Age of Gold Book One to Three: To Claim a King, To Catch a Prince, To Tame a Rogue (Tales of Midgard 1)

by May Sage

  And so the king had spoken.

  The Mage

  As a child of Malek, one of the most remote and irrelevant towns in the Northern Var, she should have been more impressed with the capital. Natalia Astria - Talia, to those she knew - might have oohed and aahed appreciatively at the tall metallic towers erected in the Inner City her carriage was headed towards. Instead, she wrinkled her nose in disapproval at finding that what she’d read of the smell of piss in the streets was only too accurate. Leyres wasn’t only notorious as the largest capital on the entire continent of Midgard, it was also known as the only place not yet equipped with modern plumbing.

  She sighed, hoping that the inner city would be a little less archaic.

  Despite knowing of the stench, she’d had to come here. Opportunities like this didn’t knock twice. Still, her departure had felt wrong; it was so sudden, for one. A delegation had come at dawn to the house of Astria and told her parents that the king and his mages had selected Talia to be Blessed by the court. A thesis she’d submitted in her course of studies had made her qualify, they’d said.

  Before she knew what was happening, her bag had been packed and bundled up at the back of their carriage. She was to leave within the hour.

  “But, wait,” said she, suddenly pulled from her confused haze. “I can’t go yet.”

  Everyone stared at her, waiting for the reason why such an event ought to be delayed, according to her. “I need to say goodbye to Xandrie.”

  Her sister had left that morning after finishing her chores; she wasn’t likely to be seen again before dark, if she could help it.

  Alexandria, her sister, had been born without the ability to summon the elements to her and without the gift of spelling herbs, either. She had no magics of any kind, unlike the rest of their esteemed family, and so her role within the household was that of a maid, or perhaps a slave, as Talia knew she wasn’t paid. It wasn’t fair, and although their parents didn’t seem to realize it, the way they treated her had destroyed their family. How could she love her mother’s kiss, knowing that if she hadn’t been gifted, she would be sweeping floors and cleaning toilets, all the while being insulted?

  As expected, her mother laughed and her father frowned at her. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  She sighed, knowing that she wasn’t about to win this argument. Like any other argument her family ever had concerning Xandrie. This time, she almost understood them. The Blessings were too important an occasion to really consider any delay.

  Close to a hundred years ago, their father’s own father had been called to be Blessed. The mages of Leyres named him the “Great Healer of the West,” and that was why, these days, the Astria were renowned as the best mages of the surrounding lands. She had to go, and now, if that was what the king of the Var had decreed.

  Rather than attempting to plead her case, as she knew she wouldn’t win, Talia turned to their elder sister and asked, “You will tell her I’ll miss her.” Aleria inclined her head in agreement.

  Aleria was a great beauty, but a cold one. Her long golden hair, endless lashes and perfect skin had her labeled as ‘the pretty one,’ and Talia had grown to understand exactly what that meant. She was the Astria no one paid any mind to when she had anything to say; people smiled and nodded, quite content to simply look at her, rather than listening to anything coming out of her shapely mouth.

  “And I’ll miss you too, sister,” she added, sad that surprise flashed in the beauty’s emerald eyes. “I’ll bring you both something from the capital, I promise. Nothing expensive, mind. I don’t have much saved.”

  Talia’s jaw nearly hit the floor when Aleria unlocked the purse tied to the brown leather accessory belt at her hip and removed a few coins from it. Golden coins, too.

  They both got paid equally for their work at home, but Talia easily went through the bulk of her money every week, struggling to save so much as a copper mark. There were hungry children to feed in the streets, and cold beggars to dress, too. Never had she come across anyone needing her help without feeling the need to stop and see how she could be of assistance. She just couldn’t help it.

  Aleria was much better in that regard. She needn’t spend money on clothes, for their parents showered her with tons of gowns, eager to show off the perfect specimen of feminine allure they’d created. She needn’t spend money on books, for there were plenty at home. So, her purse was always full.

