Drakespawn: Rings of Silver

By John P.R. Hughes

Three dragons from a clutch of thirteen, spawned by the white firedrake in the frozen mountains of the island continent of Ockland, bring doom and pestilence into the kingdom of Clovis. These evil drakespawn steal a venerated relic from the heart of King Patrick's fortress of Tantangel, revealing other dark secrets threatening the Ocklanders with what remains of the Sand King's curse. Patrick's quest to recover the treasure, the Drakestone, leads him and his company of knights to Erilan across a vast sea, where their adventures entwine with many heroes opposing the malevolent Shadow, more perilous than the Sand King, arising in the east to menace all the lands.

Four such heroes are Ronan, Hart, Ash, and Blackthorn, reunited in their commitment to aid the Croe in their defense of the Twilight Wood against the swarms of daemons and necromantic horrors sworn to Ghul's conquest. Yet the Daemon King's triumph seems inevitable over the Croe and their few allies, the great forest only the first step in his path to dominion over the whole of Erilan.

Sequel to Arcana, Drakespawn is the second book in the Rings of Silver cycle that concludes with Daemon Glaive, expanding the depth and intricacy of the epic fantasy set within the magical realm of Erilan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9781662482847

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Drakespawn

Rings of Silver

John P.R. Hughes

Copyright © 2022 John P.R. Hughes

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 978-1-6624-8275-5 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-8286-1 (hc)

ISBN 978-1-6624-8284-7 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

About the Author

Chapter 1

The Drakestone

The great eagle, perched in the branches of an ancient ash, was silhouetted against the waxing gibbous moon, glaring fiercely into the onyx blackness of the unnatural chasm. The soft silvery moonlight phosphoresced his crown of snow white plumage while the dark brown pinions of his wings magicked into jet. His eyes mirrored the vault of heaven, the lonely silent orb glittering, reflected in their fierce yellow depths. The sound of distant thunder echoed from the chasm, louder now than when the raptor was awakened from the dreams of eagles, and glided from his lofty aerie to perch above the source of his discomfiture.

The mighty hunter leaned forward expectantly, talons biting into the branch, preparing to do battle with his foe, for he glimpsed a movement from within the chasm, a darker shadow in the tenebrous portal. But then, the sylvan leaves of the ash shuddered as the broad wings of the eagle smote the air with the sound of a whip's crack and a cry of terror. He streaked away toward the high peak and the ward of his nest, for what arose from the chasm was no thing with which he could contend.

A viper's triangular head with an elongated snout, red scaled and huge, emerged from the shadowed rift. The dragon's triumphant roar echoed through the mountain pinnacles and hastened the eagle's flight into night's dark and far from the baleful golden eyes of Scarog.

Once upon a pedestal of black marble, midmost in the throne room of Tantangel, lay the Drakestone. It was a great unfaceted jewel, as translucent as a raindrop and as large as a summer melon. From within its heart, flickering tendrils of blue-white fire danced upon the crystalline orb's ever curving bound. Splashes of brilliant hues of red, blue, silver, and indigo bloomed under the slightest brush of the tendril's fire against the inner surface of the gem. Few treasures could compare with the Drakestone, for it was not only a beautiful jewel, but also its secret fire, dancing through the flawless orb, lent it a living, ever-changing glory. Surpassing even this rare beauty was the tale that brought the Drakestone to its venerated place in the heart of Clovis and the castle that warded the great isle of Ockland.

It was a long tale that began in the lightless depths of Ara's sea. Upon some sandy seabed rested a great pearl imbued with magics far greater than any other upon Ea, for it was said that this gem was wrought upon the anvil of the Smith and it brought forth the Tael of Water's children, the great leviathans of the deep and their smaller cavorting brethren. Ara tended her children, the whales and dolphins, in her watery realm before any other sentient entities emerged upon the lands, and she was well pleased.

Then, a mighty storm, perhaps driven by the fury of chaos or some treacherous warp in the weave of fate, wrenched the pearl from its fathomless sanctuary and cast it upon a beach of Erilan's coast. There, it was discovered by the white firedrake that Dralath, the Dark Angel, forged and then banished, for it did not please him. It was not the grim and terrible nightmares his other firedrakes were, yet he did not destroy it. Some say the white firedrake absorbed whatever taint of order, justice, mercy, and joy that might have been imparted to the other firedrakes, and Dralath feared its destruction might release that corruption into his harbingers of death and ruin. And so he abandoned the white firedrake, and it made its own way upon Ea.

She, or at least that is the convention of its gender, upon finding the great pearl upon the beach, swallowed it whole so she might carry it, unhindered, to whatever lair she chose, far from the angel and his darklings. She found that lair upon Ockland, in the vast and lonely peaks of the northern mountains.

Within her cavern under the snowcapped spires she nested. Thirteen leathern eggs she laid and brooded over them for many years. Before the first of her clutch hatched, she disgorged the pearl that had become the flawless gem that was the Drakestone, and she warded that as well, her prized treasure amid the worthless pebbles, shells, and corals that comprised her hoard. Then the first of her brood emerged, gnawing its way free from its leathery prison. It was black Ebonax, and it became the bane of Ockland.

