Land of Drakyns: The Forgotten Prince: Land of Drakyns, #1

By Rebekah Moose

In the aftermath of the Great Fire War, Prince Sirrus' betrayal strikes at the core of his family dynasty. He has seen too much. He cannot abide their evil ways any longer.

Sirrus flees from his northern kingdom to escape assassination until he grows strong enough to avenge his family's war crimes. The power vacuum caused by his absence sends the north careening towards civil war. Meanwhile, Sirrus' survival in the south depends on befriending former enemies and learning the ways of wildlings and dragon riders.

Sirrus questions what to believe about right and wrong when the teachings of southern savages take root in his icy heart. As the civil war bleeds south and endangers Sirrus' new friends, he rises to defend what he thinks is right in a way he never planned and with allies he never expected.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebekah Moose
• Release date: Aug 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223448990

Book preview

LAND OF DRAKYNS

THE FORGOTTEN PRINCE

REBEKAH MOOSE

Copyright © 2023 by Rebekah Moose

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying. Recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Cover design: Arpit Mehta

Cover Illustration copyright © 2023. All rights reserved.

Interior layout: Justin Shreeves and Ben Wolf

Interior illustrations: Rebekah Moose

Publishing services: Believers Book Services

ISBN-13: 979-8-9885116-0-1

First Printing, 2023

Printed in The United States of America

Special thanks to my parents,

For I would not have persisted in writing

Had they not said it was possible and encouraged me,

Saying it could serve a purpose to point to God and His Word.

I am grateful also for the support of my brothers, family, and friends,

And especially my neighbor who listened to this tale in the early days.

Her insight helped with Biblical imagery and character and plot development,

Which played a vital role in shaping this story.

CONTENTS

1. A Note from the Author

2. The Final Flight

3. The Star and the Broken Diamond

4. Illegal Agents

5. The Pale Tower

6. The Unknown Brother

7. The Darkblood Dilemma

8. The Three and the Foe

9. Cloudfox

10. Network News

11. Stormgazer

12. Lake Obsidian

13. Down the Ristvak’s Burrow

14. Starlight Stone

15. Ember

16. The Wrong Light

17. Eramin’s Tutor

18. Drowning Sorrows

19. The Rogue and His Dragon

20. Glory Hunters

21. Nineclaws, the Nemesis, and the Nurse

22. Tago

23. Desert Foxes

24. Seaside with the Storyteller

25. Whiteout

26. Zald’s Horn

27. Luckywink the White Sphynx

28. The Crown of Thorns

29. The Slave and the Swamp Dweller

30. Fraekin’s Funeral

31. The Outer Rim

32. Fiend of the Forest

33. Clan of Outcasts

34. Resolve

35. The Metal Collar

36. The Meaning of Kapoch

37. Tangle

38. The Savage Within

39. Ghosts of Legend

40. The Summoning

41. Son

42. The Jealous Royal

43. The Thief from Scorpion Claw

44. Otawë

45. Star Watchers

46. Githsohl’s Test

47. Mark of the King

48. Comadra

49. Empty Dens

50. Mersolce

51. Friends of far Lands

52. Wildlings

53. The Brother of Bears

54. Pack Law

55. Return to Tiburrulfsciont

56. Trapped in the Lair

57. Sleeping Drought

58. Bluesteel Spear

59. The Scoundrels

60. Trust

61. Inside the Library

62. The Tulgithorn

63. Tsunami

64. Hirakon’s Providence

65. Barekul

66. The Keeper

67. Undercover White Knight

68. When to Lie

69. The Three Pages

70. Lynching

71. Thronan Bane of the Crogalodon

72. Blackfire Network

73. The First Battle of Barekul

74. Winter Famine

75. Vankildahn’s Bitemarks

76. The Firestorm Fleet

77. Reunions

78. The Blackfire Clan Returns

79. Wave Walker

80. Ice, Fire, and Broken Stones

81. The Deserters

82. The Cloaked Voyagers

83. Footprints on a Sandbar

84. Black Cloak, Green Spear, and White Statues

85. Bloodshed and Peace Talk

86. The Triple Cross

87. See You Soon

88. The Wind Changed

89. The Unexpected Day

Pronunciation Guide

Language and Translation Guide

Animal and Plant Guide

Map

1

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

My father insists he is not the hero of his own story, despite others crediting him with the victory of the Battle of Whitehorn and so much more. It was not him who slew foul demons in their own lairs. It was not him who subdued a dragon with many territories and flew him into battle. My father went as far as to say it was not him who ruled as high king.

But, Father, I asked when I was a youth. I looked up at the gleaming points of his silver crown. It was nestled in his dark, spiky hair that poked in all directions like a thicket. You say to the soldiers, ‘Go defend a city,’ and they do it or die trying. You command the builders to construct something, and they do it, even if it takes years. No one gives you orders. If you are not the high king, who are you that they obey you?

My father turned away from his towering stacks of lawbooks and written petitions sent to him from the farthest reaches of the kingdom. He looked at me, a twinkle in his midnight eyes, and replied, I am a Network Agent, a former White Knight, Blackwolf, Toothpick, Fire Face, Bane of the Akaila, Lightning, the Steward of Firrilion, and most importantly, I am a soldier who serves the King who is above other kings. I do take orders from him. Without his wisdom and strength, I would surely have died or turned evil long ago. I am not the hero; he is. My father had a habit of smiling in a crooked manner, as if delighting in my frustration and bewilderment.

Solving my father’s riddle began during my teenage years with my first visit south to a cluster of mountains, including a volcano, located near the West Sea. Firestorm, the tallest of the mountains, is where my father’s friends from his exile reside. I met those whom he calls family, though they share no blood and have extreme differences in appearance. The Sand Drakyns of the Firestorm Clan were not colored like arctic ice or storm clouds, but they had the brown or tawny colors of dirt and sand. Some had yellow eyes like little suns. Others stared with an almost black gaze because their eyes were dark brown. The burly ones with orange eyes outright frightened me. The Sand Drakyns did not have long spikes on their tails like me and others of the North, but their short barbs contained painful poison and were to be feared. I made sure to approach everyone from the front, but in such a crowded castle with everyone bustling about, I had difficulty avoiding poisonous, spear-tipped tails and grasping claws.