  Still, Talia never knew her to be so generous as to so carelessly give away ten golden marks - enough money to feed a farmer for a whole year.

  “What will you have me buy you with that?” she asked, reasoning that surely, her sister meant to send her on an errand.

  Aleria shrugged. “Please yourself. You deserve it.”

  Such words of praise rarely passed those lips. Talia knew to cherish them. “I’ll see you all soon, then,” she’d said, two days ago.

  It still felt wrong, somehow. Something bothered her, a voice whispering in a corner of her mind that she should have bid farewell to her other sister, as well.

  Xandrie was going to have a miserable few months while she was away. Aleria was silent, and their parents, bitter, towards their magicless middle daughter. Talia had heard them say it out loud, right in front of Xandrie: she shamed them, tarnishing their good name.

  “Here we are, miss. The Inner City of Leyres.”

  Thick and high silver doors opened slowly, as if in great pain, and the moment the carriage passed through the gates, the pungent odor she’d endured for the last hour disappeared; kept away by strong spells.

  Talia forgot all her worries as she felt it. Pure, undiluted, almost palpable magic, resonating right under her skin. Never had she encountered quite so much energy all around her, not even when her entire family had been performing a spell in cohort.

  Down to her bones, she knew she was exactly where she ought to be today.

  Xandrie would be alright; she was two years her elder, and when things were hard at home, she broke out of Malek easily enough. No doubt in a few weeks, when she returned home, nothing would have changed at all.

  So she told herself, ignoring the feeling at the pit of her stomach. Meanwhile, miles from Leyres, Guards were approaching Xandrie with an array of weapons, attempting to kill her for consorting with demons.

  It was good that Talia hadn’t listened to her instincts and stayed home, or her sister may never have become queen of one of the two Dragon kingdoms.

  The Light

  Norda wasn’t anyone’s idea of a pleasant dwelling, yet out of all his properties, Vincent had opted to reside there. Other men might have chosen his principality, the pleasant southern county close to his parents’ home, or perhaps Wellyem, a quiet and peaceful place.

  Vincent was a man of fortune, and not only because he’d been born that way. From his father, he’d inherited a title, certainly; the rest, he’d earned.

  Fifty years ago, the king had started to show signs that he was becoming feral, succumbing to the madness that had taken so many dragons. The evil dwelling in the world had taken notice and tried to invade their land.

  Rhey, heir to the throne back then, had had to stay home in Telenar and keep their kingdom together. It fell upon Vincent to lead their troops and rid Farden of orcs, goblins, undead things, and, worse yet: some dragons of Absolia, the kingdom of Fiery Shadow. The king’s sickness had caused them to send scouts, no doubt to report whether Farden was ready to fall.

  Many of their peers died during those dozen years; soldiers and too many nobles to count. Vincent, who, until then, had been nothing, simply known as a young lordling that couldn’t shift, rose to what he now was.

  He was first to charge, and while staying in his human skin, rather than adopting scales or fur like most of his men, he still took down countless enemies. There were songs written in his honor, and wall tapestries woven, illustrating him riding a dark feral fire-breather, his sword plunged into its skull.

  The old king left the realm, finally
. Vincent had expected that the war would continue, get worse perhaps, for dragons weren’t known to bow down to those who hadn’t proven themselves. A civil war wouldn’t have surprised anyone. But, instead of demanding the crown that was his by birthright, Rhey proved himself wise. He joined Vincent on the field and, together, they finally pushed their enemies out of their lands. The last battle occurred right here, in Norda. The men saw their princeling fight and bleed alongside them. Rhey earned their respect and was crowned with the approval of his people. There were some who whispered that it should have been Vincent, but his support of Rhey, and his total refusal to even be considered as a potential king, brought an end to that brand of nonsense.

  Vincent’s reward for his courage and loyalty was more gold than he knew what to do with. He’d accepted it, because Rhey would have it no other way. Yet, he did object to the baronet, and the duchy.

