Dragonblood Throne: Legacy: Dragonblood Throne, #1

By Tom Fallwell

Orphaned as a young child and growing up alone in the forest, Delina lives a life of isolation; her only companion a saber-toothed panther. Her strange eyes frighten those she occasionally encounters, so she keeps to herself, until a young, wounded warrior ends up at her doorstep. As she nurses him back to health, she discovers she is more than just a young woman with unusual eyes, she is a dragonblood, destined to become the ruler of Almar.

Now hunted by the dark sorcerer who murdered her father, usurped his throne, and killed all her kin, she must find out how she can release the essence of the dragon inside her to defeat him. Everything depends upon her willingness to embrace her legacy and reclaim the Dragon Throne.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Essentia Press
• Release date: Jul 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781393133124

Tom Fallwell

Early in his life, Tom Fallwell discovered a love for the wonderful escape into realms undreamed of through books of Fantasy and Science-Fiction. Weaned on greats like J.R.R. Tolkien, Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury, Arthur C. Clarke, Robert E. Howard, Roger Zelazny, Robert A. Heinlein, and Michael Moorcock, to name a few, Tom's imagination was forever inspired by those marvelous tales.One day, he discovered a simple book of medieval battle rules called Chainmail, by Gary Gygax, and found a new love. The love of creating adventures and stories of his own for other players to experience. Chainmail evolved into Dungeons & Dragons, and Tom played consistently with friends as both a player and a dungeon master (DM). Such activities fueled his desire to create worlds and stories from his own imagination.Now retired after a long career as a software developer, Tom now writes about all the adventures and characters that constantly fill his mind, and gleefully shares them with the world.

Book preview

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my family, who have overwhelmingly been supportive of my writing efforts and shown great interest. Not just my blood relatives, but my extended family of friends and church members who have been fantastic in their support and encouragement.

I’ve been blessed with many people in my life who keep me thinking and wanting to carry on in whatever I decide to apply my mind to. Thanks to all of you.

Acknowledgements

I would like to give a special thanks to two people who really made this book possible. Jeri Davenport, who was a source of great encouragement when this story was first conceived, and a fellow author, Aaron-Michael Hall, who has been a motivation for me to complete this book.

Foreword

This story was originally published under the title of Dragon Rising and was my first complete novel back in 2014. Since that time, I’ve written three other novels, a few short stories, and a monthly serial for a magazine. Through this, I feel I have developed my own style of storytelling. That alone, made me want to go back to this story and make it better.

Additionally, I’ve been asked about a sequel many times for that original novel, so this new book is the first of at least two planned novels for the Dragonblood Throne series. This first book, Legacy, is the original story that I had for Dragon Rising but has been completely rewritten and expanded.

So, while the story has not changed, the way it is being told in this book is a much-improved style and with some changes I felt were needed, though those changes do not alter the original story as it was told. So, if you read the original novel, Dragon Rising, the story will be the same.

Prologue

Jeraldin stumbled, his legs losing strength in the deep snow, as he tried to make it through the howling blizzard to the darkened cave opening in the rocks ahead. His extremities were numbed by the cold and his face nearly frozen, as he pulled his heavy fur cloak tightly around him. He tried to keep the wind from his eyes as he moved with halting steps, having to raise each foot high enough to clear the two-foot snowdrifts that hindered his advance.

After an interminable time trudging through the storm, he finally stumbled out of the snow and into the cave, almost falling to his knees with exhaustion. Leaning heavily against the wall, catching his breath, he rubbed his legs and arms to restore the circulation. His feet tingled with needling pain as he tried to keep his balance, barely able to feel or even move his toes.

After resting a few moments, he drag-stepped further into the stone cavity embedded in the rock where he’d left a pile of dry wood he’d gathered earlier. Concentrating for a few seconds, with his hands upon the wood, smoke soon appeared as the heat he called forth started the logs burning.

Rubbing his hands together, he knelt closer to the fire and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. After several minutes, he began to feel the acute tingling in his extremities that let him know blood was once again flowing through them. He was fully aware that he didn’t have much time. They would soon be coming for him. He’d set things in motion for the future and all was prepared.

His thoughts roamed over the past few months, remembering how he had come to be where he now was. He recalled the death of his wife, how he’d found her beheaded in their bedchamber at the Dragon Throne, and a sharp prick of heartache pierced him. His mind could still vividly see blood covering the bed and floor, the shock in the lifeless eyes of his beloved, her severed head lying upon the pillows.