At first, I saw the southern mountain dwellers as fierce, crude, and horrendously ill-mannered. Many did not even walk on two feet as is the general habit of sophisticated Drakyns; they crawled like beasts, and the noises coming from their throats were also beastly, often having no recognizable words. I think they talked to the dragons they kept around most of the time. Wearing animal furs, spiked armor, and horned helmets only accentuated their animalistic culture. I thought of them as animals for several days and could not understand their guttural speech.

Their outward brutishness and savageness really told me nothing of their thoughts or emotions. I was shocked to see the savages weep as my father told them of their friend who had recently died saving his life from an assassination attempt. I never would have guessed such soft hearts could exist within those hairy, beastly chests, or that they would have such a deep care for an alien from the northern kingdom of Firrilion, whom they had warred with not long ago.

During a banquet on the second night of our stay, I sat stiffly among the shouting, goblet-pounding, and head-butting of the natives. I still can only compare them to animals: playful otters who tossed their food, grunting bears who jostled and wrestled each other, and rams who would bash their horned heads together for sport.

One such animal placed his paw with long curved talons on my shoulder. I admit that I blanched because of the sudden weight. Turning, I beheld a large Forest Drakyn whose dark brown skin was striped with bold black and green like a tiger. This fellow’s shoulders were twice as wide as my own, and his arm matched my thigh in width. His tail I can only compare to a great jungle snake: muscular and writhing. He smelled like a wet dog, and an animal’s hide tied around his waist was his only garment. A patch covered his left eye, leaving the other to glare at me and make me cower. His voice made me tremble. It was like listening to a boulder tumble and crash down a cliff.

My terror was for naught; his ugly grimace was, in truth, a smile. He said, I’m glad to finally meet you, Jag! He pumped my hand up and down as if to wrench my arm from its socket. Say, you’re a good deal meatier than your father—he never was one to wrestle—but let’s give you a year or two, and I bet you’ll be able to wrangle a sabertooth with one hand and yank a dragon’s head down by the nostrils with the other! I assumed that was a compliment.

Who are you? I asked. Even as I spoke, I realized my mistake, for these mountain dwellers never gave a simple name in response to that question; they always felt the need to explain. They made me suffer through lengthy riddles, much worse than my father’s. I marveled at how long-winded they all were, considering the thin air.

I’m Arakon, the brute replied simply, much to my relief. Did you know it was your father who first taught me to speak again? He brought me home, you know, so I could meet my real parents. I always knew those bears weren’t really my brothers… Arakon’s gaze became distant, and he nodded as if to reassure himself. I broke into a grin. I was intrigued by Arakon, and I asked him many more questions about my father. Fascinated by his responses, I knew I had to make the rest of my father’s story known.

I fear civilians and even soldiers of the North are prone to embellishment. The majority of the population, mostly commoners and servants, revere him as the savior of Firrilion. It was actually an enemy of my father, a Maurrigun Hunter who served the previous king, who provided a more accurate tale regarding the mission that ended the Great Fire War. As for the creatures of the South, they tell it how it is, no matter how absurd. Even if a feat is great, they refrain from making large about it. Their raw stories are difficult enough to believe without garnishing.

I interviewed Arakon and his whole family, who are of the Shadowhunter and Rikiki Tribes native to the southernmost rainforests near the Siren River. I visited the city called Barekul and talked to members of its four clans.

I also found a mid-desert Sand Drakyn with a winged snake stained on his chest, marking him as part of the Akaila Clan from Scorpion Claw. He had fled the violent clan wars, starvation, and utter depravity and chaos of that city to seek salvation for it, which he found, along with my father on the way, and they became lifelong friends. The thief from Scorpion Claw presented facts which proved true against the others’ testimonies and included many details of my father’s life no one else could provide.

I spoke to members of the Firestorm Clan, and I met warrior Water Drakyns who call themselves Barracudas. Both had fought against the North and its allies during the Great Fire War, when Firrilion sent dragon-riders called Maurrigun Hunters to hunt and kill all the Fire Drakyns.

Since the defeat of the evil dynasty which ruled Firrilion during that time, our kingdom has been allies with the Firestorm Clan and the Barracudas. Associated with the Firestorm Clan is a castle called Riverstone, which is a hospital and a refuge for orphans and outcasts. Its mistress escaped slavery in Firrilion during the war, and she answered my questions about how she met my father in fine detail, for she was always as close as a sister to him.

Of all these great leaders and warriors, I was most honored to speak with a wildling. Local legend of Firestorm said he was a smoke-breather, one with fire blood. I only believed this when I saw his red eyes and black breath for myself. He was a giant who used his mouth to bite throats more often than to speak. Rumor has it no one save my father and a few others have ever been able to befriend him. Of all those with traces of fire blood to survive the massacres which took place during the Great Fire War, I am not surprised it was a well-hidden wildling.

I also gathered testimonies from the dead in the form of poetry, songs, and journals. I have mostly the famous traveler and storyteller Rascatirra of the Fox Tribe and her daughter to thank for that, along with my uncle. I would be more grateful to my uncle if his coded writings had not been so difficult to find and onerous to translate. I spent four years on that alone! Alas, my uncle’s portion of this tale could not be omitted.

I have compiled all these testimonies and pieced the information together into a narrative, of which this is the first part. Any details not provided by my sources I gained through personal experiences; I know how many geographical locations appear because I visited them.

My first intent in recording this story was to commemorate my father. I finished writing, and I regret not including more about the real hero, who continues to remain unseen by most. Though next time I write, I will not be so timid, even if those of Firrilion continue to insist upon calling him the First Enemy instead of his true name, which would be to acknowledge him as the highest power in the world. So, guess if you can, the identity and significance of this fearsome and benevolent being. I included not nearly enough regarding him or the stories about him as written in the Gladakar. I tell you now: do not treat this character as one of fiction. I implore you to consider carefully how you respond to the knowledge you shall learn regarding him. He is not to be ignored or spited.

With that said, I can now in good conscious release the first third of my father’s story to the scribes, who will add it to the annals and records of the kings of Firrilion, and to the carriers, who shall spread it to the remotest parts of the Land of Drakyns.

