The Dragon Writers Collection

by DragonWritersCollective

  Nearly losing his footing on the slippery gangplank, he thought a moment about letting himself fall into the dark waters, taking the precious crystal with him. It was so tempting. He would be free of his bonds at last, freed from the cruelty of his existence. Again, a vision of Catrin came to his mind. She glowed so brightly, and she lured him, just as the scent of roses draws the honeybee. She was brave and powerful, beautiful yet humble. He drew strength from her and climbed aboard the ship determined to find her. He would join her, and together they would be free.

  She gave me a name. She gave me power. And, one day, I will be free.

  ~

  Be sure to grab your copy Dragon Ore,

  the exciting conclusion to The Dawning of Power trilogy.

  About MR Mathias

  M.R. Mathias rose from unknown to award-winning, best-selling author at a pace most authors can only dream about. He is a prolific writer of epic fantasy novels, novellas, and short stories. Despite his busy writing, publishing, and promotional schedule Mathias continues to aid his fellow indie authors by posting about their books at Twitter and Facebook etc.

  He shared his considerable knowledge of self-promotion in publishing The First Ten Steps. The book has become an important indie guide for navigating the often murky waters of using social media sites to get your eBook in front of avid readers.

  Mathias has taken cross promotion to a new level in his "Indie Kindy" giveaways where he gives away a FREE Kindle Touch and or Kindle Fire loaded with independently published books. These events create a great deal of interest for the authors involved and to independently published books as a whole.

  It is a pleasure working with M.R. Mathias and watching his amazing run at the top of the Amazon best seller lists.

  William R. Potter

  Indie author

  Founder of the Independent Author Network

  From the Author:

  The jewel you see glowing in the ring in my old authors photo isn't really a jewel at all. It is the crystallized tear of a real dragon. In my novel "The Royal Dragoneers" you might find the moment where this wonderfully magical tear drop fell from a green dragons eye. It hardened on its way down to land in a mess of troll corpses that the dragon was laying on.

  My grandfather died before I was born, but the ring was given to me by my mother, after my grandmother recently died. My grandfather had apparently won it in a poker game near the Red River between Texas and Oklahoma sometime in the early 1900's.

  It has been a boon, the magic of the teardrop, for it brought you here to me didn't it? Now treat yourself to something fantastic and try out the free sample of one of my novels. I hope you enjoy the journey. It will be spectacular. Thanks M.R. Mathias

  You can check out the rest of my books on my Amazon Author Page

  Or on my website: www.mrmathias.com

  Tweet me on Twitter

  Or connect on Facebook

  www.DragonWritersCollective.com

  "KING OF FOOLS"

  Copyright 2011 by Michael Robb Mathias Jr.

  by M. R. Mathias

  His movements were so swift that not a single person who was attending court the day he killed good King Rigert III saw him do the deed. None, save for the fool. But the fool was tight lipped, and always kept the myriad of things he'd seen and heard over his long life in the palace to himself. Especially what he saw the day the king’s head suddenly fell off, and tumbled to the floor.

  In the silence that followed the beheading, the under-aged, over-fed Queen exploded into tormented howls of anguish. Her sobbing moans echoed around the polished white marble walls of the throne room, causing even the most hardened of men to wince.

  Since no one saw the murder, or the murderer, it was believed that the gods simply decided that it was time for a new king. Others believed that the third king, in a string of well loved and primarily good kings, had actually done something specific to anger the gods. A few of the more intelligent folks thought that somehow an invisible assassin, or some crafty sorcery, was behind it all. The working class in the cobbles thought that the Queen was involved, or that it was all just another false rumor being spread. Though not educated in anything more than their particular trades, even a commoner knew that a man’s head didn't just fall off in mid-sentence. None of them, though, were thinking correctly, and that was how it was intended. Only the fool knew the truth.

  The fool tried not to think about what's or why's. He had seen the man, as plain as day, when he stepped out from the hanging tapestry behind the throne. He felt the world around him slow, and he heard the king's voice drop in tone, until it slurred into an inaudible jumble. The fool’s eyes met the killer’s for an instant, and the fool saw something powerful in them, something dangerous. The fool watched helplessly, as the demigod, or demon, or whatever the mannish thing was, stepped out to swing a clean, two-handed arc with a glistening blade before stepping back into nothingness. The world then snapped back into sync, but the king’s voice had stopped, and the several dozen petitioners, counselors, and nobles in the hall, all paused in courtesy, politely waiting for him to continue what he had been saying.

  The words never came. Instead, the king’s mouth opened absently, and then snapped shut like a fish. His eyes closed and a thin, dark line of bright, dripping red formed like a choker around his neck. As the first gasps escaped from the onlookers, the king’s head fell off. It tumbled down the pedestal’s white marble steps, and bounced to a wobbling stop on the audience floor.

  A small lake of blood pooled underneath the throne, and slowly found its way to the steps. While a handful of maidens stormed in to calm the queen, a dozen rivulets of crimson trickled their way down the treads. The blood contrasted starkly with the bleach white marble. The image froze in the fool’s mind. So powerful and all consuming was this picture in his head that he was ultimately compelled to try and paint the scene.

