Tarangar by the High Council, is intercepted by the Fire-Water Dragons only a few days march from the palace.

For the survivors of this mindless slaughter life soon becomes a series of nightmares from which they cannot awake. While most hide in fear of their lives a brother and sister search for a way to bring the Sky-Water Dragons to their aid. If they fail the land will be lost and mankind become extinct.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 6, 2007
• ISBN: 9781467821056

Keith Jones

Hello, My name is Keith Jones. I was raised in the Mid-West and now I travel abroad passing on my message to the masses. This is my second book that I am proud ot present to you.

Book preview

Prologue

It was the pounding, steady and rhythmical, that first woke Charlotte. The sound boomed through the hallways, a long series of rolling echoes, each repetition not completely fading away before the next started in its full intensity. This was followed shortly by something that without the befuddlement of a sleep clouded mind would have been immediately terrifying. Wood groaned alarmingly before surrendering to the onslaught, breaking apart and splintering as the main doors of Tarangar were breached by the steel plated ram, crashing inwards, admitting the bloodthirsty horde of rebels.

As the heady confusion of sleep was washed away by cold realization, Charlotte identified the ringing sounds that had largely featured in her dreams as the distant clash of weapons. That same sound, only louder, closer, now echoed through the palace, mingled with the clash of resistance and the screams of death, bringing the danger much nearer, making it all too frighteningly real.

Tarangar, sovereign house and ancestral home for generations of queens, ruling the vast landmass of Amadica, was under attack. How the rebels had breached the easily defendable and heavily guarded outer walls and gates was a mystery to Charlotte; one she now doubted she would ever learn the truth of.

The shouts and cries for blood and justice now echoed throughout the palace, reverberating up stairways and along the maze of corridors, frightening in their intensity alone.

Charlotte leapt out of bed ready to comfort her young charges; as wet nurse to the infant princess and nanny to the young prince it was her duty. But to Charlotte it was more than that; she was devoted to them like they were of her own flesh and blood, loved them with a fierce, protective passion.

She fumbled in the dark with the flint and striker she kept on her bedside table, finally lighting the oil lamp placed there in case the children cried out during the night. With the flame burning steadily she closed the shutter to a mere slit and went to check on the children.

As she entered the adjacent room through the connecting door she was surprised to find them both still sleeping peacefully, undisturbed by the discordant clattering from below as the palace guards fought against the rebels in a valiant yet futile effort. Looking down at the three month old Princess Annalise, sleeping peacefully in her white satin lined cradle, Charlotte was reminded of her own daughter, who had died so suddenly, of unexplained causes, at a similar age. It was then, at only fourteen, she had been employed in service to the throne as wet-nurse for the young Prince Davidan, who now lay sucking on his thumb, blissfully unawares of the events unfolding in the rooms and corridors beneath them.

Charlotte returned to her own room, dressing quickly in her uniform, a black cotton dress with a high neck, long sleeves and wide skirts that brushed the floor as she walked. She left the white apron folded neatly on the bed. It took a few moments for her to summon the courage to leave the room, taking deep breaths to fight back the rising fear. Opening the door slowly, she checked in both directions before stepping out into the hallway, locking the door behind her and slipping the large brass key into her right side hip pocket. Small protection was that single door against armed men who would batter down several inches of age-hardened oak in short order, but it was better than no protection at all.

It wasn’t until then she realized the guard was missing. There was always a guard for the prince and princess. She surmised that upon hearing the commotion from below he had gone to help.

Quietly she slipped along the dimly lit hallway, where most lamps had been extinguished for the night, the wicks trimmed low on the few still burning. What little light remained was drained to insignificance by the dark red walls and carpets. Only two other doorways led from this hallway, the one opposite her own room, a huge pair of oak doors carved with the Triarnan crest, leading to the spacious royal rooms and the queen’s bedchamber beyond. This door was also unguarded, but Charlotte was unsure of the hour and it could simply mean the queen and her husband had not yet retired for the night.

The other exit, the one she now headed towards, was directly to the left and opened into a wide L shaped corridor, half leading straight ahead, and the other half to her right. Beyond this door two more guards should have been posted, though these were also absent.

Charlotte ran straight ahead, towards where the clamour originated.

Her footsteps were silent on the thick red carpet as she swept past a line of closed doors, set equidistantly on either side, each carved finely and decorated in gold leaf. At any other time those doors would be bursting open, the nobles within, those most ardent supporters of crown rule, pouring out prepared to protect their queen. But it was a time of festival across Amadica and the nobles and their retinues had returned to their homes. It had been less than an hour, she estimated, since Charlotte had heard the festivities at Tarangar drawing to a close.

The rebels had picked their moment well. But even accounting for that the usual palace guards should have been able to repel any attack.

Charlotte followed the passage to the head of the stairs, where a balcony ran over the grand palace entrance, leading to another corridor on the far side. She paused a moment to check the way was clear but her eyes couldn’t penetrate the dark. She descended the sweeping stairs in total darkness, all the lamps below either taken down by whoever had stormed the palace, or snuffed out by the wind that whipped through the shattered doors, bringing with it a spray of rain. Stopping every fifth step or so, not wanting to move too quickly into the unknown, her descent of the long grey-veined white marble stairway was a slow one.