It was a brutish, cruel creature lacking any wit save its bestial instincts and hunger. While others of her clutch would prove to be wise and even gifted with spoken tongues, excepting four, the black had no such attributes. It quit her den while it was very small, no bigger than a sheep, but it began to terrorize cats, chickens, and piglets in the farms of Ockland. At first, farmers might frighten it away with a shout, but Ebonax grew larger. Then a pitchfork or torch sufficed to thwart the dragon's thievery. Yet it grew larger still, and its black fire kindled so that no farmer dared face it. Its hunger grew greater as well, and it took to plundering goats, sheep, and calves to slake its ravenousness.

The black dragon's reign of terror occurred well after the Battle of the Bels in which the Daemon King's invasion was thwarted in a bloody stalemate, but the folk of Ockland were decimated in that conflict. Tantangel stood abandoned, a grim sigil to the survivors that struggled merely to see the morrow. When Ebonax began to take bels, ocks, and men for its feasts, the Ocklanders despaired and hid themselves wherever they might and awaited death come on black wings. Oddly, Ebonax then chose to plunder the castle for his hoard and carried its looted treasures away and back into the northern mountains. It became its wont to inflict its tyranny but once each year, to gorge on the great beasts of the plain and the occasional man, then root through Tantangel and return to its lair with its prizes.

Ockland was a dolorous and fearful land for many years, but then came Wil and Connor from across the sea out of Erilan. Prince Wil was the son of Elsbeth I and Colin, her second husband, the first being Galador. Connor was the son of Ockland commoners, though he had, as a child, aided the evacuation of Tantangel by way of the Sneak as the Battle of the Bels concluded. Both returned to Ockland to see what had become of the land and found, on their arrival, the few surviving vassals of Clovis resigned to the black dragon's despotism. Yet some few began to consider opposing Ebonax with the urging and aid of the two heroes come among them.

And so it came to pass that Wil and Connor, supported by the Ocklanders, entrapped and slew the black dread in the underhalls of Tantangel. They were crowned kings and ruled, together, for many years. Ockland, again, became a great kingdom.

Sometime after the black dragon's dispatch, Prince Wil ventured into the northern mountains to assure himself no other wyrms remained in those regions that might ever again oppress Clovis. He searched, also, for Ebonax's lair so he might return its plundered hoard to Tantangel. He found no other dragons nor the hoard, but he did find the white firedrake.

Many contrary tales have come down through the years concerning Wil's encounter with the firedrake and his subsequent presentation of the Drakestone to the Clovin kingdom. Some say he battled the beast and cut the gem from her fist with his battle sword. Others say he was ensorcelled and brought a cursed gem down from the northern mountains, the firedrake's last vengeance upon Ocklanders for the obliteration of Dralath's darklings. Yet some few averred the firedrake gifted the Drakestone to Wil as recompense for her evil get and the misery it visited on Ockland. Whatever tale was true, the Drakestone was enshrined in Tantangel's throne room, a sigil of its people's valor, perseverance, and indomitable spirit. It became a revered and hallowed relic of the kingdom of Clovis.

An age and more passed, Ockland returning to her former glory, and the line of kings, through Connor, ruled in peace and prosperity. Patrick, the dark-haired, gray-eyed prince, was crowned king in the year 660 PA, and at first, his reign was unremarkable in the sense he simply continued the progress his ancestors had begun. Then when Patrick had sat on the throne for two decades, the first harbinger of doom came to Patrick's court. A young man knelt before the king bearing an ominous token, a long-lost battle sword, and offered his service in Patrick's host. The young man's heritage was humble, and the scribes could find no bloodlines that might have bound him in Ockland nobility, yet he bore the battle sword in its true form, marked with Tor's sigils. Why a battle sword had returned to Ea in the fist of an unheralded wielder, Patrick did not know, and he fretted over the portent.

Two years later, courtiers entered Tantangel's throne room and were astounded, mystified, and even a bit frightened to see the marble pedestal standing empty. The Drakestone was gone, and Patrick would say only that the heart of Clovis was safe and warded. He would not say where the jewel now lay or on what pretense or purpose he thought warranted its removal. And though it was debated in every tavern, marketplace, and castle corridor, none questioned King Connor's eight times grandson's right to decree the Drakestone's withdrawal from public display, only disputing what the decree foretold.

King Patrick hid the stone because, though he told no one, each night, he dreamt of dragons, an evil triumvirate that sought to destroy his kingdom and claim the Drakestone. In the light of day, he knew this was madness, but each night, in the silent shadowed castle, he heard great wings smiting the wind and the guttural roar of dragon fire reducing his stronghold to ash and, in so doing, carrying away the venerated symbolic token. These dreams began some few months after the lost battle sword was revealed, at first only vague brief nightmares of looming menace. But slowly, horrifying glimpses of winged terrors resolved. When he, at last, knew the glimpses were dragons, he hid the Drakestone the following morn. Yet Patrick's nightmares did not end, only becoming clearer and more urgent.