His children were the next to fall, his son and daughters, each murdered and taken from him. The memory of the deaths of each of his dragonblood brethren, how they’d been slaughtered, one after another, rushed through his mind. He was the last. The last of the dragonbloods. The last of the royal line.

For five hundred years, he’d ruled Almar with a just hand. Five hundred years of peace and prosperity. Five hundred years since he and his siblings conquered the dark sorcerers and necromancers dominating the people of this land, oppressing them with their black magic and tyranny.

He’d thought those dark agents of the black arts eradicated, at least from Almar. Yet, another of the corrupt magicians had somehow emerged, weaving his depraved and foul magic to enthrall the minds of others and kill all who would oppose him. He’d managed to kill every single dragonblood in the kingdom, except for Jeraldin.

If only they had seen what was happening sooner, but by the time they realized the agent behind the murders of their kin—of his family—it was already too late. The foul magician’s army had grown too large, and many of their Dragonknights had already fallen.

It had been left to him to ensure this minister of death would not be able to endure, and he insured all would be ready. In time, another dragonblood would arise to challenge the dark lord. Even so, there was still the matter of his final confrontation, a fight that Jeraldin knew he couldn’t win, not on his own. But he was alone now. His time had come.

The evil stench of darkness assailed his nostrils, letting him know that his adversaries were near. The foul odor of their evil permeated even the howling winds of the storm outside. Rising to his feet, he dropped his cloak to the stone floor as he prepared for his final stand against the darkness that had claimed his kingdom.

Closing his eyes in concentration, Jeraldin’s body became engulfed by a pure, white light, glowing brighter and brighter until he became hidden within the cocoon of brilliant illumination. Seconds later, as the light faded, Jeraldin the man was gone, replaced by a magnificent and powerful black dragon, filling the monstrous cavern with his formidable presence. Jeraldin, the dragon, felt the fires churn inside him, as scores of black-clad soldiers charged into his sanctuary, weapons drawn, shouting threats of violence.

With an ear-slitting roar of defiance, Jeraldin raised his great, horned head high and released an inferno of orange-red flames, breathing a final act of desperation against the blackguard minions of the man who’d killed his wife and children. Eager now to join them in the great beyond, Jeraldin readied himself for the death he now welcomed.

Sign of the Dragonblood

Shadows from the light of the twin moons that hung in the darkened sky flickered among the shrubs and trees of the forest. The greater moon, Sianor, provided most of the light that glimmered among the foliage of the wooded scene. The face of Sianor never changed, always full and bright, a miniature sun for the night, only extinguished on cloudy nights.

The lessor moon, Tibel, in a new moon phase and a bit smaller than its larger sibling, almost touched the edge of Sianor in preparation for an imminent lunar eclipse. The stars were scattered across the darkened expanse of the heavens like gleaming gemstones, sparkling with a rainbow of colors.

In the silent gloom of the forest, a young boar dug into the soft forest floor with his nose, searching for the tasty capor roots common to the area. Focused on his quest for food, the boar didn’t notice the four eyes watching him from the shadows of the dogwood thicket at his back. The green, catlike eyes almost glowed in a horizontal row, unblinking and unmoving. The only sounds breaking the tranquility of the morning were the low grunts of the boar as he carried out his task.

An abrupt whisper of wind heralded the appearance of an arrow shaft that seem to suddenly sprout from the boar’s torso. The animal fell listlessly to his side, his heart lanced by the swift projectile. The eyes in the thicket began to move, releasing the veil of shadows as they moved forward and revealed the two behind those mysterious orbs.

A huge cat with saber-toothed fangs and jet-black fur, standing well over three feet in height, emerged first. The cat’s movements were completely silent, the padded paws made no sound as it exited the thicket.

Next to the cat appeared a young elven woman dressed in black fur clothing; her long black hair braided into a high-knotted ponytail that hung past her waist. Slightly elongated ears tapered to a point at the top; her bright green eyes, with slit pupils, very much resembled those of her feline companion. She carried an intricately carved, oaken longbow.

Standing just over five and half feet tall, her slender, athletic build revealed well-toned muscles that belied her almost childlike appearance. Moving as quietly as the cat, she approached the boar, grabbing and removing the arrow from its body. After wiping the blood from the arrowhead on the grass, she returned the projectile to the black-furred quiver slung across her back.