Lightning flashed and Charlotte’s hopes lifted momentarily, thinking – and praying to the Higher Powers – that she had been mistaken and it had just been thunder that had woken her, the voices a trick of the mind, remnants of a dream disturbed. Then her gaze lit on the broken bodies. She saw them only briefly as the lightning flashed and flickered, but that was more than enough. The guards were dead, dismembered and disembowelled. It was clear they had fought valiantly, dispatching more than double their own number of the rebels, making the traitors pay heavily for each of their lives. Among them could be the body of the man who had been assigned to guard the door to her room, and those who should have been outside the royal wing.

They should never have left their posts!

Charlotte was momentarily annoyed at the men but quickly realized she had done the same, and worse, had left no one to watch over the children. She couldn’t fault the guard for doing the same as she herself had done.

The shouts rose up again then, coming from deeper within the palace, before being drowned out by the thunder as it rumbled and shook the air, echoing for long moments through those ancient corridors.

Charlotte finally reached the bottom of the stairs, finding it impossible not to step in the blood that covered the floor in sticky puddles. Nausea threatened to overwhelm her, until again she found her resolve and forced it down. She tried not to look at the hacked and mangled bodies of the guards she had known the names of for years – though her eyes constantly betrayed her, drawn repeatedly to the grisly sight like iron filings to a lodestone – instead saying a prayer for their departed souls, knowing they were beyond any help she could give.

Down the central corridor Charlotte could see flickering light at a convergence situated at the very centre of the palace. She could hear again the pounding then splintering as more doors were rammed open. Lightning flickered again, illuminating the way in grim detail. More bodies, no more than dark, prone figures, littered the length of the corridor, darker pools spreading out from under the corpses, in stark contrast against the immaculately clean white marble floor of the passage.

Of the serving staff she saw no other, all probably cringing in fear of their lives.

Charlotte waited for the clamour to rise again. Identifying the direction of the noise, she determined where the rebels were heading. She took short cuts through numerous corridors and rooms, taking a route learned well by all serving staff at Tarangar, coming in at the rear of the queen’s private lounge, preventing any risk of being seen by the attackers.

Charlotte opened the servants’ door the smallest fraction, for an instant surprised it hadn’t been locked. Queen Karianne III, eighteenth monarch of the Triarnan dynasty, was standing proudly before the fire, orange light reflecting from the back of her ivory gown, her long silver-gold hair flowing like a mane to the back of her knees. Her consort, Waynrik, his red, curling, shoulder length hair glowing like embers with the fire’s flickering light, stood protectively before her, sword and dagger drawn. He was shirtless, wearing only black breeches and boots, the finely toned muscles of his torso rippling as he worked his way through a series of exercises to loosen his joints and warm his muscles.

Charlotte knew the queen would soon have this rebellion under control; her Gold Dragons would see to that. But never before had rebels made it into the grounds, let alone into the palace itself, endangering the queen. Charlotte bit her lip, worry for the seriousness of the situation only just dawning on her: guards, whether friends or no, were expected to give their lives in service to the crown if the situation demanded it, but the queen herself was another matter altogether. If the queen was harmed or, Powers forefend, killed, anarchy would surely reign, gripping the land far and wide, drawing all into a bloody war.

At that moment the doors on the other side of the room heaved and groaned under the onslaught, dragging Charlotte from her thoughts. They bowed inward with the strain only once more then shattered and burst open, the strong locks torn out of the wood, unable to withstand the battering. So great was the force used that one door was ripped completely from the hinges and sent tumbling across the floor, shortly followed by the grey marble statue they had used as a ram, slipping from wet hands as all resistance disappeared, shattering into several large lumps and hundreds of tiny pieces as it struck the floor.

The rebels flooded in, thirsty for blood, revenge and justice.

The thunder of wings from outside the high windows, as the Gold Dragons, summoned telepathically by the queen, raced to the defence of the realm, made the rebels’ charge falter. The queen’s mouth turned up in a slight smile, one that hinted of relief.

A tremendous thwacking noise, followed by shrieks of pain and rage, took the smile from Karianne’s face, turning it to ice, as hundreds of bows and crossbows unleashed a deadly rain of steel in unison. The queen twitched slightly as each steel barb sank into dragon flesh, weakly feeling each individual puncture through her mental link, like someone pressing needles into her skin. The attack continued for what seemed an eternity, finally bringing the dragons crashing to the ground, where they were hacked at with swords and impaled by long spears until they stopped thrashing, screeching in impotent rage the whole time.

The mob resumed its charge.

Charlotte watched, horrified, as that charge broke all too briefly against the consort’s blades, one man against many – too many. Before he fell – which even the nurse knew was inevitable – to a spear driven through his chest, he had taken at least a dozen with him. A dozen was only a drop in the ocean. They trampled over Waynrik and surged around Karianne, who still stood imperiously, though drained of colour, and not lifting a hand in her own defence. The queen was dragged down and hidden from Charlotte’s view. Moments later a pale, slack featured head, with blood still running from the ragged neck, was raised on the end of a spear. The rebels cheered deafeningly. Queen Karianne III was dead.

