The First Dragoneer

by M. R. Mathias

  It was a slow tedious climb. The sword splint was awkward, but it worked. Bren was more or less just stumbling from tree to tree. He clung to the lower branches and used his muscled arms to keep himself from falling all the way down.

  March was carrying the packs and finding that keeping the bow ready was a chore all by itself. His ruined palms wouldn’t close around the grip correctly and even the slightest squeeze of his hands caused extreme pain. To make things worse, he could feel the icy burn of his skull where his scalp wasn’t covering the bone anymore. He would have just fallen down and cried if it weren’t for the heart wrenching determination Bren was showing by just keeping himself upright.

  Ever so slowly they continued the journey upward, fighting their pain as they climbed. They stopped to drink from the wine skin and to eat some dried beef but found that it was a mistake. The short reprieve allowed their bodies to relax but caused their wounds to stiffen. Bren felt far worse than he had when they had started from the cave. March didn’t feel much better. The strong content of the skin, that the skeleton had so generously preserved for them, did very little to ease their suffering, but Bren found himself wanting more of it. March let him finish what was left before they started back up the mountain.

  They climbed some more and eventually the ridge came into view. Bren used the sight of it to strengthen his resolve. He used all that he had left in himself to get there.

  March wasn’t far behind, but blood loss had him feeling dizzy. He was sure that the sticky wetness that he was feeling running down his back was as much blood as it was sweat. A glance at the sun told him that they probably wouldn’t make it back to the camp by nightfall, but since they would be within the kingdom’s boundaries, and traveling downhill, he felt that their chances were good of getting there alive. That is, if he could keep from passing out. He was sure that Bren was having a harder time of it. It amazed him that Bren hadn’t done much more than grunt and wince on the way up. Bren had to be in incredible pain. March’s wounds were superficial in comparison.

  “Well that was the hard part!” March managed to say between breaths as he gained Bren’s side at the top of the ridge.

  Bren was holding desperately onto a branch to steady himself and he was gasping for air. He managed a grim smile.

  March plopped down heavily onto a rock and began rummaging through his pack until he found his water skin. After taking a long drink, he handed it to Bren’s trembling hand. Bren finished it off then he playfully tossed it at March before he started down the mountainside.

  “We're not stopping here,” Bren called out over his shoulder. “And you’d better hurry up and lead, because if it’s up to me, we are going straight down into the valley.”

  March reluctantly got to his feet and started after his friend. He was completely amazed at the way Bren was handling the pain.

  It was dark when March finally found the camp. He wouldn’t have found it, if not for the many tracking and hunting lessons he’d learned from his father and two older brothers over the years.

  The stars weren’t very bright this night, but the moon would be up soon. He’d use its light to check Bren’s wounds.

  Bren was in a bad way. Several times, on the last portion of the trek, he had stumbled into trees and shrubs. Once, when his tired arms wouldn’t hold him up any longer, he had fallen into a stiff-legged heap on the forest floor. He was stretched out now, under the shelter March had made for them the previous night. March made him drink the remainder of their water, and then helped him eat some dried beef before letting him pass out.

  As soon as he got a fire started, March was going to range out in the darkness and find the pool of clean water where they had seen the stag. He had to be sure that the fire wouldn’t burn out while he was gone. If it did, every hungry creature in the forest would be after Bren like ants on a piece of sweet candy. All they would have to do to find him was follow the blood trail they had left throughout the day. The fire would also help March find his way back from the pool. The fire roared to life, and while stoking it to the size he needed it to be, March felt its warmth sink into his aching bones. He fought, but to no avail. Before he could leave, he too fell into a deep, much needed sleep.

  March woke to the sound of Bren’s agonizing moans. Somewhere beyond the mountains, the sun was breaking the night, giving him just enough rosy light to see by. The morning sky was glorious and filled with color, where it could be seen peeking above the mountain tops. March couldn’t enjoy it though, because he knew they desperately needed water.

  The air was thick with a sense of urgency. Bren was fever stricken. His tired body was now fighting infection. What Bren really needed was the care of an herb master. March was tempted to make a litter and drag his friend down the mountainside. He wondered if the time he spent going and getting some water would allow the infection to get into Bren’s blood. He’d seen that happen once when a copper miner who had been cut on the arm had stayed in the mine too long. The Herb Master had had to cut the arm off, but the miner eventually died anyway. All of Prominence Village had been forced to endure his screaming torment until he finally died.

  The gravity of their situation weighed heavy on March. If he made the wrong decision it could cost Bren his leg, or worse. He was so concerned with Bren that he completely ignored the pain of his own wounds. He made the decision to make the litter and drag Bren to the stag’s pool with him. There he could wash the wounds, and boil water to clean the bandages.

  Methodically he went about making a litter out of the oil cloth they had used for their shelter and some limbs he cut from nearby trees. He had made several litters in his life. It was the easiest way to get a big buck down the mountain. He and Bren had used them a few times when they were younger, before they were strong enough to spit a carcass and shoulder it down.