We’ll have a good meal for breakfast, Morlok, Delina declared.

Morlok nudged her thigh affectionately with a soft, deep purring sound. Rubbing the cat's head, Delina smiled as if comprehending Morlok’s unspoken language.

The next kill is yours. I promise. Grabbing the boar's legs in both hands, she slung it up and across her fur clad shoulders with ease. The sun will rise soon. Let's get back home.

Despite her small frame, she had no trouble carrying the eighty-pound boar, displaying a strength that came from more than mere muscle. Treading softly through the brush, Morlok followed Delina into the still silence of the morning as a faint light peeked above the high mountains to the east.

The brooding, black robed figure sat upon a dark throne that presented a disturbing vision of malice and fury. The intricate carvings of skulls and demonic faces etched into the stone accentuated these emotions, generating an aura of fear.

The circular chamber exhibited even more of this frightening artwork along its walls and high ceiling, portraying scenes of dark rituals and human sacrifice. These grotesque engravings flickered with the shadows created by the candelabra scattered around the room, causing great discomfort to any observer.

A shadowed hood covered the head of High Lord Kargoth, his bearded face barely discernible in the shadows. His cold, steel-grey eyes glistened with acrimonious disdain. His gaze was fixed on two red-robed men that stood before him, their arms filled with the burden of many scrolls and parchments, as the dark lord’s deep voice sent shivers up their spines and curdled their blood.

I don’t want hear your vain explanations! he growled. I want to know if a dragonblood yet lives in Almar!

The High Lord’s voice resonated throughout the chamber, seeming to shake the very stone foundations of the entire keep.

Trembling and bowing deep in obeisance, one of the scribes spoke in a voice choked with fear. Your Eminence, the scrolls say a coming eclipse of Tibel over Sianor will reveal the truth. In a few days when the eclipse is full, if a dragonblood still lives, the sign should be clearly seen.

Kargoth allowed an evil grin to creep cross his lips, enjoying their dread and anxiety.

Then go! Return to me when you have an answer! He waved them away with one hand, turning his eyes away from them.

Glad to still be alive and in one piece, the scribes bowed and scurried out the huge double doors into the hallway beyond, almost tripping over the trains of their robes in their haste.

Rising from his throne, Kargoth pulled his robe tightly around his slender frame. He slowly walked over to the small balcony that overlooked the courtyard of his keep. Turning his gaze upward, toward the two moons on the verge of eclipse, he pondered past events.

He recalled a cold wintry day, some twenty years prior, when he and his blackguard had pursued King Jeraldin to the cavern where the King had taken his final refuge. Kargoth remembered the sounds of battle as his soldiers clashed with the King in his dragon form, the rushing blast of the dragon’s breath and the screams of his blackguard soldiers as they burned, but also the pleasing bellow of the great dragon’s final roar of pain as his life and fire were forever extinguished.

He’d usurped rulership of the Kingdom of Almar that day. A smile formed upon his retrospection of that glorious moment. There had been none to oppose him after Jeraldin’s death, except for a small band of rebels that called themselves the Fellowship of the Blood. While not a real threat, they’d been a thorn in his side for the past twenty years, and it annoyed him that he hadn’t been able to totally eradicate them.

Yet, when his blackguard had discovered the scroll as they ransacked and emptied the now vacant Dragon Thone fortress, he’d learned of the prophecy that spoke of the dragonblood’s return. Several times in the past five years, he’d cast scrying spells to discover if it was possible Jeraldin could have sired another child, but they’d always failed to show any sign. Even so, the prophecy declared that when the two moons of their world aligned, a sign would be revealed.

A perfect conjunction such as this only happened once every three hundred years, and yet the prophecy had never been heard of until the revelation of the scroll. How could the prophecy be true? If there was a dragonblood, how could they have been hidden all this time?

Soon he would know. Tibel was only days away from a total eclipse of Sianor.

Crouching low in the foliage, Merric attentively scanned the area from whence he’d come. The faint snap of a twig behind him made him certain he was being followed. Narrowing his eyes, he surveyed the surrounding trees and vegetation, but saw nothing. He couldn't return to the Fellowship now. He would need to lead the blackguard scouts in another direction to prevent the discovery of their hidden refuge.