Struggling to fight down the surging nausea Charlotte fled. She had a good idea where the rebels would be heading next and was determined to be there and gone before them, preventing them continuing this mindless slaughter. She raced along passageways, taking the same route back to the staircase she had descended next to the main entrance. Already she could hear the mob heading back that way, no doubt intent on making an end of the young heirs to the throne, permanently ensuring no challenge to the new order they would endeavour to impose. Charlotte would die before she allowed that to happen.

She raced up the staircase, along the corridor and into the royal apartments. Charlotte had never sought to learn about any locking system for this door, and indeed there seemed to be none – or at least none she could quickly discern. The queen’s guards had always formed the barrier for those doors. Not wanting to waste precious moments investigating a door she intended to be opening again soon she instead moved on to her own room, locking the door again behind her. She moved quickly through into the adjoining room, where the children amazingly still lay sleeping, and woke Davidan.

Is it morning already? he asked sleepily as he cracked open his eyes. He noticed the curtains were still drawn and the absence of any light creeping around their corners. He sat up sharply and looked back at his nurse when he heard the raucous cries from below. What is happening?

Charlotte had always been amazed how bright the boy was, comprehending things well above his few years, eerily so. He was fully aware of how important his family was, and was under no illusion as to their popularity. They were reviled by many nobles and commoners alike, leaving them all in a precarious position. Annalise was already showing promise of being every bit as sharp as her brother – though if the rebels succeeded she would not live to reach her full potential.

We have to go, now, said Charlotte finally, with unfeigned urgency straining her voice.

What is happening? Daivdan repeated insistently.

Charlotte knew better than to try and be evasive with his questions, but just once she had hoped he wouldn’t press her. Rebels have stormed the palace. We have to flee.

Is mother dead? he asked, knowing all too well the implications.

Charlotte closed her eyes, not answering as a tear traced a line down one cheek. She tried to force the images of the queen’s severed head from her thoughts. That was all the answer Davidan needed. And the dragons? he pressed. Another solitary tear ran down her cheek at the thought of those magnificent creatures, so few in numbers but so fiercely loyal to the throne, the last of their kind, now also dead, extinct. I see, the prince said at last. Without another word he leapt out of bed and started to dress. We had better make haste.

Charlotte could have blessed the child for his steely demeanour. It snapped her back into action. She wrapped Annalise snugly in her cot blankets and held her close. The prince was ready in moments, needing help only with his boots. The nurse hurried out of the first door, locking it as she closed it behind the prince, then across the room to the second door, unlocking it and peering out before beckoning the prince into the hallway. This door she locked also as she left, hoping the two locked doors would lead the rebels to believe the children were still within and they would waste time breaking them down. She knew the doors wouldn’t hold long but every second she could gain was vital.

Unable to secure the main doors to the royal apartments she could only hope that the rebels would break them down also without checking the handles first, giving her precious extra seconds.

Hoisting the prince up so he rested on her hip whilst cradling the baby in her other arm she ran awkwardly down the corridor to her right, away from the staircase she had come up on returning from the queen’s private lounge. As she turned the corner at the far end Charlotte heard the mob flood into the corridor. Working her way along landings and down little used stairs she soon made her way to a small servants door at the rear of the palace. She looked out into the almost pitch blackness of an overcast night, what little light there was coming from the palace windows where candles and oil lamps still burned, thankfully few though these were. The way seemed clear, so she started running out across the gravel path and into the gardens, heading into the concealing darkness.

A shout followed by a sound she was now all too familiar with brought white-hot pain flaring up her left side, sending her breath exploding from her lungs with the force of the impact. She stumbled and nearly fell, recovered her balance, gritted her teeth, and carried on. Before another shot could be fired she raced into the cover of the hedgerows that bordered the spacious, terraced lawns. Lowering Davidan slowly to the ground she reached around and pulled out the crossbow bolt with a sharp, painful tug. Luckily the range had been sufficient that the arrow had caused only minor injury, not biting deep into muscle or piercing a vital organ, and the blood flow was already slowing.

But still it hurt like perdition and Charlotte winced as she hoisted Davidan back up to her hip. It had been difficult enough to hold both children at once without the injury and she suddenly had the absurd wish that she had four arms as she tried to balance Annalise in the crook of her left arm whilst picking Davidan up with her right. With a sharp breath she swallowed her pain, forcing herself to ignore it. To give in to the pain would be the death of her charges. Her own safety was unimportant: she had sworn an oath to care for and protect these children, and protect them she would while she drew breath.

She could hear the rebels already in pursuit, streaming out of the palace, intent on halting her escape. No doubt they had been alerted to her flight by whoever had shot at her. They would not easily give up the chase.

Using her knowledge of the gardens to her advantage, she managed to avoid the mob and swiftly made her way to a postern gate which creaked alarmingly as she lifted the rusted locking bar and forced it open.

Charlotte fled into the forests surrounding Tarangar then, disappearing into the dark, stopping only once, briefly, to look back before she passed beyond sight of the palace. She could see torches been thrust into any shadowed recess as the rebels laboriously searched the terraces for her, carefully checking every potential hiding place the gardens could offer, not realizing just how far ahead of them she was. With a last glance at the faltering pursuit she moved deeper into the forest, using tracks she had learnt intimately as a child to speed her escape.