  Now, he stood in front of his work in progress, adding a stroke here and a brush stroke there, trying to perfect it. He hoped that finishing the painting would free his mind of the morbid, yet beautifully glistening waterfall of blood for good. The only problem was that the fool saw the killer’s face in his mind’s eye. It peeked out from behind the tapestry, staring straight at him.

  He tried to paint the face several times, but a hot discomfort churned in his stomach when it began to resemble the killer. Without the face on the canvas, the painting wouldn’t be complete. So the fool painted, and repainted. Sometimes he just stood there for hours on end, staring aimlessly at his work, until hunger or fatigue pulled him away.

  For months and months this went on. The new king, a younger, more excitable king than any of the Rigert’s had been, found no use for an old, obsessed fool. The fool was moved to an old room in a nearly-deserted wing of the palace. He was replaced by a younger, more inexperienced court jester, who, along with the new king’s help, managed to offend several neighboring kingdoms at a variety of social functions. Some of these offended kings banded together in boycott, and the new king and his new fool were planning to wage war against them for their insolence. There was sure to be much blood spilled after winter passed.

  The old fool was unaware of these problems. He'd once been the true king of his kingdom. Knowledgeable in every aspect of politics, wise to those who were busily backstabbing, fornicating, or just plain too inept to do their part. He'd often whispered into the king’s ear the right things to say and do. He eased tension in the throne room, and entertained at gatherings with tricks and humor. He flattered the ladies with come-ons or well placed pinches, then steered their minds toward the kingdom’s goals, while planting seeds in their heads to share his opinions with their husbands and sons. He arranged marriages, did back flips across the court yard, and on one occasion even poisoned a visiting archery team just so that the king’s nephew might stand a chance at winning a widely coveted prize. He'd even talked down a veteran general. He spiked the man’s ale in front of all the nobles and then escorted his wif
e onto a hidden balcony for a romp.

  The old fool had been the heart of the realm. Without his wisdom and charm the kingdom was crumbling. The new court jester could make the new king laugh, but that was all he could do. He was forever mocking the wrong person. When the new king laughed at this fool’s improper jests, someone important was nearly always offended. The new fool and his king were not evil men, but both were strong willed, both far too willing to embarrass smaller kingdoms publicly. The new king was also too willing to resort to the headsmen's ax when dealing with solicitors. The old fool could have gathered all the parties preparing to ride into battle, and with a few well told jokes, a little tumbling, a whisper here and concession or two there, and perhaps a few working girls, could have had them all ready to toast one another’s excellence.

  Back in his little room the old fool was totally unaware of all the problems facing his beloved kingdom. He stood smiling at his masterpiece. Finally, it was complete. Exactly how he'd pictured it in his head. Even the face of the assassin was done just right. The old fool, for the first time since King Rigert lost his head, felt clean and refreshed. No longer was he weighed down and consumed with the gruesome vision.

  He shuddered with fear as he looked at the haunting eyes of the swordsman looking directly back at him from the canvas. He thought the killer’s eyes blinked, then shifted away for a second. He cursed himself for thinking such a crazy thought, but there it was again! A glance to the side from the man-like thing he'd painted. This time the fool was sure he'd seen it.

  The next afternoon, when he'd finally talked himself out of believing that the king slayer’s eyes had moved, the ancient servant woman who'd been bringing him his meals appeared to gather his laundry for wash. He told her that he thought he was ready to return to his duty as the kingdom’s jester. He explained that since the painting was now complete, he could get back to work without being distracted. The kindly woman didn't have the heart to tell him that his old job was filled, and that there was no room for his joyous humor in a kingdom busy gearing up for war. Instead, she told him that she'd take him to see the new king on the morrow. He could learn on his own of the terrible state the new king and his jester had the kingdom in. She wasn’t even sure the new king would see him. He certainly hadn’t sent the old fool to this vacant wing to live. She, and a few others, had done that out of love for him. For all she knew, the new king might think him dead, or in the dungeon, or even long gone from the palace. He probably didn’t think of the old fool at all.

  She smiled at the old jester and was rewarded. He turned a sudden cartwheel then flipped over backwards and struck a perfect landing. Then he bowed to her as regally as any ever had before. Her smile broadened. She hoped the new king wouldn’t put him in the streets. She wasn’t sure that the fool should even be let back into the throne room, much less in front of the king. His obsession with painting King Rigert III’s murder scene seemed quite insane to her.

  The old fool watched her disappear down the long hallway, then turned back to his painting. He tried to scream when he saw it, but no sound came. He stood frozen in shock, with bulging eyes and a wide open mouth. Never, in his long, well- traveled life, had he been this scared, or amazed. Not even the day the king lost his head. The killer’s face was gone from the canvas. Even the slight bulge in the tapestry that the killer hid behind was gone. Vanished.