  “I’ve no use of them,” said he. “Being prince in the south is enough for any man, surely.”

  “Yet, you’ll take Wellyem, because no one else would. It’s right opposite to the Lakeland, which makes it dangerous; when the orcs came, the lord of Wellyem was the first to fall. And you’ll take Norda, because no one else could. Wellyem is dangerous, but useless to any army. The cold mountains, the Arm of Sea and the perilous roads to get there would cut off any substantial force. I need my best man in this duchy, and that is you.”

  So, he’d taken both and made Norda his home.

  Vincent was given three hundred men to guard it; this was a job Rhey had entrusted to him because he knew just how seriously Vincent took it.

  He’d seen villages pillaged, castles burned, and foreign dragons descending upon them. He’d never see it again if it could be helped.

  Occasionally, Rhey called him to Telenar and made him take a break away from his post; when he didn’t, Vincent remained here, in the high tower, on guard, arms folded behind his back, eyes fixed on the other side of their wall.

  Thirty years, he’d protected the opening, yet he was as vigilant now as he had been on the first day.

  Today felt different, although Vincent couldn’t tell how, exactly; it was perhaps too quiet. No animal, no sound, nothing troubled the darkening winter day. There wasn’t so much as an eagle in sight. His eyes narrowed.

  “Kross,” he called, his voice thundering across the fortress.

  His best man appeared within minutes. Kross was his foreman, and his wings, when need be. Proud as they were, dragons did not like to be ridden, yet the dominant, humongous creature let Vincent fly on his back in battle.

  In his human form, the man was large, bulky, with a head almost entirely covered in red hair; a long beard and hair plaited down his back. Like Vincent, he was a half-breed, rather than a pure dragon; his father had been a bear.

  Some said his mixed heritage was the reason why Vincent didn’t shift. When they uttered their nonsense within Kross’ hearing range, the gentle giant towered over them and glowered until they squirmed. Such was his loyalty.

  “You’re heading the patrol outside tonight?”

  His memory rarely failed him but he asked, nonetheless. His man replied, “Aye, with four other guards, in a couple of hours, through to midnight.”

  “Make that five,” Vincent replied. “I’ll be in the party.”

  Kross lifted a surprised brow. Vincent liked surveying the lands from high ground.

  “Sir?”

  “Just a feeling,” he said. He might have left it at that if he’d been speaking to anyone else. As he trusted Kross, he added, “There’s something in the air, I can almost taste it.”

  He was young, for one of his kind, but his three hundred years of experience had taught him to trust his instincts. Particularly those he couldn’t explain.

  “I’ll post another dozen guards, then,” his foreman announced.

  At first, Vincent felt almost embarrassed with his unfounded dread, but as the afternoon darkened, close to dusk, the men he walked with grew tense, shifty and startled by their own steps.

  “Magics,” Grojn whispered. “By my scales, I sense magics around us.”

  This shouldn’t have been such alarming news; dragons could perform elemental spells - fire and air were their natural friends, of course, but some of their kind had an affinity with earth, and even water, sometimes. They also had plenty of allies with magics about them. Yet, they were all on their guard, mistrusting the power they felt. An ally wouldn’t have hid in the darkness, creeping around them the way this mage was. Vincent knew more than most about all magics and he recognized the feel of the spells around them.

  Long ago, when he’d been young and easily impressed, he’d had the good fortune meet the cold and mysterious elf prince of Endar, Argon. The prince was born with more gifts in his pinky finger than a thousand mages; he was what they called an Aether-born Sorcerer.

  Aether was an element of the immaterial world, a force of goodness. Being in the presence of an Aether-born was a blessing Vincent would never forget. But then, as children often did, he’d asked the first intrusive question that came to mind: “What does Shadow feel like, Prince?”

  For Shadow was Aether’s opposite, the power of evil that balanced the world. He’d read that anyone infused with Aether was born with just as much Shadow.

