by Cole Pain
Dragon Tamer.
“May the Maker have mercy,” Markum said, recalling an ancient verse. Markum clenched his fists. He had to find that verse. He had to tell the others …
Dragon Tamer.
“May the Maker have mercy,” Markum said again. Ren’s trouble had only just begun.
- - -
When Michel sat down, clouds of dust floated into the air. He groaned, every limb aching, and reached for his water skin. The new colt would be the death of him. It was as spirited as Renee had been when she first arrived at Stardom. Michel smiled, but the memory brought more pain than joy. His loss hurt as if it were yesterday. It would only lessen when his brother died.
Michel winced, ashamed of his thoughts, and quietly whispered for the Maker’s forgiveness. He had no right to condemn his brother. They had both fallen in love with the same woman, but Wyrick was first born. He had first rights.
Michel lifted the leather skin to his lips, almost laughing when he remembered the golden mug he used to hold at Stardom. It was ironic. He didn’t miss the castle, the servants, or the wealth. He only missed one thing, and that was something he could never have.
Closing his eyes, Michel let his tired muscles relax. He had seen the earth more than he cared for that day. The colt had bucked him off at every turn. His entire body felt bruised, but it was his pride more than anything else that was raw and tender. He was getting old. Breeding the king’s finest stallions would one day be transferred to another, and he would quietly pass out of thought as if he had never been born. His horses were all that kept his name on the lips of the people.
As the sun’s rays warmed his worn limbs, Michel gave himself over to well-earned rest. The horses circled the training ring outside, their pounding hooves creating a rhythmic music. Their song floated in his dreams, taking him back in time.
The day had been bright and a bird’s song echoed on the wind as he rode bareback through the fields at full gallop. The wind burned his eyes, bringing the tears he couldn’t cry on his own.
When he reached the stream, Renee was already there. They didn’t speak. Each heartbeat was precious and each look revealed their feelings. As the sun rose higher, they sank into each other’s arms. Although they dozed, Michel was fully aware of the sounds around him: the sensual trickle of water, the soft movement of the grazing horses, the grass dancing in the breeze.
A soft groan caused him to roll over and reach for Renee. She wasn’t there. Michel stirred, a sudden pain in his chest.
The sound came again. Michel opened his eyes with a start, the dream dissipating as quickly as it had come, and came to full attention. The worn board on his front landing groaned under stealthy weight. Someone was outside, someone who didn’t want to be heard.
Michel reached for his sword just as shadow of a man passed across the floor. Michel spun, catching a brief glimpse of the soldier’s bald head before a flaming torch was hurled through the window.
Michel ran to the door as shouts echoed on the wind. Broken glass exploded to his right as more torches were thrown inside. Michel yanked on the door but something was blocking it from the outside. He tried to cut it down, but his sword was dull from years without use. Michel turned, choking as the smoke ensnared him and the heat began to build.
The men were already boarding up the windows, trapping him inside.
He had let down his guard. After all these years, he thought he and Wyrick had come to a silent peace. When he had first left Stardom he had been expecting an attack, even waited for one, but now he felt betrayed. He had never asked Wyrick for anything in over twenty years.
Then a thought struck him: Wyrick must know about Ren. Michel’s eyes burned with shame. There was no fight left in him. His brother wanted him dead. Now, he would never be able to ask for Wyrick’s forgiveness. And Ren …
The horses screamed. A crash indicated they had broken free of their pen. A soldier shouted orders for the horses to be gathered for the Crape crown.
Michel heaved for air. The Crape crown?
Fear’s cold grip clutched Michel’s soul as the flames rose around him. Wyrick would never allow his lands to be taken, not with any breath in his body. And if Zier had been overthrown …
Michel fell to his knees, resolve deepening in the pit of his stomach. He had to survive. He may be Ren’s only chance.
Michel crawled on his hands and knees, searching for the board he had never nailed down. After all these years he didn’t know if the escape tunnel would still be passable. When had he last been inside, five years ago? Ten? But it was his only chance.
