The Dragon Oracles: Omnibus Edition (The Eastern Kingdom Omnibus Book 1)

by T. J. Garrett

  “I need to know where it’s going, so I can judge the best way to leave. You stay down behind the table.”

  “Leave! We can’t leave. What about the others? They’ll be stuck in Arenthenia.”

  “They’ll have to go back. We are not staying here.”

  “No!” Olivia shouted. “We have to wait.”

  “Keep your voice down. Do you want the dragon to hear you?”

  Olivia coughed as dust began to fall from the ceiling. She could still hear the dragon up on the roof, scraping at the stone and thumping—it was probably trying to force its way in. Now and then, the sound of screams drifted in from the window, and footsteps rang out from the hallway outside. It seemed everyone else was leaving. But she couldn’t. As scared as she was, she would not let Elucia down.

  “There’s another one coming,” Chrissa said. The woman was laying on the floor, peeking over the sill. “No, two dragons. We have to go. Now!”

  Chrissa started crawling back, but before the woman could stand, Olivia ran into the bedroom and locked the door. The Lier’sinn was in there, and she was not going to leave it.

  Her bedroom window looked out over the ocean. Olivia could see the other dragons approaching. One was big and black, the other smaller and a deep green. She could not help but look for the first dragon. The beast was climbing up the south tower, punching its talons into the stone as it moved. It breathed blue fire into every window it passed.

  Stepping back from the window, she picked up the Lier’sinn and moved it to the other table, away from the window, then covered it with a cloth. The dust was falling in this room, too. She knelt down beside the table and braced herself for the attack.

  Chrissa was banging on the door.

  “You open this right now, Olivia. Do you hear me? I’ll knock it down if you don’t. One way or the other, I’m coming in.”

  “I thought you said to keep quiet. You’re making more noise than the dragon.”

  Maybe that would stop the woman. Probably not. Definitely not. A moment later, she heard what sounded like a chair being hammered against the door. Chrissa was going to lead the dragon right to them.

  Olivia scurried across the room and undid the latch.

  Chrissa burst in and grabbed her by the arm. “Come on. We have to go.”

  Olivia pulled herself free. “No! I told you, I’m staying.”

  “You fool child, you’re as stubborn as—”

  Something wasn’t right. The two dragons that were approaching the palace hadn’t landed on the roof.

  Chrissa ran to the window. “They’re attacking the other one.”

  Olivia moved up beside her. Sure enough, the two dragons were swooping down on one that had landed on the south tower, lashing out with their talons.

  “You see; we’re safe,” Olivia said.

  Chrissa gave her a look that said what she thought of that remark. “They’ve given us a chance to escape, Olivia, that’s all. Now, do I have to carry you?”

  “You can try.” Olivia, arms folded, glared at the Chrissa. “I have a job to do, and I’m not abandoning them.”

  Chrissa stared at her as she paced back and forth. Hands on her hips, the woman looked ready to spit nails but didn’t try and force Olivia out.

  “Very well,” Chrissa said. “As long as they are busy fighting each other, we’ll stay. But as soon as they start on the palace again… I want you to promise you will leave.”

  Olivia shook her head. “I’m staying until it’s done.”

  Strangely enough, she had never felt so sure about anything in her life. It felt good.

  Chrissa let out a slow breath and moved back to the window. Hands on the sill, she eyed the dragons and then looked down at the courtyard below. “They’re running all over down there; no order at all.”

  “Then it might not be any safer if I do leave. More assassins could be down there,” Olivia said, hoping her point didn’t seem too contrived.

  Sighing, Chrissa stepped back into the middle of the room and sat down on Olivia’s bed. “All right then, we’ll do it your way.”

  Before Olivia could thank her, she heard a knock on the outside door.

  Odaman, her brother’s emissary, walked into the sitting room. The odd little man gazed about for a moment, eyeing the fallen plaster and half-broken chair, then strolled into the bedroom without so much as a by your leave.

  “Do you mind?” Olivia barked. “Kindly go back to the sitting room and wait.”

  “I’m here on strict orders from His Majesty. I am to escort you down to the dungeons.” Odaman raised his chin. “Now, if you don’t mind, could you please hurry up? I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to.”

  Olivia suddenly became aware that she hadn’t checked the Lier’sinn for a while.

  “I’ll be right out, Odaman, if you’ll just wait in the sitting room.”

  The little man shook his head. “Sorry, the King told me not to take my eyes off you.”

  Olivia gave Chrissa a panicked look, and then surreptitiously nodded over her shoulder in the direction of her table.

  The woman seemed to understand. “Does that extend to watching her change, Mr. Odaman?” Chrissa asked him.

  “Change? There’s a dragon climbing the walls, Sergeant Landon, she doesn’t need to—”

  “We can both wait out here, she won’t be long.” Chrissa all but dragged the man out of the bedroom.

  Once they were gone, Olivia quickly bolted the door and ran to the Lier’sinn. She gasped at the sight of it; the surface of the liquid was calm. Spinning on her heels, she searched for her needle, and then remembered she had left it in the sitting room. Cursing to herself, she tried to think of a way to cut her finger, but there was nothing. Taking off her shoe, she slammed the heel against the mirror hanging above the small fireplace. She had to hammer the thing four times before it finally smashed. Then, without a thought for her bare feet, she picked up a shard and sliced her finger. The blood dripped into the bowl and the Lier’sinn started bubbling. She hoped she wasn’t too late.