  “Vincent!” his father had groaned, apologetic. “Sorry, friend. Children could start wars with their unruly tongues, if we let them.”

  “If we let them,” Argon had replied.

  The elf then crouched to be at eye level with Vincent.

  “I sense courage about you, fire-breather,” he said. “Let’s see how much.”

  Argon, dressed in red and gold as a member of the court of Endar, had light, almost luminous, skin and hair black as night. If anyone had asked, Vincent would have said that the elf radiated an otherworld energy, something pure, raw, but good.

  Then, the elf smiled. It was not a friendly sort of smile at all - no, this one was malicious, downright cruel. Like a coat that could be removed at will, he shed all his goodness, his benevolence, revealing something dark and hollow underneath. Vincent noticed how blue his eyes really were - a cold blue, piercing him down to his bones.

  The entire thing didn’t last more than an instant, the fraction of a second, yet it was still imprinted in his mind - he recalled it with more clarity than any other memory, although it had been three centuries.

  “A lot of courage,” Argon noted. “You didn’t flinch. Good.”

  The prince got up, ruffled his hair and returned to his affairs. Vincent would never again ask about Shadow. He’d felt it. He knew it. He would have lived a happy life had he never felt it again.

  But there was no denying it. Shadow was here now, surrounding him and his guard.

  Vincent was about to give the order to retreat to the gates, when they saw it. A light in the darkness, so clear, despite the distance. It was miles away, but from Norda, they could see far into the Lakelands.

  “Kross,” he called, cursing himself for his limitations. This light ought to be checked and he couldn’t do it. “Would you fly to it?”

  The large man started to shift into his light green scales, when a shimmery wave emanated from the light; shimmery, yet dark all the same. There was no questioning what this was.

  Shadow. Pure Shadow, heading right to them.

  “Go, go, go!” he shouted, jumping on Kross’ back. The rest of his men started to shift, but they were too late; the force hit him before they could do anything about it.

  Vincent stared in horror, feeling helpless and foolish. Why had they guarded these walls without a mage at their side to prevent this sort of thing? His men were all going to die with him because of his oversight. There were so few mages who could trump a dragon. In his arrogance, he hadn’t accounted for them.

  But the Shadow took no life that day. It could have, effortlessly, perhaps.

  Instead, it hit something else, something that was far more precious: the golden, immaterial wall
erected at their border.

  Any friend of their realm, and perhaps the occasional fiend without real evil in their heart, could cross it. That was how they’d ended up infested with orcs, some rogues, and other undesirables in the past. But no actual army, or real threat, could have just walked into the kingdom of Farden with the intention to harm its people, thanks to that wall.

  But just like that, their only defense against evil was gone, swallowed by darkness.

  The Tutor

  Talia hadn’t stopped smiling all day.

  She’d never gone to school before, unlike some of the eleven other young mages who had been chosen to be Blessed along with her. School, in Malek, was for children of poor farmers. They were instructed by teachers who didn’t know much past the borders of their own village themselves. It was a good establishment, and necessary, too, but people who hailed from families such as hers were educated at home by their parents and renowned tutors brought from all corners of the kingdom.

  Now, Talia wished she’d gone to a school in her youth. The atmosphere was positively enchanting to her. Although some of the other mages looked at her funny at first, she’d won them over.

  “Just look at this!” she’d said at supper the previous evening, gushing over the multi layered cake they’d been served.

  “It’s just a mille-feuille,” Guillaume rolled his eyes, acting like she was making a fuss of nothing.

  She’d smiled and confessed, “There’s only one baker in the town where I’m from. My family travels to treat some of the nobles from all around the west, but it’s normally just my parents and my sister. Trust I’ll be excited by everything I see for the next few weeks. Sorry, you’ll just have to put up with me.”

  Guillaume had been one of those who’d regarded her with suspicion at first; why, she wasn’t quite certain, but, by the end of the night, he was making sure she tried the best desserts. “You can’t skip the mousse, trust me on that one, little hick.”