For four years, the dreams haunted him and wore upon him, as if, each night, a small cut was made in his flesh to dribble another few drops of his lifeblood away, and after so many wounds, King Patrick of Clovis was now a pale, gaunt wraith. The members of Patrick's court looked upon the drawn and haggard face of their once vital king and despaired.

Are you well? Patrick's captain of guards asked as the king lowered himself onto the throne, preparing for the royal tribunal he held every third day in this hall.

Patrick coughed raggedly, then replied, Only weary, Fion. Perhaps there will be few petitioners this day.

Fion was of middle years, though still heavily muscled and quite capable as the king's captain of the white-cloaked castle guards. Do you still not sleep well?

Patrick chortled, bringing about another fit of coughing. Not for many days, Patrick said after recovering his breath.

Shall I dismiss the petitioners and summon a healer, my king? They say awlwort and foxbane are in bloom, fine herbs for a cough.

Patrick shook his head. Nothing a good night's rest cannot put aright.

The king gazed blearily about the hall of the throne from the raised dais. Beside him sat the empty throne where, once, Prince Wil sat. Both the thrones were unadorned, carved from single blocks of white-blue-veined marble that reflected the pragmatic, steadfast, and direct nature of the Ockland people from which their kings had ruled since the black dragon was vanquished. The walls were a pale gray granite adorned with tapestries made during Connor's rule and battle standards of the kingdom's remade armies. Behind him hung the king's own flag, a stylized belhead, in black, on a field of white.

The bels were the great steeds, fanged and armored with bony plates under thick hide, that carried Ockland knights into war. Many sigils of Clovis depicted the warble, including several of the helms, shields, and weapons that were relics displayed about the hall that predated Connor's kingship, donated to the castle by folk that pulled them from chests under their beds and took them down from above their mantles. These relics were collected from the wedding glade and the fields about it after the three-day Battle of the Bels, where the hosts of Galador and Alister fought Ghul's black swarm to a bloody draw. What treasures and relics that were in Tantangel's ruins after the battle had been slowly looted by the black dragon over many years, and Wil never found its lair, though he searched the mountains. Instead, he found the white firedrake and returned with the Drakestone.

Patrick's gaze fell last on the empty pedestal in the center of the hall, no longer bearing the fiery jewel, and he sighed, regretting another of the kingdom's symbols removed, perforce, from the eyes of its vassals.

Call your first petitioner, the king said weakly to Fion.

That night, as Patrick lay in his bed, unsleeping, a great storm blew up from the east and raced over the Wilder Mountains and bore down on Tantangel. Blue-white forks of lightning snaked amid the castle's turrets and danced along the battlements. The Fayvelian clock above the hearth in Patrick's bedchamber tapped nine times, Hour of the Dragon, and the king shuddered. A sudden, he heard shouts and a rising clamor outside his door. He rose quickly and went to the stand upon which his armor and weapons were arranged. He had no doubt they would be required this night.

There was a hasty knock at his door, and his captain of guards entered without awaiting a reply. My liege, we are under assault, he said breathlessly.

Patrick nodded. From the thunderous black sky. A winged serpent, he said tightly.

No, sire. Two.

Fion watched his king take a battered brown leather sheath holding a crudely forged sword from the stand. Patrick removed a Toran-styled iron bracer from his wrist, half a hand wide and sparkling with dancing motes of many hued embers floating on the iron's surface, and placed it against the pommel of the sword. Fion blinked, though he knew what to expect, as the bedchamber was alight in a stunning burst of blue-green radiance. When Fion's vision returned, Patrick was strapping the teal leather scabbard across his back, encasing the Galadorian battle sword dedicated to Ara, Tael of Water. Then Patrick took down the great lance, twenty-four hands of blood silver, and couched it in the crook of his elbow. Where are my knights, the king asked Fion.

They muster at the sally port aside the eastern gate. Your bel has been readied.

Outstanding. Are the guards atop the battlements?

Fion nodded. Armed with bow and spear.

Fine work, my friend. Back to your post. I will find the sally. Grom aid us this night.

Patrick strode down familiar corridors, his plate and chain armor chiming brightly at each step, and came into the large chamber behind the sally port. His score of knights, prepared for battle, sat astride great bels that snorted and stamped in their two columns. The port allowed no more than two to ride abreast from the egress, but his lancers were well drilled in the tactics of such deployment. He strode between the columns toward his bel's empty saddle at the forefront when a queer reverberation ran through the floor. The knights took no notice, but the bels became eerily still and silent. Lightning, thought Patrick. A strike against a turret. He stepped into his stirrup and dropped into the saddle. The gates opened, revealing the violent storm beyond the portcullis, torrential rain and flickering lightning. As the chains slowly hoisted the iron lattice of the barrier, Patrick called out above the raging storm.