2

THE FINAL FLIGHT

Two were all that remained of their kind. Against the distant skyline, the Fire Drakyns appeared as crimson sparrows, beating their bright bat-like wings furiously in an attempt to remain small in their enemies’ sights. They sped over orange, wrinkly mounds of barren rock. Geysers of ash erupted among the mountain peaks.

Ireye, the larger of the two, with wings matching a sky’s bronze blaze at a day’s end, glanced over his shoulder. His eagle-like eyes espied flying black specks along the horizon far him. Though distance made them appear small, they were Khasms, dragons of the nastiest sort. Each had spiraling horns and four obsidian wings as large as sails. Their broad mouths could engulf a Fire Drakyn like himself whole. Khasms’ flames could swallow up entire houses.

On their backs, the ill-tempered beasts bore pale riders wearing imperial blue uniforms. They were Maurrigun Hunters, the most elite and feared division of the Firrilion military. Their sleeves were emblemed with three-pointed shields. Each wore a quiver of arrows on his back, along with a springy, long-range bow. A javelin with a long shaft or a metal mesh net was in his hand, and a double-edged sword hung from his belt. The Maurrigun Hunters’ purpose was to find and annihilate all Drakyns of the fire kind.

Ireye, knowing the Maurriguns’ eyes could not discern him or his companion from such a distance, banked suddenly and disappeared into a column of black fumes. His companion, a small female colored as red wine, followed. She glided close to Ireye’s tail and rode the air of his russet wings.

The mountains halted suddenly. A cliff constrained the land like a tight belt. Ireye flared his wings and hovered. He and his companion, who was named Star, beheld the dark waters of the southern sea, shaded by thick layers of pregnant clouds that forbade the sun’s rays to descend. Relentless, frothy waves bashed against the cliff rocks and ground them into sand.

On the line between the Burning Mountains and Thunder Waves, the two Fire Drakyns hesitated. The Maurrigun Hunters on their fearsome mounts had spread out in a line along the coast so that nothing could escape between them, should their prey lose heart and turn back. Ireye strained his eyes but could see no hope of a place to rest his wings ahead. The swelling tempest blocked the southern horizon from view. He saw terrific veins of lightning flashing among the clouds. The waters rose and fell like mountains, as gusts of indecisive wind drove the waves this way and that.

Ireye looked to his companion, who hung her head with despair. His brows lowered and his jaw set. Surely even mad dragons like Khasms could not be forced to fly out into such conditions, but Ireye was desperate. Ireye said, his voice strong with resolve, It is better to beat our wings until they give way than to have them bound in a net. It is better to fly until our hearts burst in our chests than to have them pierced by cold metal. If we die, we will die flying high and free.

Star added, It is better to be struck by a vein of lightning and die with the sky’s brilliant fire pulsing through our blood than to have iron chains slowly sap our life away.

Indeed! Ireye agreed with gusto, and the two forsook the land behind them. A euphoria gave their wingbeats vigor and speed. Star and Ireye knew they would soon experience the thrill of riding the perilous winds of the chaotic southern sea. The fearsome air currents struck down many flying things, and the black water swallowed many mighty vessels, leaving none who entered far in to exit again and tell the tale.

Their surroundings suddenly darkened as they passed under the gray canopy. The clouds released their burden. Blinding rain beat mercilessly upon the Fire Drakyns' muscular backs. Screaming winds tugged their wings this way and that and more than once nearly drove them into the swelling waves.

Pillars of lightning, blinding as the sun, flashed around them as if to light their path to glory. Great, crackling roars of deafening volume caused the air itself to shake. The Fire Drakyns forgot their exhaustion and laughed. Who among their kind had ridden these torrents? Who among their kind teased death by flying among a forest of lightning bolts?

The unholy shriek of a Khasm pierced the charged air. The beast descended from the thick of the clouds. Vapors streamed from its four black wings. A second black giant glided near to the Fire Drakyns from the side, and the rider on its back pulled the string of his bow taught. Before he could fire, one of the swelling mounds of water rose and slapped him and his dragon down. They were swallowed by the black waters.

The Khasm flying overhead swooped low, forcing Ireye and Star to descend into the range of the waves’ reach. The Maurrigun Hunter upon its back shouted a command. A plume of yellow flames shot out from the dragon’s mouth. Engulfed and blinded by the yellow light, Ireye and Star flew into a rising wall of water and were pushed under as it crashed.

Ireye emerged first. Beating his wings forcefully, he pulled free of the water and glanced about. A dozen black dragons circled around him like vultures. One swooped low to investigate a flash of red beneath the wrinkly surface of the water. Opening its cavernous mouth, the dark dragon dove, but the red was not the red of a little Fire Drakyn’s membranous wing. It was the red of a sea serpent’s webbed spines that ran the length of its legless body.

The sea dragon’s head struck out like a cobra’s and captured the Khasm’s belly in its jaws. The Khasm’s screech ceased abruptly as it was pulled into the depths. Now Ireye spotted dozens of serpents surfacing. They spiraled through lashing waves and churned the surface into froth. Crystalline droplets sparkled on their green scales. They glowed like emeralds when caught in the light of a lightning strike, but the hungry gleam in their yellow eyes negated the beauty of their twisting bodies. Some were small as pythons, but others had a circumference like a thousand-year-old tree and length enough to coil around a ship. The serpents, infamously known as Hydreils, raised their heads over the waves, their long necks swaying, in order to catch a four-winged morsel overhead.

Then Ireye spotted her, as only one of keen sight could among the writhing bodies and swirling eddies. He dove and scooped Star up by the arms. Each of his forceful wing beats created a resounding crack. He rose slowly with his companion limp in his clutches. A Hydreil’s head surfaced, and for a moment, the red of its mouth surrounded the lower half of Star’s body. With a forceful downward stroke of his wings, Ireye pulled her up. The Hydreil’s teeth clacked together on empty air. The head receded slightly as its neck recoiled. His strength flagging, Ireye dropped. He dared place his foot on the Hydreil’s slippery nose and feel cold scales like river pebbles. He pushed off at the same moment the head rose, boosting himself upward once more.