  The sun was above the peaks by the time he was done making the travois-like device. He was weak and dehydrated, but he packed all their gear onto it with Bren and then gripped the two poles. His split hands were still bleeding and raw, but he started off anyway. Inside March there was nothing left except sheer determination and love for his friend.

  It was midday and the sun was high and hot when they finally arrived at the pool. March spent a few moments picking the splinters and dried bark out of the gashes in his palms while cleansing them in the cool water. Then he focused all of his attention on Bren.

  By nightfall, he was a little more confident in Bren’s chances. He had thoroughly cleansed away the dirt and grime from his friend’s wound. He had forced it to bleed and then opened the cut wide enough to cut away all the yellowing pussy sections that had formed there. He even stitched it in several places but he wasn’t sure if he had done it right. They still had a long hard journey ahead of them. March could only hope that he had done enough.

  The wound was staying closed, but Bren still had fever. March hoped that his condition would change if they rested through the night. He had made a broth by placing the last of their dried beef in the pot and boiling in some gable roots he found. Bren woke just long enough to drink a good portion of it. He was pale and weak from loss of blood and couldn’t manage the strength to speak. He did manage to drink most of the aromatic liquid down. Then he was off again, back into a fitful slumber.

  March figured that if he rested for a while he could get them down into the valley by the following afternoon. There he would break apart the litter and burn it before the sun went down. If a farmer or shepherd didn’t respond, he would run like the wind and return with a cart or a wagon. He was determined to have Bren in Prominence proper by dawn. It was a sound plan and it relieved him to have at least that much.

  While Bren tossed and turned, March fingered the medallion he had found. He wasn’t certain, but at one point he thought that it might have been causing his palms to tingle. It wasn’t long before he too fell into slumber. He slept heavily and had vivid dreams that eluded him when the sound of a curious scavenger woke him in the predawn light.
When he reached over to shake Bren awake his heart slid up into his throat. Bren had died in the night. His body was cool and stiff.

  5

  “By the Gods, NOOOOO!” he shouted at the still darkened sky. A cluster of startled birds exploded from a nearby tree and sent his heavy heart to hammering.

  “There’s a way to save him,” a small steady voice said from behind him. “All you have to do is pledge your soul to the Confliction.”

  March whirled around and saw the impossible. The white stag was standing there looking at him, its dark eyes plainly visible against its luminescent white fur. It wasn’t the stag who had spoken though. Sitting on the stag’s back was one of the fabled elvish. The fair skinned, silvery haired, creature seemed to be slightly unsettled by the fact that March was twice his size, but he met March’s gaze with his wild amber eyes.

  March’s emotion surged. “You’ll save my friend if you can, or I will-- I’ll--”

  “You’ll do naught other than pledge your soul to the fighting of the Confliction,” the little man said flatly. He was wearing a sort of cloth that looked to be made out of tiny rings of the same strange metal as the medallion. And, what March had first mistaken as fear had suddenly turned into snarling defiance. “You’ll swear to fight against the Confliction, or I’ll take that medallion. Then you can drag your friend’s corpse home to his mother.”

  March was so stunned and confused, and welling with grief, that he couldn’t form a cohesive thought. For a long time, he was silent. Finally, he asked the elf the only question that would come. “You can save him?”

  “You can save him,” the elf replied, “but only if you hurry.”

  “How?”

  “Use the medallion to call your dragon. When it comes, it will know your heart and use its magic to restore the life of your companion.”

  “There are no dragons around here,” March looked around. “If there was, why would a dragon do such a thing?”

  “There are no elvish in this valley either I’d guess,” the elf shrugged. “Either way, you should get to calling your wyrm before it’s too late for him.” The elf nodded at Bren’s corpse.

  “What’s this Confliction you speak?” March asked as he crawled to his feet and pulled the medallion out of his shirt.

  He was feverish, and the world was swimming in and out of focus, but somehow he knew that this was no fever dream. He was about to pledge his life to something he didn’t understand so that his friend would be saved.

  “It cannot be explained,” the elf sighed. “There will be more of you. There will be five dragoneers in all. Some are already trying to bond with their wyrms. But they are far from here, in another land that lies across the sea. It is a place that your people do not know of. You must call your dragon, and then go to them. Together the five of you will stand against the storm.”

  The elf glanced up at the sky as if he were searching for something. The light of dawn was only a few breaths from breaking the horizon.

  “Don’t let the sun rise and burn his soul away,” the elf nodded at Bren again. “Do this thing. Call your dragon. Go find the dragoneers and face the destiny you’ve chanced upon. It will be a great one, I think.”

  The stag pawed the ground and snorted his agreement. It tilted it’s antlered head slightly and gave Bren a look that conveyed volumes. Inexplicably, March suddenly knew that he had to do this. There was no other choice. “How?”

  “Take the Medallion in your hands. Yes, like that.” March cupped the silvery disc as if it were a precious egg.

  “Kiss the tear stone,” the elf instructed. “Now pledge within your soul to fight the coming Confliction. Only then will your dragon come.”

  “I don’t care about the dragon,” March mumbled. I’m doing this for Bren.

