The Dragons' Will

By S.F. Claymore

After toppling an empire and its cruel slave-trade, the first Overlord of Slyke has retired, but a new successor has risen in his place. He is Darkus Ryder—young and inexperienced, but very deadly. Supporters of the imperial-rule still cause trouble in Slyke, but Darkus has made it his quest to hunt them.

Dragons come to Slyke and Darkus is faced with a threat beyond his imagination. Many have already fallen, but the beasts turn their attention upon one another. If their rampage isn’t stopped, Slyke will be at their mercy.

If Darkus fails, who else could possibly stop the dragons?

• Language: English
• Publisher: S.F. Claymore
• Release date: Apr 10, 2018

S.F. Claymore

Born and raised in the UK, I have a technology-based education, but my passion has always been in creating stories, worlds, characters, and doing anything that allows me to use my imagination.I’ve had the privilege of being able to travel many parts of the world in such a small number of years, learning of different cultures and histories. Everywhere I go, I’m always absorbing new knowledge, and when one has so many ideas bursting in their mind, there is no greater joy than allowing them to materialise.

Book preview

The Dragons' Will

S.F. Claymore

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CHAPTER 1

THE NEW OVERLORD

It was a cold winter’s day in the land of Slyke. The air was thick with cloud-like fog and layers of snow smothered the earth like a sea of endless white. The cold didn’t faze the overlord as he trekked through the woods, yew bow in hand, clad in thick leather clothing, his half black half blue hood pulled up over his head. He preferred cold over warmth.

Thuds and cracks echoed ahead. Trouble, he knew, but he’d expected this; it was for this reason he came. Dealing with such trouble was the overlord’s job.

Drawing closer, the sounds faded. Was the fight over?

He leaned against a tree, remaining unseen. Ahead, he could just make out voices, but they weren’t clear. He needed to get closer.

He didn’t want to risk making more footsteps in the snow. Instead, he examined the distant trees, picked a position, and called upon energies deep within his mind. In a heartbeat, ice coated his entire body, including the bow he held, and before a second had passed, the ice shattered like glass and the overlord was nowhere to be seen. Behind the tree dozens of yards ahead, that same ice moulded into his shape. It shattered, and there he stood, close enough to hear the voices. This was called rifting, creating a rip in time and passing through it to immediately appear in another place.

Why do your powers reject us? This voice was arrogant and threatening.

Very few are worthy of it, replied a woman, calm despite the man’s threatening tone, and the way you’ve stormed in and harmed many of my peers, it’s no wonder the gift would kill you all.

A clap sounded. The man had struck her. I became a mage only to one day gain such a long life, and you’re telling me I cannot attain it?

I’m sorry, our Order does not select who is worthy of this gift. We only grant it upon those who are.

The overlord was still too far to see. He rifted closer. From here, he could finally see several mages, each clad in plain robes of different colours, standing with their staves pointed towards other mages clad in yellow. He counted eight of the rogue mages, and six of the dormant ones. Many in yellow lay dead around, and only few in other colours. Two of the attackers wore red; this signified them as pyromancers, mages who wielded the element of fire. Another two wore green, signifying them as geomancers—mages who could reshape and manipulate the earth. One wore white—a cryomancer, capable of conjuring ice. The other two, one of which had spoken the threats, wore dark blue, marking them as hydromancers, conjurers and manipulators of water.

The six victims, each clad in yellow, were aethermancers, a rare breed of mage who conjured the divine element of aether, linked to life and creation. But the most noticeable feature was what lay in the centre—a huge oval crystal standing upright, reflecting light from both the sun and snow.

The woman under threat had pale milk-white hair flowing back upon the crystal behind her, almost invisible upon it. Despite her white hair, she was not old; she appeared to be in her twenties, no older than any of her attackers or peers. Her lip was split in two places from the hydromancer’s strikes. Her attacker, a young man with blond cropped hair, pressed a wooden staff to her chest.

The overlord ignored most of their verbal exchange until he saw the hydromancer strike again. The right side of the white-haired woman’s face was swelling red.

If we cannot receive your gift, the man said coldly, then no one shall.

He moved his staff to the woman’s head, conjuring an orb of water around her skull. He was going to drown her.

The overlord had seen enough. Reaching into the quiver on his back,