Wolfier, the leader of the Maurrigun Hunters, dared descend on the back of the largest Khasm, an abomination named Doomwings, whom even Hydreils needed to fear. Doomwings smote them suffocating blows with the wind of his wings and cleaved scale from skin with fire. Yet the massive Khasm circled in a controlled manner, presenting his back to Ireye, at Wolfier’s command. Grounded between Doomwings’ shoulder blades by the force of the turn, Wolfier drew back his arm, aimed, and thrust his javelin so swiftly, the wind had no chance to blow it off course. The shaft passed through Ireye’s heart.

At the moment Ireye faltered, Star came to and flared her wings. Ireye’s grip loosened around her. His body tilted and slid down the topside of her wing. He scarcely touched the surface of the water before a Hydreil captured all but his wing between its clamped teeth.

The sea dragon dove. The red spines of its arched back forbade a rescue attempt. All that remained was a torn piece of orange wing, colored like a dying sun, dancing on the currents as if still in flight.

The wind filled Star’s wings and carried her upward. A scintillating flash of sky fire illuminated Wolfier, riding leisurely on the one dragon too big to sway in the wind. Star’s sharp eyes discerned his face, though the thick rain obscured it. It was thickly boned with angry, jutting brows. His eyes were small and dark, and his jaw was square with knotted muscles. His lip curled in a heartless snarl, revealing wolfish fangs.

Star shot towards Wolfier with the speed of a preying bird. A stream of fire jetted forth from between her teeth. The flames greeted Wolfier’s cheek with a scalding kiss, and the hunter’s net welcomed her into captivity.

3

THE STAR AND THE BROKEN DIAMOND

Most castle dungeons were best avoided due to the darkness, disease, and dismay which accompanied being trapped and tortured. The most dreaded of these should have been the dungeon within Firrilion’s thickly-walled capitol built into the dragon-infested Hollowheart Mountain. The name Grimlere itself caused hearts to quiver with the cold bite of dread. It was a dismal place of stone and ice. Grimlere was the home of battle-hardened soldiers, those they had conquered and enslaved, and the rulers who had conquered and enslaved them. Yet even the rulers feared those beneath them, and so those with crowns on their heads were also captives.

It seemed the prisoners in the dungeons were the only ones truly free. Too dangerous, stout at heart, and clever to be slaves, the prisoners’ bodies were confined in metal, but never their determined hearts. Otherwise, they would have been out working on the wall with the open tundra in sight but lacking the will to claim freedom.

To an Unwanted who would be put to death by royals, rejected by soldiers, and scorned by slaves, the dungeons of Grimlere were more bearable than the highest tower. The cold, slimy walls of stone could be overcome when one had hope and a purpose to endure.

Eramin meant to visit those few who contained such hope. He was almost as much of a prisoner as those behind bars, for he was an outcast with both a withered arm and a cursed face which could never be seen on daylit streets. Eramin crept along the corridors lined with barred cages recently emptied due to the end of the great war. As he went, it seemed his heavy heart dragged behind him like an iron chain fastened to the walls. So many executions and battles in the colosseum had taken place this year. Eramin could not bear to count all those friends he had lost. Tears rolled down his dirt-stained cheeks, leaving white streaks, and forming a crystalline frost. He wondered if anyone remained. He had found no one during his last two visits. Only a small portion of the dungeon remained for him to check.

Just as he began to despair, Eramin spotted a yellow wavering glow becoming brighter around the next turn. He flattened his back against the moist stone bricks. A lonely, yawning guard carrying a fire lantern passed by him. Eramin waited until the clanking of his armor grew faint down the hall. Then he dashed to the third cage on the right, wherein resided a strange creature bound in chains.

Like Eramin, the claws had been pulled from her fingers and toes long ago. She had also lost the spikes of her tail and the fangs which had been coated in venom. Her body appeared lithe like a jungle cat with the strength of a great ape despite the bones poking through her sides. She was covered with a layer of fur so fine, the hazy look of her skin was the only thing which betrayed its presence.

Eramin wanted to smile at the sight of his friend, but his expression remained solemn, stony, numb. Somewhat in a daze, he performed his routine of tossing meat from his bag through the bars. The prisoner’s head whipped up, and she snatched the meat from the air. It was not much, but the corners of her eyes wrinkled in a small smile as she gulped the meat down whole as a snake would. It was because of this Eramin thought the name Anaconda fit her well.

However, the Shadowhunter Tribe in the far south called her that because of her reputation of crushing enemies with her arms and strangling them with her muscular tail. Shadowhunters were despised by those of Firrilion because they had protected many Fire Drakyns during the war. Anaconda was especially notorious because she had nearly convinced the eastern city of Santhor to break apart from the Kingdom of Firrilion and not take part in the Great Fire War.

Like most Drakyns from the eastern evergreen forests surrounding Santhor, Anaconda was a Shifter. Her father was a gray-skinned northern native, but her mother was a Forest Drakyness of the southern Shadowhunter Tribe. Anaconda could adapt easily to the cold North, sweltering South, and most places in between. Since traveling north from her tropical home during the war to protect what Fire Drakyns she could, Anaconda’s color had dulled from rich chocolate with black stripes to grayish. Her thickened fur prevented her body warmth from evaporating. Cold did not kill her as it did other prisoners from the South, and apparently neither did the executioners.

I didn’t think you’d be here, Eramin whispered as he watched Anaconda gleefully gulp down the next to last morsel.

Why wouldn’t I be? Anaconda asked sardonically, still with a twinkle in her eye which could be from a sorrowful tear or amusement, or, knowing her, both.

I don’t understand, Eramin stated. He hated that his voice sounded so hollow. Everyone else… He gestured around them at the empty cells. They weren’t needed for information anymore since the last of the Fire Drakyns was found. The war is over. You’re an Unbreakable, Anaconda. They’ve no use for you as a slave, so why didn’t they…

Anaconda rolled her eyes and huffed with unambiguous amusement. Oh, I’m sure King Shirrag and his gore-hungry son would love to see me fight in their colosseum, but dear Eramin, you are not naïve. You know better than most that King Shirrag might be content winning this war, but Wolfier never will be, and neither will his sisters. Next to the Fire Drakyns, my tribe and a few of the larger desert clans are all that stand between Wolfier and the world. No, dear Eramin, I’m afraid you must continue to visit me in this cell lest I lose my mind, for I am still a prize with secrets to be kept.