With frantic fingers Michel searched each board, choking as the smoke grew thick. Finally, one board lifted under his touch. Michel dove into the hollow head first, pushing himself through the narrow gap in the earth.
- - -
Ista didn’t turn when the door opened, and she didn’t transform into the beauty she had once been. Her true image reminded Valor of her power. She ruled Newlan. Although he could have the title in name and bearing, she ruled him.
Valor’s children sat opposite her, bound and gagged. Chris sagged against Manda, too weak to sit up on his own. His shaggy blond hair was matted with fever, and every so often his eyelids fluttered wildly. He hadn’t responded well to the sleeping herb given him, but then Ista knew he wouldn’t. Chris Kahn would soon give up the fight.
Ista offered Manda a sympathetic smile. The redhead’s face flared with rage as she muttered something incomprehensible through her gag. Ista chuckled. Manda’s biting green glare amused her. It was a pity Manda didn’t have the gift. Her spunk would have given her great power. Chris, on the other hand, was one of the gifted Ista had decided to sacrifice. Valor needed to prove his loyalty.
As Ista rose from her chair, she dipped her hand in a silver water basin and doused her brow. Valor’s gluttonous eyes followed her approach, but he didn’t speak. He knew better.
She ran her deformed fingers down Valor’s cheek. “What news have you brought me, my king?”
“The soldiers have returned. Michel Razon won’t be a problem.”
Ista smiled her satisfaction. “And the silver dragon?”
“The dragon hunters left at high sun,” Valor said. “They’ll find it soon.”
Ista closed her eyes, reviewing the prophecy. Soon she would understand how the dragon could help bring the darkness. Soon now, she would understand everything.
She almost grinned. The prince’s love for dragons would suit her plans nicely. Ren would never fulfill his princely duty and kill the beast.
Still, she needed to be sure. When the dragon hunters captured the dragon, Ren would witness the dragon’s fate. The prince’s last hope would be dashed, and her rule would be secure.
Ista studied Valor, wondering whether she still needed him. Not really, but then a slip in the hall too soon could mean other rulers would try to unseat her. Her pawns were ready, but she felt it wasn’t the time. She would let Valor live, for now.
“And the woman?” she asked.
Valor shook his head. “The soldiers flogged her unmercifully. She still wouldn’t yield.”
“A true martyr,” Ista said. “She will ensure my victory.”
“A Maritium woman?” Valor said with a hint of disgust.
Ista smiled at Valor’s confused look. Valor thought he knew everything; he knew nothing. “The prince knows she’s the last of the Maker’s chosen. He’ll do anything to save her pain.”
Ista turned back to the water basin. It was too hot in Zier. Ista immersed her hand in the cool water and dotted her forehead, shuddering as the memories came rushing back: her skin melting from the heat, her hair burning with the surrounding flames. She had the wizards to thank for her suffering. But she had survived. Oh yes, she had survived. For almost four hundred years she had planned her revenge. Magic’s destruction had no effect on her powers and the time weave had given her life. Soon now she could reveal herself to the people. Soon now she would have her revenge.
“Throw the woman in the cell with the prince. And when the dragon arrives, bring them both to the courtyard.”
Valor’s eyes narrowed. “But Ren - ”
“He’s the one, Valor.”
Valor stiffened. “You don’t mean …”
“Yes, he passed the test. He’s the Dragon Tamer. After he fulfills the prophecy, I’ll make him mine.” She had waited years for Ren Razon’s birth – the Chosen, the Dragon Tamer. Only he could fulfill her desires. It was almost time.
Ista picked up a thin needle and held it between them. Behind her, Manda released a low moan.
“I’ve always wanted Ren Razon to bow to me,” Valor said.
A slow smile enveloped Ista’s deformed lips.
Chapter 2
Before Ren opened his eyes he knew he was back in his cell. The cold stone beneath him and the chill in the air was all too familiar. Ren rolled to his side, head throbbing and body aching from the beating he had endured.