Grom treads his path under Ea, and Luna alone witnesses our ride. But fear not. In two hours, Grom's eye will open in the east, and he will see what we have done against these winged fiends as he strode under the world.

The bels thundered down the slope amid the lightning and rain from the gate into the plain. A strange green fog clung to the ground despite the heavy torrent, causing many a bel to stumble, but no knight lost their saddle. A sudden, before them loomed a great four-limbed serpent, green scaled, black winged, and fork-tailed. It rose on its haunches and spat a stream of green ichor at the nearest knight. She was more disgusted than fearful as the nasty ooze dripped from her armor until it began to eat through the steel and leather beneath and touched her skin. Then she screamed.

Loose, Fion bellowed, and another flight of arrows streaked toward the blue dragon on wing. Some few arrows found a mark but did little injury. It roared, and lightning split the roiling black clouds to strike the battlements. A half dozen bowmen fell, wounded or dead, Fion could not tell. Hold your line, he commanded. Arrows to string. Above him, the blue dragon turned gracefully on white wings and dove, again, at his ranks. Loose, Fion bellowed.

Patrick drew his battle sword that exploded in teal fire, and he charged the green dragon. It seemed it did not like the blazing token, perhaps even feared it, for it launched itself into the falling rain and winged east over the Wilder Mountains. Only moments later, Patrick saw the white wings of the blue dragon pass overhead in that same direction. As he stared after the monsters' retreat, in the distance, a third dragon appeared amid the peaks of the range, as if it had clawed its way from beneath them. In the gray predawn light, Patrick was unsure, but thought the dragon red. He watched the three specks fade away to the east and over the sea as Grom's eye opened on the horizon and gilded the dawn.

The strange fog burned off in the morning sun, and the knights formed their columns. At the rear, Patrick and Usher led bels with lancers not in their saddles, but slung across their mounts' withers. The king said nothing, pondering the night's battle. He was baffled by his foe's hasty retreat. Certainly, after Mindra had fallen to its poison, his lancers nearly encircled it, but it was not without defenses. The green dragon's talons, as long as swords, the horrible maw of clashing fangs, the caustic spittle, and its sinuous barbed tail that took down Donald, the only other knight to fall in the melee, were formidable weapons. Yet it had not wholly brought them to bear before it quit the field.

Patrick noticed, absently, the turf under his bel's hooves had turned a sickly yellow where the dragon's green mist had hung. Only the tiny white-flowered tufts of witchfrost seemed unaffected, the leaves their usual green so dark, they were nearly black. What he could not answer, to his satisfaction, was why both the serpents gave up their assault readily and in a seemingly concerted retreat. Nor could he explain why the third dragon had not joined the fray, if that was truly what he had glimpsed on the peaks of the mountain. Tales of the black dragon that came to Tantangel some six centuries before was said to be cruel and bestially cunning, but it was granted no wit. Yet this trio appeared to have a purposeful motive, a goal, and abandoned their attack once it was achieved. Patrick shook his head, having no clue what that purpose might have been.

Usher and the king, comprising a grim procession, broke away from the tail of the column, turning north. A Bromican kirk stood near a copse of birch a half league from the castle's eastern gates, and the king and knight made their way toward it. The priests of the kirk tended the hallowed crypt under Tantangel where lay the bones of Clovis's kings and heroes. It was in the crypt, as well, where Wil and Connor had lured and trapped the black dragon and they, and a handful of warriors, slew the fell serpent. Patrick would see Mindra and Donald join the honored dead.

The knot of golden-robed priests in the kirkyard made small obeisances to king and captain, and a bishop, recognizable by the dark blue epaulet on the left shoulder of his robe, said, We have expected you, brave knights, and knew you would bear a grim and mournful burden when you arrived.

If that is so, Bishop, then why did you not warn us of our peril? Patrick spat angrily.

Should I have come to you, O King, and said to you that at some hour on this day or another, knights of Clovis would do battle with some unnamed foe to safeguard the realm and some knights would fall, what would have been your reply? the bishop calmly asked.

Patrick lowered his eyes and sighed in bitter grief, anger spent. I would have said that is the pledged duty of all chivalrous knights, and if you knew not the hour, the day, or the enemy, then no such warning could aid me.

The bishop nodded sadly. We will lay these heroes with the other honored dead in the crypt, blessed unto Grom and sanctified in his light.

An hour later, Patrick guided his bel under the portcullis of the sally to find Fion awaiting. The king dismounted, handing his reins to a stable boy, and turned to his captain of guards. How bad? he asked simply.

We lost four on the battlements and thrice that gravely wounded. Another score have lesser injuries, Fion replied regretfully.

Patrick slowly nodded. It could have been much worse. Have you any notion why the blue dragon broke off its attack?

Nay, sire. Although our arrows found some marks, it did not appear in mortal peril. It simply flew away.

What have you there, Patrick asked, glancing at the object in Fion's hand.