Eramin nodded, his chin drooping toward his chest.

Anaconda craned her neck and gave him a searching look. Where’s your smile gone? You always offered a little cheer before, even if it was only on the outside.

I don’t think I’ll ever smile again. I can’t die…but what is there to live for? Wolfier can’t be beat. King Shirrag’s tyrannical dynasty will rule forever and conquer the world.

Eramin. Anaconda stated his name tenderly, like a mother, accentuating every syllable with soft clarity, making him sound like the precious hidden jewel his name implied. You still have a purpose in this world.

That’s what he said, Eramin mumbled.

Who?

Doesn’t matter. He turned out to be wrong, anyway.

Anaconda hardened her voice. Well, I happen to know of something purposeful you can do right now. It must be soon because the guard is coming back. That final Fire Drakyn, she is in this very dungeon. You know where. I heard the Maurrigun Hunters come with her and confine her. Her voice…It is familiar to me, though she’s too young for me to have met her. Perhaps she is a relative of my friend, Thalcor. She certainly calls out and fights like him…the screams…

I suppose I should go see her, Eramin assumed heavily. He looked regretfully at his bag, which had only one small morsel left. He trusted Anaconda, and if she said the prisoner was a relative of her friend, Thalcor, it was. After three years in the dungeon, she had learned to remember every voice and could even identify various guards by their footsteps. Eramin also loved Anaconda. This encounter would be unpleasant, but he would do it for her sake. He sighed. Yes, you’re right. I must go now. I won’t see her for long, though. Her execution is today, which is why she was brought to this dungeon for holding.

Execution, said Anaconda approvingly. It is better this way. Her suffering will not last as long as it would in the colosseum.

Rising, Eramin said, I’m unsure of that. It’s not in Wolfier’s nature to perform a clean, traditional execution. He will have something exceptional in mind for the one who burned his face.

Anaconda lowered her gaze in acknowledgment. Then, meeting Eramin’s flat stare with a yellow blaze still in her eyes, she said in a steely tone, Give her both my condolences for all her pain and loss and my compliments for her battle feats. Neither Thalcor nor I could do little more than scratch Wolfier, the Immortal Giant and rider of Doomwings.

Eramin darted off just as the guard circled around. He came to a special compartment of the dungeon. Solid metal doors instead of bars sealed these cells. Years ago, they would have been hot to the touch because of the prisoners’ fire that would rage on the other side. Now, as Eramin placed his hands on them, they were cold, and no chains clanked with movement, though Eramin’s mind tried to convince him that they did as he passed Thalcor’s old cell.

When he reached a bend, Eramin took the hollow reed from his back and held it up to his mouth. He looked around the corner and aimed to blow out a powder which would put the collection of guards to sleep, but he found them lying in a blackened heap, having been cooked in their own armor. The stone bricks grew warm under Eramin’s feet as he tentatively stepped toward the end of the corridor, where rested a cruel cage. The lock was secure but askew, as if the Maurrigun Hunters had just barely managed to shove their prisoner into the cell before her rage burst forth in a blazing torrent. It was a tortuous cage. Iron spikes protruded inward, and it was hardly large enough for its guest to curl up in.

Eramin strained to see, for even the nearest lantern had burst. He could just make out a wing covering the creature like a blanket. He stepped over the once mighty Maurrigun Hunter. He was a fool, Eramin remarked with a nervous tremor, speaking in Carn, the Fire Drakyns’ native tongue.

He was, replied the prisoner with the slight rasp characteristic of a fire breather. As Eramin hoped, she sounded more curious than malevolent. There are solid metal doors for a reason, but they put me in this cage so they could look at me and gloat. They should have known that to look at me is to look at death. Are you wiser? she asked, causing Eramin to pause.

No. Eramin drew closer and knelt next to the bars. Fearing for his life slightly, he said, Anaconda, a friend of Thalcor, asked me to give you her condolences for all your loss and compliments for your feats in battle.

The Fire Drakyn shifted her wing to reveal a gaunt, tired face, not unlike Eramin’s. He could guess her name by the white star-shaped mark between her dim eyes. Immediately, Eramin knew he was in no danger. Her internal fire was spent. Now she seemed to barely have enough strength to shiver. How do you know Thalcor? she queried.

Eramin replied, He was a prisoner here for five months. I visited him often.

He was my father.

A noble warrior, said Eramin.

Star’s brows met in a sharp V. What is your game with me, Ice Drakyn? Even if I would cooperate, what information could you possibly want? Eramin then offered her the meat he had with him. Is it poisoned? Eramin said it was not. Star sighed. If it was, I would eat it.

Eramin tried to comfort her, but his voice was still empty. Don’t say that.

Why not? It’s not pleasant being the last of my kind. I envy my partner, who died quickly, flying high and free. I’m eager to join him.

Eramin asked, Where will you go?

I don’t understand.

Eramin answered with more strength than before, as a small part of him awakened to the greater danger Star was in. His own grief paled in comparison. When you die, where will you go?

Star shrugged. I suppose you know a place?

Not exactly. Eramin looked up at the dripping stone brick ceiling with an absent expression as if seeing beyond it. I know someone, though, even if I haven’t spoken with him in a while. He is a being with more power than the mightiest king. His kingdom is a shelter for souls who belong to him. Your soul need not go awry when your body dies.

You bewilder me, Star mused. You blaspheme your own king and speak of the Forbidden Legends in the same breath. As if that was not enough, it is one of royal blood who does it. Eramin’s face twitched. Star explained, We Fire Drakyns have keen sight. We never forget a face, even if we only glimpsed it. Yours is the face of that awful Wolfier, the First Prince of Firrilion who dedicated himself to eradicating my kind because some of us were ambassadors for this ‘higher king’ and would not acknowledge any other. Now Wolfier’s own son kneels before me and claims to be friends with the First Enemy of Firrilion, who is spoken of only in the Forbidden Legends.