The silver dragon’s haunting blue eyes had plagued his dreams. The legend was a fable, a child’s tale, yet Ren found himself almost believing the impossible. With the Collective’s promise of magic’s return, the blue-eyed dragon would substantiate the Collective’s authority to many. The legend was too engrained in the hearts of the people.
Ren heaved a heavy sigh. He didn’t want to think about the silver dragon. He had enough trouble already.
He searched the darkness, studying the walls of his confinement. He had probed each stone, desperately searching for a way of escape, all the while knowing his search was futile. There were hidden passageways throughout the Stardom castle. His uncle Michel had been entrusted with the tunnels’ secret in order to protect his brother, the king. If escape was needed, the tunnels would be revealed; if not, the secret would be passed to the next heir. It was a Razon legacy Ren had taken to heart. He had memorized each passage years ago. None of them came to the isolation cell. His prison was secure.
Ren closed his eyes, praying to the Maker for guidance, but no reply followed. He had grown used to the silence over the years, and had kept his faith strong despite it, but now he felt his faith failing. In all his prayers he had never asked for long life or riches; he had only asked for direction. He didn’t understand the Maker’s indifference.
Had he angered the Maker with some past deed? Had he missed his divine path? Ren heaved a weary sigh. Eli, Stardom’s priest, had always told him everything in this life was a test, a choice to do either good or bad. He knew he had failed the Maritium. If he had chosen another way, would the Maritium still be alive?
At one time the Maritium were held in higher esteem than the bravest warriors, for they were warriors of the true God. Kings relied on their guidance and battles were won and lost depending on the blessing of the Maritium. After the Dark Ages, where wizards battled for control of the Lands, the Maritium were called on as liaisons between the Lands and the Alcazar. The Lands refused to receive wizards without a trusted member of the Maritium at their side. No one knew the exact relationship between the Maritium and the wizards, but the Lands welcomed it, and in time the Maritium helped rebuild trust in magic.
Years later when Barracus betrayed the Alcazar and created horrors far worse than the Dark Ages, magic became frightful once again. After magic’s destruction the Maritium were shunned because of their close association with the Alcazar.
Marked by their violet eyes, the Maritium shrank form society. Although most didn’t see a member of the Maritium during their lifetime, those who felt the Maker’s call to teach journeyed to the Maritium for instruction. Eli, Stardom’s priest, was one of those.
The Collective began to form about the time Ren was born. Many seeking direction flocked to their secular call. A few years ago the great persecution began. The Collective hunted down the Maritium and used them for human sacrifices. They justified their actions by taunting the Maker, calling on his intervention if the Maritium were the true prophets. Because of the Maker’s silence the Collective proved their sanctity to many. The Collective won supporters and preached the Lands needed to abolish the Maritium before magic could rise from the grave.
When word of the Collective’s abominations reached Zier, Ren immediately went in search of the Maritium. After coming across a small troop of the Maker’s chosen, Ren’s men guarded them day and night, traveling quickly back to Zier. One woman immediately caught his attention. The Maritium surrounded her, never letting her venture too far ahead or behind. She never looked directly at Ren, and no words were spoken, but he instinctively knew she was their leader. She was the Collective’s primary target.
On the third night, members of the Collective attacked. Their bald heads, recently shaved for ritualistic sacrifice, shimmered with newly applied oil. Although Ren remembered very little of the attack, he did remember the Collective’s eyes. They were like branding irons, red hot with the desire to kill and smoldering with an inner fire that could only come from the guardian of the Abyss. Each had the same look, the same dementia. It was hideous to witness. They looked neither to the right nor the left. They plowed straight ahead, focusing on the Maritium leader, not the swords that were slicing them down. It wasn’t until then that Ren truly understood the sacrilege of the Collective’s doctrine. They didn’t worship a god at all, but they lauded the destruction of anything godly. And their doctrine, saturated with physical pleasure, truly strove for the annihilation of faith in the Maker.