I guess it a scale from the dragon's armor, Fion replied, passing the leaf-shaped trophy to his king.

It is…quite beautiful, Patrick murmured, turning the midnight blue scale, as large as his hand, in the torchlight. It was a rounded triangle, a pair of barbs protruding from the base that Patrick supposed anchored it to the dragon's underside. Short spines rose from the outer surface, the cerulean of an Ockland sky. The edges were serrated and the underside a pale soft leathern tegmen. The outer surface was as hard as stone, formed of tiny sparkling lunate plates. A shield forged by a Toran master, finished by a skilled artisan and painted by Luna from her palette of night's shades.

Most poetic. I would have preferred to find it covered in lifeblood, Fion retorted tartly.

Patrick lowered his head, running his palm from forehead to chin with a sigh. As would I, my friend. I have come from delivering two brave knights into the hands of Grom's priests.

Apologies, sire. Without context, the scale is as you say, but I do not believe I might see it without.

It is I that need beg pardon, Patrick said softly, then coughed. I am not myself. Perhaps you might summon that healer you suggested.

Within the hour. Fion saluted, fist drawn from left shoulder to right breast, turned, and strode away, white cloak fluttering in his haste.

It was three days before the fever began in the castle and four before the dragon's purpose was discovered. At first, four knights and six bels that had ridden through the green fog fell desperately ill. The following day, the wine steward, retrieving a bottle from the cellar, smelled the acrid tang of burnt wood and stone. He wandered through the tall racks filled with countless barrels and bottles of vintages from throughout Ea, sniffing like a hound. His nose led him to the small door at the back of the cellar he knew led to a narrow stone stair that descended far under the castle where, once, a dungeon held Wilders that threatened Clovis's earliest beginnings before Roland, the second king of Clovis, converted it to a storage for empty crates and barrels after making peace with the men of the mountains.

The steward imagined the inferno that could have spread amid the old dried wood despite the ever weeping walls and puddles on the floor if a spark should have come there. Then he gasped. Some four years ago, Fion led four guards into the dank hold bearing a stone box, five hands square, saying it was something the king wished placed there for safekeeping. The steward suggested it was a rank place to stow anything of value, but Fion reminded him of the trapdoor vault, perhaps two rods square, in the far corner of the hold. None knew its original purpose or who constructed the steel-walled compartment, and the steward recalled nothing ever stored within. But now there was, and he was certain it had burned.

He found the key on his large ring, a beautiful intricate brass piece, and unlocked the small door. When he opened it, the sharp scent intensified dramatically. He took down the fat tallow candle from its scone by the door and hurried down the narrow stair. At its end, something more like a cave than a castle chamber opened before him. It was calf deep in wet ash, but he slogged through it to the corner where the vault lay below the floor. He stared, uncomprehendingly, at the great rent where the trapdoor should have been. He knelt and then leaned into the chasm, holding the candle before him. It illuminated a tunnel, freshly carved and scorched from the living stone, through which three bels, abreast, could have easily passed.

Another two days had passed, and forty-seven Ocklanders and sixty-three bels had succumbed to the pestilence the green dragon had visited upon Tantangel. Nearly half in the castle fell ill, but most recovered within the turn of the clock, if they did not die within the first hours. The healers had little success treating or preventing the dire ailment, though an elixir of awlwort, witchfrost and king's cross relieved some of the cramping and paralysis that marked the plague's first hours. Patrick, himself, had suffered the plague, and as wicked as the short course of it was, at least he had survived and slept for nearly a day and a half. Now, he sat on his throne, listening to the unbelievable tidings Fion reported.

What you say is not possible. A dragon tunneled two leagues from the Wilder Mountains at a depth of a hundred rods under my castle to the precise location of the Drakestone in a forgotten vault and bore it away as two of his kith distracted our attention, Patrick said, incredulous.

Fion held up open palms helplessly. That is the only reasonable surmise, my king. My guards entered the tunnel in the subcellar and followed it to the peaks where you spied the red dragon. The Drakestone is gone, and shards of the box that held it are strewn along the first rods of the tunnel.

Patrick covered his face with his hands and sighed through his fingers. Tell me it is but a pretty bauble, a powerless relic of a forgotten age. Tell me its loss does not wound the land or kingdom.

Fion lowered his head. I cannot, sire. A pestilence sweeps through Clovis, the likes of which we have never encountered. I am told not only the turf withers, but crops begin to blight. Cattle and ock sicken, and our herds of bels winnow. Perhaps this evil will run its course, but I cannot be certain.

Nor I. And I feel a great darkness shadowing my heart. Have you looked into the faces of all our folk? They feel the same melancholy or even despair.

There is little we can do, sire. Our healers search a poultice or elixir for the plague, but that will take much time.