Eramin flinched with surprise because Star had so easily recognized him. Eramin looked like a slave, not a prince. He was skinny, disheveled, and so dirty that none of his white skin or blue hair showed their true color. His arms and legs were cross-hatched with claw marks, and his narrow back was scored with healed lashes. Furthermore, his right arm was crippled. Who in Firrilion or anywhere else even knew Eramin existed, let alone lived beneath the capital of Firrilion in secret? Yet Eramin forced himself to swallow his less urgent inquiries and reply to Star’s question. He dipped his head and said, That’s right.

Star peered into the cold blue of Eramin’s eyes as if to scour out his soul and pick it apart for its true intensions. Why? Was all she could muster to ask.

Eramin shrugged. Had to, I guess, he said with his head turned to the side. "Wolfier was always unhappy with me. I cannot breathe ice, and I never could match others of my age in size or strength. Wolfier was always cruel to me, but he didn’t kill me because King Shirrag had named me his heir. But then Wolfier had a second son, one of strong body, which meant I was no longer needed.

Before Wolfier could be rid of me, I feigned death and was tossed out like a piece of scrap. I then lived among the slaves. Eramin’s hands clenched on their own accord, and his voice became bitter. His brows knit in a way which would contort his face into the likeness of Wolfier. This only made him scowl deeper. I was scorned even among the slaves because my blue hair marked me as part Water Drakyn. The slaves were bitter because of the lashes and labors they endured. It seemed to gratify them to have power over someone, just as they themselves were overpowered. Only among the miners and forgers of the deepest caves and in the dungeons did I find a few friends.

Growling crept into his voice to cover the emotions which had been so close to the surface these past weeks. Eramin began to pace agitatedly, if only to have an excuse to hide his furrowed brow and wolfish fangs from Star. My whole life, suffering has been a close companion. I can’t stand it for myself, and especially not for my friends. I begged for death many times. I asked to trade my life for a Fire Drakyn like Thalcor. Why was I made to live while I longed for death? Why were others made to die while they strove to live? I asked this of my tutor when I was very young, even before I was cast out as an Unwanted. He said I was not one to question the king of the world. He said there is a reason for what has been done.

Star raised her voice a little in anger. I may have believed tales of a magical kingdom beyond the stars when I was little, but no more! I do not respect an authority—even if it is the highest one—if his heart is cold and his eyes blind to his kingdom. This high king you speak of—if he is indeed real—he should not have allowed this genocide. Of all the innocents who have been killed, if he had spared a single child, then I would know at least a grain of compassion existed within him, but he did not…unless you came to free me.

His back still turned, Eramin’s shoulders fell. I cannot.

Star made a grinding noise. Didn’t think so. There was a ruffling sound as she replaced her wing over her face. Leave me so I may die in peace and quiet.

The pained scowl melted from Eramin’s expression and was replaced with a softer, weary, but determined look. He turned and sat. He had no words to ease her suffering, so he watched quietly.

At length, Star’s curiosity piqued enough for her to take another look at Eramin, a skinny, soot-covered teen dressed in rags. Her gaze hesitated over the slits on his wrists. She squinted at a barely discernible mark between his eyes. Say the name of the First Enemy spoken of in the Forbidden Legends, Star dared him. She narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing.

The name sprang into Eramin’s mind. Immediately, he sat more upright and set his gaze. He met Star’s scared, angry, and questioning face with calm resolve. He replied, The highest title in my language is king, but in truth, it could not contain the First Enemy for he is above it. The best name I know comes from Carn, the language of your ancestors. The name is Hirakon Val Shrais.

At the sound of the name, Star’s golden eyes ignited with hope’s glow. She propped herself up on her arm. It is possible to mimic the mark of the Network, but no one, not even a prince like you, could get away with saying even part of that name! That is the name of the First Enemy of Firrilion!

Eramin continued to look her square in the face. I know, and I can say it again, for he is greater than anyone in Firrilion, even Wolfier and King Shirrag, and he is my protector who never forsakes, even when I forget him. His name is Hirakon Val Shrais.

Now I have no doubt that you are a criminal of the worst sort of traitor against your king and kingdom, remarked Star. It seemed to be neither a compliment nor an insult, just an observation. Star unfolded her wings to reveal a tiny living thing lying on her breast. It was an infant Fire Drakyn with dark red, nearly black skin and a white mark on her forehead like her mother’s. This mark looked like a diamond split in two with a little white fleck to the side above the delicate left brow. Star passed her daughter through the bars to Eramin. The Fire Drakyn’s skin burned his palms. Now this one had fire! Eramin yelped and nearly dropped her.

Careful! Star barked with a powerful flinch which nearly drove her into the spikes surrounding her.

Eramin quickly scooped the little one into his bag, where she curled into a tight ball and closed her eyes. I—I can’t take her! He panicked. I don’t know the first thing about—I’m fifteen, not even an adult, and inexperienced, and I needn’t remind you where we are: Grimlere, the capitol of Firrilion deep within Hollowheart Mountain!

Star reached through the bars and clenched Eramin’s wrist with painful eagle-like talons. You said there was a reason for what has been done, why you are still alive. This is it. Take my daughter. Hide her or smuggle her away.

Eramin opened his mouth and shook his head. Tears welled in his eyes. I really can’t, he whispered. I wouldn’t be here if I had a way out of Grimlere. I cannot show myself on the streets. Even if I could get past the wall, I’m weaker than other Ice Drakyns and cannot survive the extreme cold without shelter…and the caves don’t lead out another way.

Star’s claws nearly drew blood from Eramin’s arm. The mark on your head and your daring to speak the name of the First Enemy do not lie. You are an Agent of the Network! If anyone can give my daughter a chance, small as it is, it’s you. You snuck yourself in here. Now sneak her out. You keep yourself from freezing because you are not like other Ice Drakyns. So also keep her warm. If you don’t, she will certainly share my fate. My daughter is yours. Star finished with such fierce finality, Eramin dared not answer back. Now go.

The hairs on Eramin’s back stood up when he realized Wolfier himself would soon be coming to fetch Star for the most famous execution this century would see. Eramin sprinted away from Star’s cage on silent feet, zig-zagging down halls to avoid patrolling guards. He found the familiar ajar door of a cell by memory. He felt through the dark for a crack in the corner. Eramin passed his bag with its precious cargo to the other side. Then he lay flat to squeeze into the tiny space. For a while, he scraped and wriggled to get through. On his way in, Eramin had barely fit, and getting in was easier than out.