It was dawn before she dared stop. Annalise was awake now but was mercifully quiet, staring with a questioning frown. Charlotte handed the baby over to her brother for a few moments while she checked on the wound in her hip. Blood and clear fluid wept from the centre. A scab was forming nicely around the edges and the small amount of inflammation led her to believe she had contracted no infection. She knew she had been fortunate. If she had been spotted earlier, or the bolt had struck one of the children, things could have ended up very differently.

At first she considered it nothing short of a miracle that they had escaped at all. Then as she analysed her movements she put it down to a mixture of luck and more so her intimate knowledge of the palace and its grounds. The chaos and confusion of the badly disciplined horde along with the complete darkness of the overcast night had played their parts too. She was certain the Higher Powers must have aided her also, though she could only guess at their intentions in helping her save the children. Such reasons were not for her to fathom, but she was grateful nevertheless and offered up a prayer to them.

Satisfied with the wound she turned her attention to feeding Annalise, loosening her clothing and cradling the baby to her breast. There was nothing she could do for Davidan but she knew he wouldn’t complain. They would just have to find food along the way. As soon as Annalise was content and dozing once more Charlotte decided to move on, knowing she needed to put as much distance as possible between themselves and Tarangar if they were to remain free. The young prince walked for a while now – a welcome relief for her tired body.

For weeks they travelled with no firm destination in mind, heading generally south and east, travelling mainly under the cover of darkness. The problem was that Charlotte didn’t know whom she could trust, who had been truly loyal to the crown, and who had been traitors, merely feigning allegiance whilst secretly plotting with the rebels to overthrow the queen. Some may even have taken part in the insurrection, dressed like commoners and bearing no house colours or insignia.

So onwards they travelled, their only company a continuous gnawing hunger, until that was all they thought about. Soon the grandness of palace life seemed distant, like an old and comfortable dream.

Charlotte knew the prince had already almost forgotten his previous life, accepting instead this seemingly pointless existence. He no longer asked about his mother.

In time she also would forget, this harsh, unfamiliar life overriding all earlier memories. Had it been worth escaping for this? Surely it would have been better to die with dignity than be forced to live in hiding or faking another past for the rest of their days. Even then there would be those who could track them down, forcing them to a life on the run, of midnight flits.

She gained word, by travellers met upon the road – Charlotte approaching the strangers while the children remained out of sight – of a split in opinions, of those threatening to rise up and reinstate crown rule. But she couldn’t risk approaching any until the lines were clearly drawn. Even then she could be placing her charges at risk from those wishing to simply use them as puppets, ruling through them if they should win the war that everyone now believed must come.

As the weeks passed and winter drew close Charlotte developed a wracking cough that filled her lungs with phlegm and a fierce burning sensation, and she knew she would soon be too weak to go on. All that kept her going were the children. She had to go on for them; she was all they had.

The rebels searched and searched but the children were never found. Over the following months accusations were hurled between the two opposing factions. The Royalists accused the rebels of killing the children and the rebels accused the Royalists of harbouring them.

This point would be the single most contentious issue in the hostilities that followed, with neither side willing to except the other’s word that they knew nothing of the children or what had become of them.

Twelve years later

A tall, rake thin, dark haired man, a mage of some talent, walked casually up the craggy slopes of a volcano situated at the foot of the Dragonridge Mountains, unafraid of what lay inside. This was no ordinary volcano but a place where all men feared to tread; the ancient lair of Teneram’s most feared and despised predators: the Fire-Water Dragons.

Once able to see over the craggy edge of the rim the mage saw that the volcano descended into a deep, wide crater filled with acrid, poisonous fumes, the lake at its centre, viewed only briefly as the mists swirled, acidic and dead, the lava below the crust held in check by ancient and powerful dragon magic. The rocks of the inner slopes were powdered with dirty yellow deposits, the poisonous mists coating everything with sulphur, filling the air with its brimstone reek. The Fire-Water Dragons had kin spread all across the world, in groups of varying size, sharing similar sulphurous dens. But here lived their leader, Fire-Water Red, the very dragon the nefarious mage had come to see. As and when needed Fire-Water Red could summon all red dragons to this volcano, and if the mage’s plans unfolded as he hoped, that call would be sent out in the next few days.

He paused at the rim, taking a few moments to view what lay within the crater. The swirling mist obscured most of the area in his range of vision. What little he saw revealed large areas of craggy rock in between the dragons, leading him to believe the volcano large enough to hold all the Fire-Water Dragons on Teneram. It would need to if this first encounter went as the mage planned. All the red dragons would need to operate from this one location.

Others might fear for their lives just living on the same planet as those fierce creatures but this young mage was unperturbed. He had travelled long and hard, seeking out other mages, warlocks and sorceresses, those wise in the dark magic, learning arts that should have stayed forgotten, should have died with them, all to give him the edge he needed to persuade the greatest of all red dragons that he should be the first Caller for their kind. Greedily he had tracked down those who were learned in the arts he wanted for his own. He had killed each and every one successively, in rites filled with dark ritual. After he had drained them of their knowledge, he took their magic for himself. How to do such a ghastly deed was the first learning he had sought, and one lowly mage, thinking to gain favour, had unwisely given over that knowledge. It hadn’t saved him from an excruciatingly slow death.

He hadn’t killed them for those purposes alone; he wanted no one to oppose the plans he was making. Only another mage - and a powerful one at that - could challenge him now, and after his recent eradicating spree only a handful remained alive in the whole of Amadica. Humans would be as little an hindrance as flies, and would be brushed aside with as little care or effort.