He veered to the south, slowly and subtly, to avoid any suspicion that he’d changed course. Moving further away from the direction of the Fellowship's lair, he picked up his pace, making enough noise to alert any followers as to his location.

As his gait quickened, more noises sounded behind him. They were closing on him with each passing moment. Catching sight of an overhang of rock ahead, he moved towards it, thinking it might be a good place to make a stand. As he neared it, however, he realized it was a cave. He had no recourse now, and hoped it was unoccupied.

Reaching the mouth of the cave, he turned and pulled the longsword from his back, trusting the narrow opening would make it difficult for them to flank him. He readied himself for the inevitable attack as the sounds of pursuit closed in.

Seconds later, two black armored men came rushing out of the brush towards him with huge broadswords raised above their heads.

We have you now, rebel! yelled one of the men.

Ducking as the man’s blade swung for his head, Merric felt the wind from the powerful swing brush through the locks of his hair. Quickly spinning as the man flew past, Merric thrust forward with his long blade, shoving it toward the warrior’s midsection. He felt the sudden jerk as his sword glanced off the blackguard’s armor and found an opening between the pads, then slide deep into the man's abdomen.

Grunting in pain, the blackguard lost his grip and his sword dropped to the ground. Stumbling backwards, he grabbed his gut with both hands, blood oozing between his fingers, then fell to the ground with a groaning thud.

Merric riposted, but was too late to stop the other soldier’s broadsword as it sliced into his left arm, just below the shoulder. His own blood splattered into his face, the coppery fluid blinding him. He took a step back, but tripped, falling hard onto his back, driving the air from his lungs. The blow left him not only without breath, but also weaponless as his sword flew from his hand.

Unable to see clearly, Merric had no time to recover as the soldier charged him again. He fully expected to feel the cold steel of his opponent cut through him and end his life.

Abruptly, a guttural growl appeared out of nowhere and something heavy bumped against him. His consciousness began to fade as his blood poured out onto the rocks, his last thought that he’d stumbled into a bear’s den.

Delina stirred a pot hanging over a small fire against the wall of the cave. Hearing Morlok’s low warning growl, she turned to see Merric’s eyes fluttering. A natural flue in the rock above gathered the smoke from the fire and released it into the forest above. The aroma of boar-meat stew filled the cavern.

She regarded the young man appraisingly, noting his muscular build and near six-foot height. His sandy brown hair, though cropped short, hung a cluster of curly locks down upon his forehead. Delina guessed him to be about her own age.

Merric awoke to find himself lying on a fur pallet. Turning his head toward the sounds of the stirring pot, his brown eyes widened at the sight of the large shadowfang sitting nearby, watching him. The long saber fangs protruding from the cat’s mouth gave him pause, but he rose to a sitting position.

Delina grinned at his reaction. Don’t make any sudden moves, she warned.

She filled a bowl with stew, placed a wooden spoon in the bowl, and handed it to Merric. Stream rose from the bowl, producing a meaty aroma.

Thanks, said Merric, taking the food.

He took a bite. It tasted wonderful and warmed his insides. He continued to eat as he spoke. Who are you? Are you from the jungles?

She snorted derisively at his question. Just because my ears are pointed, you assume I’m an elf. My name is Delina, and that’s all you need to know. She returned to stirring the stew, her manner not exactly friendly or sociable, but at least hospitable.

Merric examined the bandages of his shoulder with careful precision. As he ate, he gazed at her and Morlok analytically. Questions visibly forming in his mind, as he looked from one to another.

Morlok lay on the cavern floor, front paws crossed as she licked them with her huge tongue.

What happened to the blackguards? Merric asked.

You killed one, Morlok took care of the other, she said with a nonchalant shrug. They’re food for the birds and beasts now.

She’d already stripped their bodies of anything valuable and carried them out into the forest, far from her cave. knowing she could trade the items in Greenwald later, as she did from time to time. Her eyes turned upon Merric, regarding him with interest.

Why were they after you? Did you steal from them?

Merric's reply did not hide the distaste he felt for the blackguards. I’m no thief. They were following me.

Delina raised her eyebrows at his retort. His anger told her what she suspected. She’d heard tales from other travelers she’d encountered on occasion.

You’re a rebel then, she stated.

Merric could not suppress a slight smile. And if I am?

Delina shrugged her shoulders. It doesn’t matter. I’ve no quarrel with them, or anyone else. I need no one.