  As soon as he kissed the tear shaped jewel, and told his heart that he would see this thing through, he felt a chilling tingle flutter through him. His skin prickled and his mind began to clear. He had made the right decision, and he knew it. His blood was turning into liquid fire and his breathing grew erratic.

  “That is the Dour that makes you feel that way,” the elf grinned. He patted the stag on the shoulder and leaned toward its ear. “You were right my friend. This was the one.”

  “What’s Dour?” March asked. Whatever it was, it felt fantastic in his veins, as if he were full of lightning.

  “It will fade. That dragon’s tear is old, the amber Dour has been leaking from it for a century or more. See how clear it is? The dragon that let it fall died long, long ago.” The elf lightly heeled the stag into a turn and looked to be about to trot away.

  “Wait,” March pleaded. “What about Bren? What about my family?”

  The elf gave a nervous chuckle. “Your dragon is coming, and you were going to leave anyway. Just go.” The stag shivered and looked to be growing nervous. “I’ll not want to be bumbling around when your wyrm gets here. After you’ve gone, I’ll return and keep the scavengers from badgering your friend. I’ll make sure he gets where he needs to be.”

  As the stag bounded away, March heard the elf chuckling.

  March looked at Bren and dropped his head. He hoped he hadn’t been a fool. He hoped—

  Suddenly, the trees swayed violently. A near silent blast of air wafted across the camp. Before a thought could form, another gust came, this one kicking up leaves and sending a dusty whirl of debris into the thicket. Then the dragon was there, directly behind March, looming it’s long neck up over the camp as it pulled in its leathery wings. The connection happened instantaneously. They bonded, and a single shared consciousness was born.

  The dragon’s name was Balazerahdadicol and he was the rarest form of pure blooded High Dracus that existed. Since March’s human tongue couldn’t pronounce the name correctly the dragon spoke a single word into his mind. “Blaze.” Blaze was a pure blooded fire drake. March somehow knew this, and other things that he never imagined one could know. It was overwhelming.

  March turned to take his bond-mate in with his eyes. He found that save for its neck and head, the dragon was nearly invisible in the pre dawn shadows. What he could see was nothing more than a sinuous crimson silhouette in the lightening sky. The dragon was not huge, nor was he small. Substantial was the word that March decided upon, probably twenty-five paces from tip to tail. Through the bond they shared, a wealth of knowledge was opening up and starting to flood into March’s eager mind. Had it not been, his instinct to flee would have already taken hold.

  A pulse of magical energy rippled through the fabric of the world and March knew in his heart of hearts that Blaze had just filled Bren’s body with powerful healing Dour. Bren would wake soon and the elf would watch over him until he could make it down into the valley. March, however, knew that he had to go. The land he and Blaze were going to was far far away. It would take them a full season to fly there, most of the journey over the sea.

  Blaze leaned down and created a step with his fore claw. March hurried to his bedroll, grabbed the pack, his bow, and a quiver of arrows. Then, after saying a silent goodbye to his friend, he climbed onto the wyrm. He left the sword and the gold for his friend. He wished he could stay and explain what he was doing, where he was going, but he wasn’t even sure about those things himself.

  Blaze took an awkward lurching step. Then a few neck yanking, exhilarating wing strokes later, they were above the forest and flying.

  The first of the dragoneers had bonded and the wheels of destiny had been set into motion. The saga of the dragoneers had begun.

  Thus ends the prequel novella:

  The First Dragoneer by M.R. Mathias

  Enjoy the following free preview of “The Royal Dragoneers” It is available in ebook and paperback formats. To find out how to get your copy or to see the map of the land where March and Blaze are headed, then please visit: http://www.mrmathias.com/Dragoneers.html

  The Royal Dragoneers By M. R. Mathias Copyright 2010

  Part I

  The Front
ier

  Chapter One

  Jenka De Swasso peeked through the thick leathery undergrowth he was hiding in. The forested hills were lush and alive with late spring growth. The birds and other small creatures were busy making their symphony of life. It was a welcome cacophony, for Jenka was on the hunt, and it masked the noisy sound of his breathing.

  Jenka was trying to see which way his prey was going to move. The ancient stag, once a beautiful and majestic creature, was now past its prime. One of its long, multi-forked antlers was broken into a sharp nub near the base. The other antler was heavy and looked to be weighing the weary creature’s head over to one side. All around its grayish-brown furred neck were scars from the numerous battles it had fought over the years defending its harem from the younger bucks. A fresh gash, a dark trail of blood-matted fur leaking away from it, decorated the stag’s shoulder area. Since there were no does moving about, Jenka figured this old king of the forest had lost his most recent battle, and his harem as well.

  Jenka was sixteen years old, and he moved through the shadowy glades - between the towering pine trees and the ancient tangle limbed oaks - with the speed and dexterity of well-fit youth. He was dressed in rough spun and leather, brown and green, and when he stopped still he blended into the forest like a bark-skinned lizard on a tree trunk. His face was well-sooted and the shoulder-length mop of dirty-blond hair on his head looked more like a tumbleweed than anything else.