Eramin removed his belt and placed the leather between his teeth. He pulled his right shoulder out of joint to slip into the hole. He popped his shoulder back in and replaced the stone that sealed the tunnel. His hand lingered over the hole. He had wondered for a second if he could have freed Star, but how would he have broken the lock? How would she fit through the secret hole with her giant wings?

Eramin also remembered Anaconda. He could not see her again, lest he risk stranding himself in the dungeon. He was growing too large too fast during his last two years of adolescence. So, he shouldered his bag and walked, his feet dragging and heart lagging. Tears flowed more easily down his face now, their paths on his cheeks already paved. It did not matter. He did not need to see clearly. His feet wandered familiar paths through the pitch-black caves under the city.

At length, he woke up from his state of shock to find himself far from his intended exit in a cavern he had always avoided for fear of the cave creatures. The altered echoes of a large space caused him to halt abruptly with a flash of terror. He sensed the space around him could accommodate a massive dragon spreading its wings. Then he saw it, an eel-like creature as big as himself slithering not far from his feet. Along its back were glowing flecks. No, it was not slithering; it was swimming. By the creature’s faint light, the edge of a vast black lake was visible. Indeed, it had to be vast to accommodate a fish so large. The glowing eel lazily swam further out before vanishing into unknown depths. Eramin shivered and all but sprinted through various crooked tunnels to a more familiar cavern.

His abode was located near the mining tunnels under Grimlere, where there was an abundance of coal to steal for light and warmth. He gently set the bag down and placed his hands on a wooden chest, stowed between two stalagmites. He rummaged through the few treasures within. These included a compass, a rope, several torches, bandages, sewing supplies, and several fur pelts. Eramin lined a hole in the slick cave wall with the pelts and even some of the rags off his back and placed the sleeping newborn inside. There he remained for a long time, his hand resting atop the tiny one’s back and feeling her ribs rise and fall.

Suddenly, Eramin realized he had become a father at fifteen, and he did not even know the infant’s name, let alone how to properly feed her. His meager weekly scavenging, which he sometimes forewent for Anaconda’s or Thalcor’s sake, might sustain him, but certainly not a ravenous growing Fire Drakyn who would need to eat multiple times every day. Eramin knew what he had to do, though he dreaded it. He returned to the lake. If there were predators such as the slimy giant lizards and glowing eels, then there had to be obtainable prey and plenty of it, if only he could learn to hunt it without being caught himself.

4

ILLEGAL AGENTS

This isn’t hunting for needed food. It’s not even fair sport like when the prisoners are made to fight like usual, thought Sirrus as he stared aghast at the horrible spectacle far below him in the massive bowl of the colosseum. Despite his position next to the throne in the imperial box, which placed him too high above the arena to witness the finer details of the execution, Sirrus experienced a visceral repulsion and physical pain unlike anything gladiator fights had wrought from him before. He staggered and tried to hide himself behind the pointed throne of stone where his grandfather, King Shirrag, sat and his three aunts stood. Sirrus strained to draw air into his lungs, just as the red-skinned savage was doing far below as its ribs were compressed by a constrictor machine.

Wolfier, having sawed the wings off the savage’s back with his serrated sword, Mutilator, bounded up the stairs between rows of stone bleachers filled with cheering nobles and veterans. The crimson prizes he had rent off flapped behind him like victory banners. Wolfier reached the imperial box where his aged father slouched on the throne and three sisters stood with their noses lifted. Wolfier’s face wore a smile Sirrus had never seen before.

The right side of Wolfier’s face was marred with severe burn scars, and his one good eye gleamed with black vengeful pleasure. His every movement caused aclanking sound as his heavy cape, made from Fire Drakyn talons, shifted. As Sirrus watched, Wolfier added an eagle-like claw to the cape’s collar for the last time and then hung the wings on a crossbeam.

As Wolfier lifted Mutilator to the sky and began to thunder out a speech, Sirrus ripped open his clothes. The ivory buttons clattered to the floor. Sirrus tread upon his own cape of dark wolf fur, meant to symbolize power. Only one of his aunts flicked her eyes behind her to notice Sirrus’ swift departure, but she did not alter her statue-like pose to chase him. She left that to his two bodyguards. With their shouts and heavy feet pounding behind him, Sirrus spun down a narrow stairway in one of the colosseum’s support columns. He emerged onto the street, where the mob of commoners and soldiers marched, shouted, and waved Firrilion flags in celebration of the end of the Great Fire War. Sirrus brought up his dinner and resumed running. He dove between legs and dodged spiky tails. He wanted to hide, but it seemed every street and alley was packed with half the kingdom. Sirrus darted into the darkest, smallest alley he could find and all but fell down several flights of stairs. He kept going down and down, and it grew darker and darker and hotter and hotter.

When exhaustion finally threw him to the ground, Sirrus had gone very far from home. He curled into a fetal position in the dirt and continued to hiccup and sob like one drowning. His chest felt compressed, like the red-skinned savage’s ribs in the simple contraption which was so perfectly customized to exploit a Fire Drakyn’s greatest fear.

To think that when Wolfier had first returned home from his cross-continental hunt, Sirrus had admired his scar and looked upon the dragon-riding warrior with awe! The king’s son was not called the Immortal Giant for nothing. He was indeed an undefeated warrior with glorious stories and battle scars. Sirrus had looked upon the winged savage in the cage with contempt. That was, until he glimpsed her face.

Upon looking into the savage’s sad eyes, shaded beneath a massive, frost-bitten wing on her way down to the dungeon, Sirrus had realized it was not a savage at all, but a creature like him: intelligent, feeling, and personable. The Fire Drakyn was not a savage or a demon, no matter what degrading names Ice Drakyns called her kind. Wolfier was the true savage.