Ren and his men were greatly outnumbered. The Maritium had no weapons, only their faith. Serving as a human shield to the lady at their center, they died quick, painless deaths. When Ren realized the Collective’s intent, he abandoned the fight and spurred his mount to the true target, but he was too late. Ten of the Collective surrounded the woman. One man held a dagger to her throat. A thin stream of blood oozed from the tip to stain her white blouse.
She looked straight at him, ordering him with her eyes to keep back, but the shock of seeing her face, more so than her look, brought Ren to a sudden halt. Her face was tan, and her auburn hair, streaked with sun-made gold, had fallen from its clasp to define the delicate lines of her face. Her eyes, more violet than the winter dawn, danced in the moonlight with a power he could only regard with wonder. There was a calmness to her features and a serenity in her stance that startled him. Standing there, surrounded by her enemies, she seemed in complete control, yet she didn’t fight when they dragged her away, nor did she make a move to escape when they forced her onto the back of a horse. She just watched him with vivid, violet eyes, commanding him to yield.
Ren didn’t understand her silent plea, but he felt himself opening to her call, giving himself to the air between them. When he felt a movement inside him, he didn’t question. He surrendered to the warmth spreading through his limbs, filling him with a peace so vast he was sure his entire body had risen from the earth. But as her silent whisper filled him, the shock of her words brought him to his knees.
Time and space do not exist for you and me. As of this breath, I am yours.
Ren didn’t know what those words meant, but he felt their effect in every fiber of his being. She was inside him, everywhere. He understood her thoughts as if she were standing right beside him, whispering in his ear. She yearned to take this burden from him, but she could not. Her compassion humbled him and mystified him at the same time. How could she think of him at that time? He wanted to cry out, do something, but there was nothing he could do. The Collective had her. They would kill her if he acted. He could see it in their eyes.
Then she was gone. That reality sent him to the brink of madness. The beauty of her feelings covered him with a blanket of protection, but also plunged him into horror – for he could sense when they tortured her.
A gripping fear clutched his chest during her torment, but it was his own fear he sensed, not her own. She still carried the same serenity he had seen in her eyes. Her only true anguish came when they tied her to the ground before the pole of the Collecti
ve, forcing her eyes on the emblem of the perfect circle of snakes.
He had followed the Collective’s trail, but it disappeared in the middle of a muddy field. Only a bottle remained, uncorked and discarded beside the last hoof print. They had vanished into thin air.
A rage built inside him during his search. It was a rage so vast it almost consumed him. He would not stop until he found her. He had ridden back to his father’s lands, where Wyrick was hosting his annual ball. Most kings would be in attendance.
Ren decided to speak to every king about the Collective and plead for support in his cause. Although his father had laughed at his attempts to save the Maker’s chosen, other kings would take his cause more seriously. He hadn’t known about Valor’s involvement until it was too late.
He had made a fatal mistake. Ren leaned his head back against the cold stone. He had underestimated the power of the Collective. And the Maritium woman? He hadn’t sensed her in days. Ren shivered as darkness seeped inside his soul at his failed attempt to save her.
A soft moan startled him. Ren rolled to his feet, suddenly acutely aware of another’s presence. A slight form lay at the far side of the cell, white shirt illuminated by the scant light coming through the narrow slits at the top of the cell door. As Ren approached, a woman’s shape came into focus.
Her soiled shirt hung in shreds. Numerous welts streaked across her back and deep gouges from a lead-tipped whip oozed blood. Muttering a curse, Ren took off his boot and shook out the yellow jim blossoms he had managed to pick on his way to the dragon match. If mixed with water, the petals would form a soothing paste. He had planned on using the petals for his own cuts, but the girl’s wounds required immediate attention. Taking his uneaten bowl of gruel, he quickly scooped out its contents and crushed the petals in its hollow. Pouring in a slight bit of water from the washbasin, Ren began beating the mixture into a healing salve.
He spread the salve over the woman’s wounds, careful not to waste one drop. After he had covered half her back, she stirred.