Now there were only a few users of magic left alive. Soon there would be a few less, Callers all.

Other dragons lived on this world, each with a Caller of their own, a liaison between themselves and humankind, but the red dragons had always been too fierce, too feared, to be approached by any human. Nor had the red dragons any wish to interact on any level with mankind, except as predator and prey. Until now only the other larger dragons had kept them in check, stopping them preying on the puny humans that now infested their world, small, worthless beings, scurrying here and there across the land, living their short lives in a terrible hurry.

The red dragons regarded humankind to be on the same level as rodents, vermin to be eradicated.

But the mage knew he had nothing to fear, not from these dragons or anything else living on the planet.

As he stepped up to the rim, perfectly silhouetted against the skyline, he stopped and waited. It was only a matter of moments before he heard the thunderous beats of huge, powerful wings. Out of the swirling smoke rose a huge red dragon: Fire-Water Red. The overlapping, fan shaped scales, glittered in the early morning sun, each scale the perfect captured image of a flame. Starting in shades of red, changing to orange then outlined along the crescent edge in yellow, the scales almost seemed to dance as the sunlight played across them, and though they appeared smooth and soft they were tougher than armour fashioned from boiled leather.

The softer, though still tough, underbelly scales, were a uniform glittering orange, looking like a lava flow as they rippled with each movement of those mighty, leathery wings. The wingspan, even though these were the smallest of Teneram’s dragons, was incredible to behold, the dun coloured skin stretched taut across the fine bones, the skeletal framework within creating a series of darker lines and ridges.

The powerful wings beat heavily as the dragon rose, driving down great gusts of air, pushing clouds of the noxious vapour towards the mage. His cloak whipped about him, then cracked out behind, dragging at him like a sail, forcing him to lean into the wind lest he lose his footing and go tumbling to his death.

Not waiting for any explanation of this trespass – even though he was vaguely curious why the human had dared come so close – the dragon unleashed a great jet of fire, the neck muscles pulsing as the volatile fluids were brought forth from the fire sacs, igniting on contact with air as they streamed towards the man in a rolling sheet of flame.

The mage spoke a few words in an arcane language, activating magic prepared as he ascended, foreseeing this reaction from the dragon. In truth he would have been more surprised if the dragon hadn’t attacked. Before he even felt the searing heat, a shield was erected around him, the flames licking fiercely around the dome of it while the mage stood impassively, enclosed and protected, waiting for the fire to cease. Inside the shield all was serene. The battering wind no longer troubled him. The roar of the flames was muted, the interior quiet and peaceful as the exterior assault continued.

The dragon looked momentarily puzzled then resorted to his dragon magic, something he had never before used on a human, conjuring up some particularly nasty combinations from his great stores of knowledge, and hurling them at his troublesome foe. But the mage had created his shield strong enough to repel any attack. Spells were hurled one after the other, bright colours forming coruscating waves across the surface of the dome as they struck and were dispersed, transformed into harmless bands of light.

The dragon knew what he was up against and dropped resignedly to the rim, not wanting to expend energy needlessly: Fire-Water Red believed he could have shattered the shield, but he was curious now, and also didn’t want to show the full extent of his magic to a powerful mage. The dragon had learned during his long life it was unwise to show his limits, always preferring to keep something hidden, in reserve if the situation grew dire. Surprise was often as good and sometimes better than brute force. He turned his gaze to the human before him and asked disdainfully, What do you want here, mage?

The dragon’s voice shook the rocks under the mage’s feet and he nearly stumbled. When the mage regained his balance, and his aplomb, he looked up again. He was sure he saw something akin to amusement in Fire-Water Red’s features. The mage pushed down his surging anger; he wanted to avoid a battle of wills and magic. Oh, he was confident the dragon was no match for him. Let the creature have his small amusements. Infuriating the red dragon by displaying his contempt now would not serve his purpose. He had to remain calm and in control to achieve his goals.

I have come to be the first Caller for the Fire-Water Dragons, said the mage finally.

We have no need of humans here. Be gone, before I decide to make of you a snack.

The mage stood firm. I am destined to be you Caller. I left my master to come here, drawn to your greatness. I am here to right the wrongs delivered upon you and your kin. You need me.

Why would we need you? asked the dragon irritably. What can your puny race do for me or mine? We Fire-Water Dragons are not like our weaker cousins. We have no wish to live in peace with your kind.

Me neither, said the mage, surprising both himself and the dragon, though quickly realizing how much truth that statement held. I have come to make you the greatest of your kind – in fact the only breed of your kind. With my help you will become the strongest, indeed the only, race of dragons on the planet. Humans will be yours to hunt freely. Together we will reshape this world with the Fire-Water Dragons on top of all. With me as your Caller, advising and guiding where and when to strike, this world could be yours for the taking.

Fire-Water Red was intrigued, and after gauging the mage’s power, knew it to be no wild boast. Why would you do this? Why go against your own kind?