  An icy, cold hand suddenly clamped down on his shoulder. Without a thought, the fool flipped forward into a cartwheel, then spun around to make a break for the door. He found the doorway filled with the huge, leather- clad body of the king slayer.

  The man put his hands up in a show of passiveness. "I think, of all people, a fool would be smart enough not to paint the face of the one who killed the king." He shifted to an even less threatening position. "Especially a face that only one certain fool happened to see."

  The fool was scared. He was well aware of the abilities of some of the northern wizards. He'd read the reports from nearly all of the kingdom’s many exploration charters. They told of numerous strange and wild creatures that possessed all sorts of magical and supernatural abilities. But he'd never heard, nor read, of a person able to step right out of a painting. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this was a powerful thing standing before him. The cobwebs of his mind, gathered in the months of inactivity since the king’s death, faded like a shadow at high noon.

  "Good sir," the fool said, hiding his nervousness completely. He bowed deeply, then raised his head and smiled. "You've startled me…I must say." The fool straightened himself and raised his fists in a mock gesture of aggression. He stepped forward, then back-flipped into the farthest corner of his room. "I assure you sir, that my painting, however immaculate, wasn’t bound to be displayed to anyone! Why, I may be the only one who saw what you did, but cross my heart, and hope to die, I am also the only one who's seen the painting!" The old fool paused, and with a silly, shameful expression, looked down at his boots. "Well, save for Maralyne, the servant lady that feeds me…and…well…maybe Dudle the Gardener. He got a glimpse of it the other day when he brought in the tators." The fool paused again, then, suddenly burst into laughter, spun around in a circle, and raised his arms triumphantly. “Oh…oh…But, it wasn’t finished when Dudle was here. So, he didn’t see you! Don’t you see?"

  "A true and wily fool you are!" The leather clad man said with a grin. His perfect teeth were so white that it made the rest of his weathered, sun-darkened, face seem even more sinister. He brushed his long, dirty, brown hair back with his hand. His arm was as big around as the fool’s waist. Then he stepped out of the doorway and sat down on the fool’s bed.

  The length and width of his worn leather scabbard wasn’t lost on the fool. The fool figured right then that he had a coin flip of a chance at getting by the man without getting cleaved in two.

  "I had to kill him." The king slayer said, flatly. "They didn’t give me a choice in the matter. And it was for the best in the long run."

  "I had to kill him…" The fool mocked the man’s sincere voice. "It was for the best! Bah!" He stepped backwards, and plopped down on a small wooden chest, putting his arms across his chest like a pouting child. "Who, or what, could make a man, with powers such as yours, do something they didn’t want to do? Why did you have to kill King Rigert?" The question was asked severely, without room for humor or evasion.

  "I am an assassin of the void!" The man replied. "I have lived three hundred sixty nine years. I have ended more lives than you could imagine, but I've given as many lives hope and freedom. A chance to grow and prosper. I wield my blade in the name of righteousness. My only masters are the gods of life and death, and my only limits are the limits of the void in between!" He looked long and hard at the fool, then his eyebrows narrowed into a scowl. "You'll do well not to mock me, little one… It was surely you who influenced that idiot of a king to make peace with each and every kingdom in the realm!"

  Confused, but not showing it in the least, the old fool barked a laugh of disgust. "So, he was an idiot for making this land a land of peace!" The fool stood and turned, then bent over and pointed his buttocks at the man. He looked through the gap between his legs and said, "If you truly fight for what is right, mighty assassin, then tell me why you killed the king for making peace?"

  The assassin cocked his head and grinned again. "A fool, such as you, should be able to reason that out. In a day, or two, anyway. Here's an answer for you though, so I don’t have to wait here in the physical realm for you to figure it out." The huge assassin of the void put his elbows on his knees and stared straight at the fool with hard intense eyes. "Can a man and his family live in peace, and still go hungry? Still live unsheltered? Can a slaver operate without a war? Can war bring hope and change to those who need it most? Can peace leave those in need unheard and unseen? Can war force those who abuse their status to listen, and see those that they are blind to? Can war bring change? Does peace really ever exist, little fool? You have to open up your e
yes wide enough to see more than what is right in front of you. A river of blood may mean that some may suffer, and that some may die, but it also means that others have found hope, pride, and that change has a chance to occur… It’s the balance that I am sworn to keep!"

  "Changes can be made without war!" The fool snapped. He did a half-flip sideways and landed seated back upon his wooden chest. "Some of that hubbub may be true, but you didn’t have to kill King Rigert!"

  "There you’re wrong, fool," the assassin said as he stood up. "Another ruler is coming, one that has ruled before. A man that’s fair, good, and not blind to the consequences of his actions. A man that can find and keep the balance of power tilted toward the people that need it most…at least, I hope he can. So far, he's proven to be stubborn, and hard headed. At least he's able to entertain those with whom he holds council with, even if he hasn’t bothered to look beyond his nose."

  "A new king, a wonderful king, blah! Blah! Blah!" The fool mocked. "You still haven't told me why you had to kill King Rigert!" The fool’s eyes turned sad. "He was my friend."