If you’re not an elf, and you’re certainly not human, then where do you come from?

Instead of answering, she removed the pot from the fire, setting it aside, then walked toward the cave entrance. Watch him, Morlok, she said over her shoulder as she left the cave.

Merric looked at the cat. Morlok was indeed watching him. He didn’t see his sword. Without it, he stood no chance against such a powerful creature. Morlok was easily double his own weight and strength, not to mention the claws and teeth.

Finishing his bowl of stew, he set the bowl aside and laid back. His eyelids dropped, the warm meal making him drowsy, and his mind drifting off into sleep.

A few days later, Merric found himself recovering quite rapidly in Delina’s care. His strength returned as his body replenished the blood he’d lost from his wound. With his shoulder now healed, he was well enough to travel, but had been enjoying Delina’s company.

The extent of his conversations with her had only revealed that she’d been alone in the forest, with Morlok, for many years. She was quite self-sufficient, hunting for food and doing limited trading with the nearby town of Greenwald. She became withdrawn if he asked about her past or how she’d come to be a hermit in the woods.

He couldn’t really blame her for that. He had secrets too, such as the location of the Fellowship. She’d asked him questions as well, and he’d been just as adept at being evasive about the Fellowship as she’d been about her past. Even so, he found her quite beautiful and intriguing.

As he watched her skin a buck that she and Morlok had brought in after a night of hunting, he took note of her graceful movements and slim figure. He’d seen her lift the buck and other items of great weight with ease, and her body belied such strength from her slender frame.

In addition to her strength, he was amazed at her medicinal skills. His shoulder had healed far faster than such a wound should have mended. He wondered if she was skilled in the use of magic. Only the elves, as far as he’d ever known, had such curative skills.

The peculiar appearance of her eyes made him wonder about stories he’d heard from other scouts and townsfolk about a Woodwitch, a seductive woman that ensorcelled unwary travelers in the woods with her strange magic. Some said she drank their blood, but he suspected much of those tales were highly embellished.

Are you the Woodwitch? he asked her as she dressed the buck.

Delina did not look up as she continued skinning the buck, but the corners of her mouth turned up in a mischievous smile. Would it frighten you if I was?

No, he replied, though it did a little. I’ve heard stories, but stories are usually exaggerations of the truth.

Most people she encountered from time to time were superstitious and fearful of her, largely because of her eyes. She derived a small bit of pleasure from the fact that Merric didn’t seem as superstitious. Though she’d remained somewhat aloof the past few days, she caught herself admiring his physique and handsome features now and then.

There are those who’ve called me that, she finally responded, But you’re right. They exaggerate.

You seem quite gifted with curative talents, he said, rubbing his still sore shoulder. What’s in that salve you’ve been using on my injury?

Delina shrugged, now scraping the hide of the buck. A simple mixture I make from the flowers growing near Lake Wisp. I discovered their healing properties years ago and learned how to cook them into a salve using tree sap from the oaks in the forest.

You seem very resourceful for someone so isolated, and so young, he noted with admiration.

She chuckled. "And just how young do you think I am?"

He shrugged and smiled, Well, if you were an elf, I could say fifty and not be wrong. But you said you were not an elf.

Delina laughed. It was the first time Merric had heard her laugh.

I’m sorry, she said, What with the Woodwitch thing and the way others have treated me, I’ve grown to hate presumptions. I don’t like people assuming false things, though they always seem to do so.

She sighed. I’m human. At least, my mother was human. I never knew my father, so I suppose he could’ve been an elf. Her smile suddenly turned into a frown at a flash of memories from the past.

Finishing with the buck, she laid the skin aside to later stretch and cure. She put the antlers and skeleton, and other inedible parts into a bag for disposal, and gave a good chunk of freshly cut meat to Morlok. Taking the meat into a shadowy corner, Morlok began to eat.

Merric watched the cat with an inquisitive look. How did you find a pet like Morlok? Such cats are not seen this far north that I ever heard.

Morlok found me. She protected me from other beasts when I was a child. I don't know why. But we’ve become very close friends. She paused. Morlok is not a pet. She’s my companion. We’re friends. We look out for each other.

A good friend to have, especially living alone in the forest as you do.

Merric had seen shadowfangs before, on trading excursions to the Southern Jungle he’d made with others of the Fellowship. Such cats were