They are no longer my kind, replied the mage harshly. They are no more to me now than ants, to be stepped on and crushed underfoot. He didn’t add that the constant arguments with his master, over the true name of the dragon he had really hoped to be Caller for one day, had led to his frustration and bitterness. The lure of the dark arts he had sought only served to increase his feelings of superiority over his fellow humans. He had made his plans with another dragon in mind, but the one now before him would serve just as well – maybe even better. Fire-Water Red would be a willing ally whereas any other breed of Teneram’s dragons would need to be enslaved, bound to him with ritual magic. That in itself could cause difficulties, creating all manner of problems as the dragons fought against the binding spell.

The leader of the red dragons was drawn in, seduced by the mage’s hatred. And how would you accomplish this new order you speak of?

As the mage laid out his plans Fire-Water Red drooled in anticipation of what was to come. It was apparent even to the dragon, who knew little of humans, that the mage was already bordering on madness, his mind corrupted and his reasoning twisted by the dark magic he had learned in recent months. The dragon could also see it was stolen magic by the aura around the mage. It quivered and writhed as if it contained the very souls of those whose magic he had taken, almost as if he had taken their tortured spirits along with their power, and now they fought to escape his grasp. But it made little difference to Fire-Water Red so long as the mage could deliver on his promises. The deaths of a score of humans, especially human mages, were nothing to him, something to be welcomed in fact.

Now as Fire-Water Red listened he grew impatient to put the mage’s plans into action, and as much as it went against his nature to deal with humans he found himself drawn in and an accord was struck. It might be difficult to get his brethren to accept the mage, and even more so their agreement, but he knew he could force this upon them if needs be. So drawn into the plans was he that he didn’t even realize when the mage lowered his shield.

The revenge for the years of restraint laid on them by their larger cousins was at hand. That was all that mattered now.

As the dragon led him down into the crater the mage allowed a smile to grace his lips. He had achieved his lifelong ambition. He was a Caller. He was home.

Chapter One

Martin Farrow, a gangling, fair haired, fifteen years old apprentice mage, had been in training for a meagre seven months, a severely intense experience where so much knowledge had been imparted to him he at first feared he wouldn‘t be able to cope with the strain. After the first month or so he started to ease into the pace and started making some sense of what he was told.

Now he was thoroughly enjoying his time with the mage who had chosen him, living for the knowledge and always hungry, almost greedy, for more. The teachings he received fell easily into place with what he already knew. He felt each new lesson was so obvious that he should have been able to see the truth of things without needing to be shown.

He held one nagging doubt over the speed he was been trained; he felt as if it was been rushed through, doubted this was the normal pace of an apprenticeship.

Martin had been sought out and selected for training following the unusual disappearance of his predecessor, Rakis. The young man still couldn’t quite believe how fortunate he had been, not only to be apprenticed, and not to just any mage, but to the most powerful living Master-mage on Teneram.

It had been the most amazing day of his life so far; one he would never forget. Martin had been standing in the central square of his home village of Trelland, leaning against the high rear wheel of a dray he had helped to unload, carrying the sacks of tithe grain into the storehouses. He was waiting outside while the overseer he’d accompanied checked off the load with the Tithe-master and got the necessary official stamps as proof of delivery. Trying to appear casual he had positioned himself so he was directly opposite the village forge, hoping to catch a glimpse of the blacksmith’s daughter. He was still there when the old man had walked into town, wiping away his amorous thoughts.

Appearing outwardly just like any other traveller, dressed in a plain olive cloak, concealing his mage’s robes and disguising his identity, he drew attention only for the fact he was a stranger and few ever travelled so far southwest. No one had recognized the mage, offering only a curious glance before dismissing him as unimportant and going about their own business. But Martin had felt himself curiously drawn towards the old man, by something that grabbed his attention and held it firm, as if sensing some greatness about him. Later he would find it was the magic in him; like calling to like.

The mage had summarily scanned and discarded almost everyone in the square before his eyes lit on Martin. A slight, almost unnoticeable raise of one eyebrow, was the only indication that the mage had found something interesting in the young lad. Martin had felt his excitement building to an explosive level. When the mage had then turned and walked away Martin was crestfallen, though he didn’t quite understand why.

The mage, even though he knew he had found the one he was looking for – the raw, untrained magic flowing from the youth was unparalleled in his long experience – still completed his sweep of the village. He had found nothing remarkable in any other. Sure enough, there were several who, with the proper guidance, could be decent ward makers and hedge witches, but nothing approaching the level of magic he was searching for.

When Martin saw the old man coming back towards him his heart had soared in a sudden rush of euphoria, combined with a small amount of confusion. The old man was coming for him; he just knew it, though he was still unsure why. What was special about an old traveller that drew his eyes to the stranger? He was still struggling to comprehend his strange feelings when the old man reached him and asked Martin to walk with him.

His life had been a blur from that moment on. Without further explanation or introduction the old man had walked home with Martin before revealing his identity, once Martin’s parents were present. It was several days before Martin realized that he had given no directions, but had instead been led home by the mage. Martin had followed dumbly and listened in stunned silence as the mage revealed to Martin’s parents his intention to take a new apprentice. His parents had felt so honoured they could barely reply, and when asked if he wished to apprentice with the greatest Master-mage Martin could only manage an eager nod with his mouth hanging open, making him appear a lackwit. The mage had reached towards him and with one finger gently pushed his jaw up.