Eventually, the searing heat, smoke, and deafening clatter of metal succeeded in waking Sirrus from his fit. He found himself to be somewhere in the Forge. Buried far beneath the wall and tall towers which gleamed in sunlight, the Forge of Grimlere was best described as a factory, with the largest and most productive mines in all the Kingdom of Firrilion. Thousands upon thousands of swords, shields, and other instruments were crafted there from metal taken from the deep of Hollowheart Mountain.

Sirrus rubbed his smarting eyes and watched a group of forgers pound a glowing ore into an iron sheet. The slaves’ backs were broad and scored with lash marks. Their skin was gray like most Ice Drakyns in Grimlere, but the soot made them almost black. They worked ferociously. Sirrus became afraid, which may have seemed silly, considering Wolfier, his own father, stood nearly eight feet tall and could skewer him with a careless flick of his spike-packed tail. These slaves did not have claws or spikes, but Sirrus was right to fear them. Sirrus had white skin and blue hair. Even if they did not recognize him as the crowned prince and hate him for being a royal, they would think he was part Water Drakyn and hate him for his impure blood.

They spotted Sirrus crawling near the tool rack and crowded around him. They spoke curses and brandished their tools. The largest of them reached to grab Sirrus, but a sharp shout gave him pause.

Let him alone! He’s with me. Sirrus turned to see a boney, adolescent-sized slave boldly approaching. His right arm appeared injured or paralyzed, and a thick covering of black soot made it impossible to tell the color of his skin or hair, but the blue of his eyes was a bit too intense for him to be a Pureblood. Being a Blueblood, as mixed offspring of ice and Water Drakyns were called, meant living as a second-class citizen at best; even the slaves scorned the impure and especially if they were crippled. The filthy Unwanted placed his strong hand protectively on Sirrus’ shoulder.

That means nothing for him to be with you, the large forger growled, baring broken fangs. You’re a skinny Blueblood and a defective Unwanted who has no privilege even to live. The forger craned his neck to get a better look at Sirrus, who hid behind the narrow form of the Blueblood. Who is that? White-skinned Bluebloods aren’t common in Grimlere. Are you trying to play the hero and protect your little brother?

Sirrus thought the Blueblood slave was bristling and bracing himself to fight, but he had no claws or spikes to threaten with. The forgers were so underwhelmed that they shook their heads and chuckled.

They were all startled when two taskmasters spotted the commotion and started toward them at a brisk pace. Coiled whips hung from their belts, as did swords. These two stuck out from the other filthy and crude taskmasters as clean-cut and quite young. They announced authoritatively, These strays are ours to deal with.

One forger challenged, But these are runty Bluebloods. Why are they worth your time? Taskmasters usually don’t care if we use Bluebloods for a little sport so long as we don’t put off our work.

The two sharp-looking taskmasters flattened their ears, glowered, and placed their hands on the handles of their whips. Much to Sirrus’ astonishment, the large forgers raised their hands in surrender and turned back to their anvils. They could have easily overwhelmed their youthful masters, especially with hammers and cutting tools within their reach. In Sirrus’ young mind, he realized they had no fight. Their eyes were dull and hopeless, gray like cold ash.

The blue-eyed slave nodded to each of the taskmasters in turn. Rovastion. Tissev. I suppose we’re even now.

Hardly, replied the one called Tissev. He took Sirrus’ hand. We’ll get him home discreetly before anyone misses him.

Most generous of you. The starved cripple vanished among the shield racks.

Tissev grinned. Hardly.

The taskmasters escorted Sirrus through the labyrinth of the massive Forge, but not before detouring into a closed-off shaft. There, they changed out of their thick leather into chainmail and navy palace guard uniforms, emblemed on the shoulders with a three-pointed shield, the royal crest. Sirrus noticed with puzzlement the skid marks in the dirt, as if two heavy objects had been dragged out of sight earlier. How come you dressed like taskmasters? Sirrus asked them.

We are taskmasters, Rovastion replied.

No, you’re not. You’re my guards. Sirrus now recognized them as his regular escorts. They must have followed him through the celebrating mob and down the mine tunnels. At the same time, Sirrus realized he had not learned their names until today. He had never spoken to them before.

Rovastion insisted, And today we’re taskmasters of the Forge. We couldn’t have our uniforms reveal you to be the crowned prince down here, now, could we? Not all slaves are as tame as those we just encountered.

Sirrus dismissed the drag marks and the fact that Rovastion and Tissev had apparently harmed their fellow soldiers, but he inquired instead, Why did the skinny slave say you were even, as if he had done you a favor?

We’re not even, said Tissev.

Sirrus blinked in a contemplating manner. What could a slave, especially a scrawny Blueblood, do to make guards like you owe him? Did he give you valuable intel on something?

Something like that, was Rovastion’s short answer.

Rovastion and Tissev took Sirrus to his royal chambers within the citadel, and they posted themselves at his door. Sirrus fell into a fitful sleep and thrashed in his bed because of nightmares about the final Fire Drakyn suffocating. Sometime later, the sinking of Sirrus’ mattress as Wolfier sat down woke him. Sirrus stared away from his father out the window. The sun’s glare was pale and uncaring.

You must think I’m angry with you, said Wolfier in a quiet rumble. I’m not. Your Aunt Syrring explained to me that you were just too tired to attend all the rituals and feasts. As you grow, you’ll gain the stamina to stay awake through the night, even several nights on end. For now, I’m content you saw a savage come to justice. Treasure that memory, son. Few have had the privilege of witnessing the end of that race of demons close up. I’m only sorry the war ended before you could play a part and kill a few yourself. Wolfier patted Sirrus on the back and rose with a sigh. The cape of claws clattered as he moved. Don’t feel so left out, Sirrus. Your time to execute justice will come. There are still others to conquer.

I can’t wait, Sirrus said stonily. It would be faulty to admit he was not upset about being left out; inclusion in murder was the last thing he wanted. He shook with fury because of the cruelty he had witnessed and panted with fear because of his nightmare.

Life continued as normal. Sirrus continued to study in the royal school and do language tutoring with his Aunt Syrring afterward for the better part of most days. He studied obsessively to prevent his mind from delving into the scene of the final Fire Drakyn’s grotesque death, but he carefully clung to the surface of the memory, for it fed his grudge against Wolfier. Anger seemed the only thing capable of keeping him sane.

Sirrus avoided Wolfier