And if they heal the body, does that render the spirit whole? I cannot chance that it does. No, the Drakestone was more than a relic that proofed an old tale, more than a familiar sight on a pedestal. The Drakestone and the land were one and our kith and kin bound to both since Wil brought it down from the northern mountains. Patrick stood, his mind set. Call my counsel, Fion. I will not allow this theft go without just retribution, and I shall retrieve our honor and treasure. There is but one land east of our great island, and I know, in my deepest heart, the dragons have carried our Drakestone there. I will follow to reclaim it or die in the attempt.

Chapter 2

Shadows over Loreldin

Before the moon arose for the first time, Galador and his host, that included nearly all of his people and some Daimen and a handful of Toran, set out upon the western sea, following Lirath's orb in the Year of Ascension. This was a strange and mystical period, ascribed as a year in the annals of history but encompassed a far greater span in the lives of the races on Ea. Neither did it pass equally on the lands that the races occupied. The Year began when the Angel of Darkness slew the Angel of Light and Lirath rose into the heavens as the sun. Yet the sun did not march across the sky in a matter of hours, but rather slowly crawled from zenith to horizon over the course of years, as now they are reckoned.

On Erilan, historians surmise the Year spanned four decades, during which the Galadorians followed Lirath's orb to the western shore and built ships to continue their journey over the sea, pursuing the sun, and Cro's host fought the War of the Moon. On Ockland, the Year seems to have lasted more than three times the span as it did on Erilan, in which the Galadorians and Ocklanders came to terms, sharing sovereignty in Clovis. Galador watched the moon rise from the battlements of Tantangel, but Ghul's invasion did not occur for many decades following the momentous event. Yet on Erilan, historians suppose it was not long after Ghul's treachery, slaying the Dark Angel from which the moon arose, that his fleet set out for Ockland. With the moon's rise, time began to attune to a single pace. the march of days, seasons, and the steady tick of hours, at last, established synchrony with Galador's return to Erilan, bringing a precise temporal constancy to all of Ea.

On Ockland, Galador wed Princess Elsbeth of Clovis, though the Battle of the Bels began during the ceremony. They, and many others, escaped during the final moments of the conflict and returned to Erilan where Galador raised the fortress of Loreldin before the War of the White Crown. When Galador did not return from the war, the rule of Loreldin fell to Elsbeth. She ruled for many years, protecting the Green Land, in which the castle lay, and the sovereign, though allied, kingdoms of Aradin and Avalos. Galador never saw his daughter, Lorena, but she was crowned queen after her mother stepped down from the throne. None of her half-siblings, sons and daughters of Elsbeth and Colin, including Wil, made any claim to Lorena's throne. Thus, Ailein, Lorena's eldest daughter, followed as queen. The line of succession, queen mother to princess daughter, continued through Marin, Leda, Larin, Tari, Isabeau, Bethany, Dolia, Lidia, and Elsbeth II.

Elsbeth II, so named for her remarkable resemblance to Loreldin's first queen in face, form, and temperament, came to her throne some thirty years before the end of the Years of Queens. The auburn-haired, green-eyed beauty, lithe and womanly, had watched the Sand King's return to sovereignty in Aegis and his methodical incursion into Xandria. At first, this greatly troubled her, and she thought to intervene with the might of Loreldin, Aradin, and Avalos. But then, a wise and handsome man from Argen of Magran heritage came to her court as emissary to Magrafel. Elsbeth knew there were strong ties between Magrafel and Aegis, but he assured her his kingdom was under no great influence of Ban. His name was Vald, and Elsbeth was in love with him from the moment she watched him first approach her throne for audience.

The broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped man with skin the color of bronze, close-cropped raven hair, and piercing green eyes fell to one knee before Elsbeth's seat upon the three-step riser and presented his plea for succor.

Great queen of Loreldin. Gramercy for this audience. I am Vald, representing the kingdom of Katar, true and rightful throne of all of Magrafel through Vonja's conquests of old. Her heir faced the ruinous civil war that has wrested Sonja's peace from all of Magrafel and saw her fall in battle. Her princess daughter now sits a tenuous throne, for Janine is but eight tender years. She fears the regents about her and the advisors from Aegis the regents allow in her court. I have ever been a faithful vassal to Vonja's house, and by this, my innocent queen tasked me to find succor against her likely usurpers. I have relinquished my duties in Argen, where I would find no aid as Ban now rules there but in name only, and have come to plead the most noble and mighty queen in all Erilan for assistance in Janine's plight.

Elsbeth stared at Vald for long moments, ensorcelled by the man's bearing and attractiveness. Though she was nigh eighty years old, like her mother and grandmothers, she had been granted a more than exceptionally long life. She appeared little more than a maiden with the vitality to match, but she had never wed. She knew, in time, she must provide her kingdom a princess, and the handsome man before her was something to delightfully consider. What do you wish of me? Elsbeth finally asked distractedly.

Vald's eyes held hers with a bold innuendo, but he replied concerning his queen. I beg you send Janine faithful warriors that she might employ to cow the jackals circling about her throne. A single corps would run off these blackguards so she might choose her own counsel and begin her labors to unite all of Magrafel in peace.