Two days were allotted before he would accompany his new master, Elias, back to his remote cabin by the coast and start his apprenticeship. Two days to pack his few belongings, say his farewells to friends and family, before stepping into his new life.

Martin had been surprised before he left his home to find people paid this little notice, believing his new master a crazy old hermit with limited powers. Martin knew better and expected their blasé attitude was largely due to jealousy. He had hoped to see the blacksmith’s daughter, Kaitlan, before he left, but it seemed fate itself was conspiring against him in this matter, denying him his chance to say his farewells.

It still seemed like only a few days since he had followed the mage on the long walk to his new home.

It had been commonly whispered, Martin knew, throughout Trelland and the outlying farms, that Elias had killed his former apprentice, Rakis, in some unspeakable sorcerer’s way, but Martin had since dismissed this as misinformed hearsay.

In his time with the mage he had become rather fond of the kind-hearted old man and found this tale highly unlikely if not downright impossible. Yet neither would the old man talk about his former apprentice of seven years, leaving Martin with some easily quashed apprehensions that would resurface at intervals, like they had this very morning.

Martin had been sent out into the forest before the sun had risen that morning, by a quiet and thoughtful Elias, to collect fungus spores, but he immediately knew the mage had other plans for the day, plans he wouldn’t want his apprentice to witness. Now though, Martin’s curiosity had been piqued by his master’s strange reticence. And on top of that it was only fourth-day: forest excursions had, in Martin’s limited experience, always being reserved for the weekends, when his hectic learning schedule was shifted away from the magic arts and focused on nature and the delicate balance that must be maintained in everything he tried to do with his gift. What he learned among the trees was doled out with the same level of intensity as his other lessons. Elias had stuck rigidly to the same pattern of study since Martin had come to live with him.

Now Martin was truly intrigued.

He had seriously intended to travel deep into the forest as instructed, yet lost in his thoughts the young apprentice had wandered in a wide arc, finding himself heading slowly back towards the cabin before he even realized his feet were carrying him that way. Once in sight of the cabin he found he couldn’t resist the pull of the unknown.

He had crept stealthily towards the building and now waited, hidden behind the dubious cover of some thorn bushes, until Elias left the cabin.

Elias stepped onto the porch in front of the cabin, looking somewhat forlornly at the beauty of the new day. He was dressed in his workaday robes of white linen, banded at hem, waist and cuff in purple. His master had other robes in various styles, some ceremonial and made from silk, but Martin had never seen him wear any other than the plain white and purple.

At seven hundred and thirty eight Elias had seen more dawns than he cared to remember. This one though was more poignant and never before had a sunrise seemed such an important event to take the time to stand and savour every second until the sun cleared the horizon and covered the land with its beautiful golden light.

Martin wondered why his master delayed? The old man seemed sad and this only served to heighten Martin’s curiosity. But eventually Elias moved off the porch and walked away from the cabin with slow, even strides.

Allowing a few moments for Elias to gain a lead he followed the old man towards a table top hill, not half a mile away, where it rose surrounded by the sea, the only access gained by a narrow, rapidly eroding path, which rose steeply and offered no hiding place for Martin. He quickly realized how foolish he had been and expected his master would turn and discover him at any moment. Martin was torn whether to carry on, risking his master’s wrath, or to return to his given task. He crouched down to make himself less noticeable as he considered what to do. Curiosity was winning the battle.

Fortunately Elias kept looking ahead, his paces slow and even. It appeared to Martin as if the old man was still distracted, lost in thoughts the boy could only guess at. Martin crouched for a while longer, indecisive, waiting as his master carried on at the same measured pace, letting the mage extend the gap before firming his resolve to move on again. As Elias reached the summit Martin picked up his pace to close the remaining distance, not wanting to miss any of the mysterious occurrences he was positive he would witness there, craving the knowledge to be learnt simply by observing a Master-mage.

The plateau he headed towards was ringed around with ancient standing stones, thirty-two of them set in a wide circle, towering slabs of granite wider at the base than a man was tall, capped with lintels only between the pairs at each cardinal point, forming four gateways of stone. The slopes all around were littered with countless shapeless boulders, which Martin now hid among, the damp grass soaking the knees of his trousers as he struggled to hear over the combined noise of the waves crashing against the rocks below and the shrill tones of the seabirds nesting on the slopes of the tor.

He watched his master pass between the towering stones of the East-gate, the old man pausing within the circle to take a few moments to compose himself and order his thoughts. After what seemed a long while Elias raised his head and spoke clearly and loudly, his breath creating puffs of mist in the cool morning air. Martin listened in awe as his master spoke the sacred Words of Summoning, quite unable to believe what he was hearing. He hadn’t had any idea what he might witness this day, but he had certainly never expected this. The words were a closely guarded secret of the Callers and each syllable struck blades of ice into his spine as it was spoken.

Draconis aeaquious aerolion rendaren. Nathrach atennde!

The air seemed to vibrate with the power of the ancient words, and even Martin, inexperienced though he was, could feel the air charge with static as the summons was spoken. The very stones seem to hum, the huge monoliths adding their own call and amplifying the mage’s words.

2

Sky-Water Blue, greatest of all Sky-Water Dragons – indeed all dragons – opened one round dark eye and lifted his head at the unexpected summons, instantly tracking the resonating signature of the Call back to Elias and the stone circle. He yawned mightily, drawing in the cool vapours of the cloud that was his home, the freshness of the mist bringing him fully awake.