Elsbeth shook her head, but it carried little conviction. I am uncertain Loreldin can spare any warriors in these troubled times, for Aegis encroaches into Xandria and soon will claim it a part of Ban's empire. He will look next on Direland, and I cannot allow its conquest. I delayed overlong to aid Xandria. I will not repeat the mistake. The king in Direhold Castle faces similar threat as your own queen. He is very young and soon will face not only intrigue of court, but open battle.

Perhaps that will come to pass, in time. But Xandria mounts a strong resistance to the Sand King's machinations. A mighty earl named Barriston gathers the Xandrian barons to his banner and will, undoubtedly, halt Ban's conquest. Might I suggest, with aid to Katar, my queen may unite Magrafel and return your succor to either Xandria or Direland, or both. Countless hosts of Magran warriors are divided amongst a score of minor kingdoms. If Janine unites them, she could field a force that would rival any on Erilan. Between Loreldin and Magrafel, allied with Aradin and Avalos, what chance think you Aegis would stand? The Sand King would need withdraw his armies and emissaries into his own borders or be decimated. He is not such a fool as to oppose such might.

Elsbeth vaguely followed Vald's reasoning, but most of her thoughts were of the handsome, captivating man himself and the unfamiliar sensations pulsing through her. This needs long and careful consideration, my lord, unsuited to open audience. Will you join me at table this night where we might continue our discourse?

Vald rose and bowed gracefully. I would be more than honored, Your Highness. Again, gramercy for your attention to this dire matter. I await your summons. Elsbeth watched him turn and stride from the throne room, her breath catching slightly at his recession, an alluring form taut with a powerful agility, like the prowl of a lynx.

Vald smiled imperceptibly to himself as he passed the guards at the arched portal to the throne room. It had gone well, he thought, reaching into the inner pocket of his jerkin to caress the small misshapen crystal skull within. The Sand King himself had placed it in his hand, revealing its arcana, warning of its malice and warding him with his spells. Vald was told if he did not gaze into the skull's eyeless sockets as it glowed redly, the draken bound within could not possess his mind or spirit. Ban's sorcery would be proof enough against a careless glance or its subtle seduction. The dark spirit would crave a passage into Ea, and denied its simple ploys, it would aid in many endeavors of the possessor's choosing so as to not be discarded, awaiting some chance to escape from the Void and come into the mortal realm.

It was a useful and powerful token, carefully manipulated, and a gruesome weapon if no other recourse remained. Should the skull's glamours, illusions, and witchery fail to ensnare Elsbeth, he need only give it to her, without ward or warning, and the draken would possess her. This was a dangerous gambit, for once freed, the dark spirit would choose its own path in its victim's guise. Neither Ban nor Vald held any misgivings the lord of chaos bound to this skull would aid those pledged to Lirath's path, but neither could they be certain it would not oppose them by some other means. Vald doubted much of what Ban told him of the skull, sounding like a Wejan tale, but he accepted that the token was a magic with which he must be very careful.

No, much better to enslave Elsbeth through its bound magics than allow whatever would possess her into Ea, and Vald averred to do so. Still, failing that, Elsbeth could be removed from her own course, such as aiding John Dire, the young king of Direland, if there remained no other recourse. In the game of Towers, only the piece named the fool could capture an opposing piece and turn it into a lost piece of the same rank for the fool's side. All other pieces simply removed opposing pieces from the game. Vald thought this a fine analogy; the skull's magics could capture Elsbeth, with which he could play, or the skull's possession of her would simply remove her from the game entirely.

There was one peril, however, that Vald realized he must consider. If the draken, or whatever black sorcery Ban had imbued in the skull, was truly sentient, it might strive to gain its own ends, contrary to Ban's conquest. Vald had no fear that whatever Ban commanded would bear the banner of order and light, but certainly, it might wish to bring its own machinations to fruition. In either eventuality, Elsbeth's interference would be nullified, but what influences her possessor might express could only be guessed. That risk, Vald would not hazard, at least, not yet.

Vald entered his luxurious apartment that had been assigned to him upon entering Loreldin and began a purposeful preening and primping before a looking glass, awaiting his sup with the queen. He expected no others in attendance. Three hours later, his assumption proved quite correct, for he was escorted into a small intimate chamber with only a rectangular table with six places and soft light from white tapers upon it. Elsbeth sat at one end, and the setting, apparently, for him was at the other. Without a word, he carefully dragged the lace mat with plate and cutlery from its place, down the length of the table, to bring it to rest before the chair at Elsbeth's right hand. Pardon my boldness, Your Highness, but I knelt before you in the throne room at half the distance this table affords at that end. How could any man, once so near, bear a greater interval if he had the chance to lessen it?

Elsbeth's slight blush was evident even in the candlelight. Please, sit where you wish. I only thought to make you comfortable. Few are so, so near their monarch. I suppose that you, not being my vassal, are less…inhibited, she said quietly with a trace of a mischievous smile.