Without even pausing for thought, knowing that Elias would never request his attendance without good reason, Sky-Water Blue released the spell which solidified the cloud’s base, drifting down through the layers of his misty home to find his one of only several similar clouds in an otherwise clear sky. He recognized each cloud on sight and knew which of his brethren lived in each, as he knew the clouds of all four hundred and forty seven Sky-Water dragons that inhabited the skies above the planet its human inhabitants called Teneram.

Sky-Water Blue stretched wide his huge wings, descending by gliding alone to the stone ring where Elias awaited him. The blue scales of his back and flanks glimmered and glittered in the midday sun, whereas the silver scales of his belly absorbed and reflected the colours from the differing surfaces he drifted over, changing from the white crested blue of the sea to the green of the grassy slope. With a few massive flaps he worked his wings to slow his descent and landed gracefully within the stone circle, before his old friend.

Elias Master-mage, his voice rumbled in greeting. Why have you summoned me thus?

Times are changing, Blue. Such was the familiarity and friendship between dragon and mage that Elias need not use the dragon’s full title. They had known each other for over six centuries and even for the long-lived dragon, which like all the elder races regarded human lives as fleeting, it was a considerable length of time. Over their long friendship the dragon had even bestowed the greatest possible honour, entrusting Elias with his true name, as a show of trust and admiration he felt for his Caller. But that name would never, under normal circumstances, be spoken aloud even if Elias’ life depended on it: the power of a dragon’s true name, to compel and enslave, was so great that the mage would rather die than give it up or betray that trust. Although Martin did not yet realize, he had already heard that name, several times in fact. And as much as Elias would wish it for a long time to come he couldn’t simply tell Martin that name and its significance.

It was on that very point which Elias and Rakis had disagreed and argued. Rakis knew the Words of Summoning and believed he should also know the dragon’s true name, but Elias did not wholly trust his intentions and had refused time after time. Neither was it Elias’ to give freely, depending solely on Blue whether to bestow that show of trust, something his former apprentice couldn’t seem to grasp. Eventually the atmosphere had become so tense between them that Rakis had abandoned his apprenticeship and left, seeking out the dark magic that had led him on a path to the Fire-Water dragons.

The world is changing, Elias continued. Great evil is at work in the land. Even my own former apprentice, Rakis, the one who I thought I would one day hand over to my role as Dragon Caller, he too has been lured, seduced by the call of darkness.

How may I help in this matter? asked Blue. At that moment a faint noise among the rocks outside the circle alerted the great dragon. We are watched, he hissed, surprised that Elias had been caught unawares and instantly extended his senses, searching for the intruder.

Be calm, my friend, said Elias with a reassuring smile, drawing the dragon’s rising ire to focus back on himself. I know we are observed. All is as I wished it to be.

Who dares come uninvited? asked Blue, bridling slightly. He trusted Elias implicitly but was not pleased about the situation. Their meetings had always been on a one to one basis and Blue wanted it to remain that way.

It is my new apprentice, explained Elias. He is curious to a fault. I knew he would follow me. But do not fear, before you landed I spelled the circle to contain our speech. He hears nothing now.

You let him hear the Words of Summoning? asked the dragon, with no emotion now evident in his tone.

That too is as I wished.

Sky-Water Blue mused silently for a moment before accepting Elias’ trust in the boy: Elias understood humans in ways a dragon could never comprehend. That was good enough for Blue.

So be it, said Blue, That brings us back to how I can aid you in your fight against this rising evil. You know the Sky-Water Dragons are yours to command.

Simply this; be alert. Elias bowed his head and when he looked up Blue could see regret in his eyes.

What do you suspect? asked Blue.

"My time in this life is nearly through. Maybe with working so closely with your kind for so long perchance some of your magic has been passed to me: I too know the nature and timing of my death. And my time is soon; too soon. I shall be dead before this day is through, murdered at the hands of my former apprentice, Rakis. With my blood he will be able to work great magical weavings, and I know not what he will attempt with this power. He is now in league with the Fire-Water Dragons, and no good can come of that union I am sure. His plans are hidden from me. Even now the red dragons could be plotting to seize supreme power on Teneram, which could prove nothing short of disastrous for you and your kin.

Previously keeping the red dragons under restraint has been no problem for your brethren and the Earth and World-Water Dragons. But Rakis is inventive and he is powerful. He has sought and learned knowledge that should have remained forgotten, knowledge the likes of which belongs in the past and I for one would never have taught him. I fear towards what use he may direct that learning. That is why you need to be alert. The future of dragon kind and human alike may depend upon your vigilance. By the Powers, even the future of Teneram itself is at stake.

Surely you could best this arrogant whelp in a battle, your gifted powers against his?

Rakis has grown powerful in the dark arts. Maybe I could still defeat him though I am unsure, and I fear what such a battle could do to me, what magic I would be forced to use to emerge victorious. And if Rakis were to win after such a contest of wills he would know he was the most powerful living mage and that would only serve to make him more dangerously arrogant. Elias paused, deep in thought. "Why am I bothering with the ifs. I already know I will die this day. I wouldn’t like to depart this world giving Rakis the satisfaction of knowing he had challenged