Thoughtfully kind, as well as stunningly beautiful, charming, and graceful. How is it there is not a line of kings and princes awaiting before the castle's drawbridge in hopes of winning but a long look from Your Highness?

Ever I have kept my drawbridge up.

Vald nodded slowly, returning her smile of identical sentiment. I will leave it to your surmise if mine is so as well.

Elsbeth laughed rather huskily. I will forgo my guess for the present. Wine? At Vald's nod, she brought her hands together in a nearly inaudible clap. From a shadowed alcove, a servant approached with a golden tray bearing two magnificently wrought and bejeweled chalices and a crystal carafe of a pale wine. After filling the vessels and placing them before queen and emissary, he disappeared from the halo of candlelight about the table. Now, my handsome Magran, recount the tale of Katar and the plight of your queen in as many details as you possibly can. I will watch your lips, for as surely as I know how well a man might kiss with them, I see the most trivial of lies to pass between them.

Forewarned is forearmed, he replied with a wry smile that still retained a seductive nuance to Elsbeth's senses. Vald began a long soliloquy that lasted through the repast, and only thrice did Elsbeth deign to interrupt with her queries.

Her first followed Vald's description of Magrafel's current disunity after Queen Sonja's defeat and demise at the hands of rival kingdoms. Why has not Aegis swallowed up all of Magrafel in its chaos? It would seem Ban has surer victory there than in Xandria.

It is precisely because of the fractured and chaotic state in which Magrafel finds itself that the Sand King has not committed but few resources to its conquest. Xandria is a collection of rival barons that are well pleased to simply maintain their own lands. Their armies are small, docile, and unmotivated by any great cause, though Barriston looks to alter that. In Magrafel, however, twenty odd kingdoms with powerful hosts vie to become the seat of a united nation, and while Ban has agents and emissaries in each, pressing his cause for Magrafel to renew its alliance with Aegis, overt assault would be disastrous. Instead, he bides his time, awaiting a kingdom weakened by the civil war to fall under his dominion with false promises spoken by his diplomats rather than true strikes from his swords. But Magran sovereigns cannot banish Ban's influence in hopes of aid or fear that reallocation of their own might would make them vulnerable to other Magran forces. My queen does not hold such notions. Janine would be most pleased to expel Ban's influence in Katar, but she lacks some few swords to do so with her enemies pressing her borders and the vultures lurking in her court. And so I have come to you, mighty queen, to plead for your succor.

Elsbeth's second interruption followed Vald's surmise that once Janine could rid herself of the vultures, she could reunite Magrafel in a matter of weeks. If Magrafel is broken into so many powerful kingdoms, how might your queen hope to secure such a celeritous victory with but fifty Loreldin swords?

Vald smiled patiently. If Elsbeth had not been so enamored, she would have seen the expression as patronizing and condescending. It is evident Your beautiful Highness is unfamiliar with the tactics of war, which, to my mind, adds to your charm. Janine need win but one great battle. A single rival kingdom turned to her banner will tip the precarious balance, and all will fall. In this, Ban's interference with the other kingdoms has been a boon. No two kingdoms have allied against the others, fearing their loss of sovereignty or Ban's withdrawal of promised succor. But if Janine is freed of the Sand King's threat, she is free to act in the best interest of Magrafel.

A mere fifty swords will tip that balance?

Vald shrugged. That question lies for the morrow. This day, a corps of Loreldin swords is prelude to those possibilities, an end to civil war, reunification of Magrafel, and aid to the western kingdoms. Is that not a worthy endeavor?

The doubts beginning to niggle at the back of Elsbeth's mind melted in the radiance of Vald's beatific smile. You are right, of course. It is not so great a burden to my kingdom to offer your queen my hand in alliance for so small a price. Elsbeth paused only a moment, then nodded. I will dispatch the second lancers, the Charger corps, to Magrafel. They will be away as soon as they are readied.

A wise choice, Your Highness. Now, might I offer counsel concerning John Dire and the scourge of this Aman church that threatens his sovereignty? Vald watched her closely, and when she nodded, he continued.

Elsbeth listened to Vald's rede for some moments before she interjected her final query. I know not how John Dire's devotion to the god of his choosing is any of my concern. I have been led to believe it is a matter of courtly expedience rather than faith, but that holds no bearing in Loreldin's support of Direland. I share a long border with his kingdom, and as vehemently as you desire the elimination of Aegin influence in Magrafel, I desire the same in the western kingdoms. I am devotee to Grom, the Ockland god, and he lives beside Lirath, the god of many of my vassals, and they are but two masks of the same understanding of the purpose and reason for our existence. I know little of Aman, but it seems that the tenants of that doctrine are little different from those I ken. Why do you espouse this Anku doctrine, arising in Aegis and codified in Ban's sovereignty, as the one true faith?

Vald sighed, and Elsbeth felt shame for her lack of understanding. "So beautiful and yet so naive. Ban usurps the one true path that is Anku as readily