  * * *

  Arenthenia shuddered.

  “What was that?” Elspeth asked.

  Brea shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  The sky had flashed from blue to bright orange, and the air crackled as if there were thunderclouds about. Brea looked down the hill. The landscape flickered between that of a clear day and the muggy haze of winter.

  “The fog!” Gialyn said, pointing along the path towards the Road. “It’s coming back. Something must have happened to Olivia.”

  He was right; Brea could see the fog rolling in, much like it had been the first time she had entered Arenthenia. What did it mean? Was the Spirit Realm forcing them out? Bausamon had said the Road was like a gate, only allowing those chosen to enter. But if that were the case, why could she see the fog, too?

  “Calm down, boy,” Elucia said. “It’s not much further.”

  “We won’t have time if this keeps up,” Ealian said.

  “No, we won’t, not if you keep talking.” Elucia tugged at Ealian’s shoulder, spinning him around in the direction of the Road. She pushed him onwards. Ealian gave her a sour look but carried on.

  Again, the ground shuddered, harder this time. The air filled with the noise of distant rumbling. The sky turned orange, and then purple, before returning to blue. Brea could feel the earth tremble beneath her feet, and the wind had turned cold, like a chilled autumn breeze. Even the air in her lungs felt different, heavy, as if full of steam. They had to get out soon.

  “I think it’s time, Arfael,” Brea said, nodding the big man towards Gialyn.

  Arfael apparently knew what she meant by “time,” and immediately picked Gialyn up. Careful not to touch his wound, he cradled the injured boy in his arms, as a mother would a child. Gialyn didn’t complain; he put his arm around Arfael’s neck as if he was expecting as much. Human or not, Arfael still made Gialyn appear small, Brea thought.

  Brea was already runnin
g when Elucia shouted at them to move faster. The sky began to flash. The path turned from white stone to dirt. The air crackled and the fog thickened to a dense film that lay heavy on the ground. The film was already up to her knees and rising. Another few minutes and they wouldn’t be able to see which way to go.

  When they reached the Road, Brea noticed the surface was the same off-white colour it had been during her first visit. The walls of fog hugged the verge on either side, obscuring any view of the surrounding countryside. The sky remained bright purple, no more flickering. Brea had a fair idea of what it all meant; Arenthenia was preparing to push them all out.

  “We’re too late,” Elspeth barked—seemed she had had the same thought—“I told you this wouldn’t work. We’ve wasted hours for nothing.”

  “We’re not too late,” Gialyn said. Arfael had put him down but was still supporting him. “We would not be here if Olivia had lost the connection. Quickly, hold on to me.”

  Brea took his arm, and the others held on where they could: a shoulder, a hand, an elbow.

  “Are you ready?” Gialyn asked. “Good, now hold on.”

  The road stretched to a blur and Brea felt the familiar lurching in her stomach. Elspeth moaned. And Ealian cried, “What the bloody hell are you doing?” When they stopped, the Road was flashing between pure white and a dirty grey colour. The fog was flickering in and out, too, but now and then, on her left, Brea could see what must be Bailryn Palace.

  “This is close enough,” Gialyn said. “I think I can make a portal from here.”

  “Uh, Gialyn…” Elspeth was pointing towards the fog. “Gialyn! Your father… quickly!”

  Brea just managed to grab hold before Elspeth ran into the fog.

  “Let me go! Stop it. Can’t you see! It’s Daric. He’s drowning. Hurry!”

  “It’s nobody,” Elucia told her.

  The older woman took Elspeth’s other arm, and together they pulled her away from the fog.

  “But… what about…?”

  “It’s an illusion,” Brea told her. “You must calm yourself. Arenthenia is trying to push you out, send you back to Eiras.”

  Elspeth stopped pulling. She appeared to come to her senses. Pushing out a heavy sigh, she said, “Can we get out of here now. I’ve had enough of this place.”

  Gialyn held out his hand and a portal formed. The sky turned blue, and the fog began to clear. Brea let out a long sigh. They had made it through.

  * * *

  “You will not bar my way, Sergeant Landon,” Odaman told her. For such a small man, he was surprisingly persistent. “I heard something break in there, now move aside.”

  Chrissa did move, but only to block the little man, again. She didn’t know how much longer she could keep this up. If Olivia were wrong, if anything happened to the princess, she would be looking at the hangman’s noose before day’s end.

  Odaman grabbed her arm and tried to pull her aside. It was a pathetic effort, the man was no stronger that a child. He backed up a pace and kicked her in the shins.

  “Do that again and I’ll kick you back, and not in the shins,” Chrissa said. “I told you, she’ll be out in a minute.”

  “You don’t understand, I have orders. I always follow orders.”

  The little man sounded frantic. Chrissa thought he might pull his dagger if Olivia did not come out soon.

  The latch clicked and the door opened. But instead of Olivia, a woman stepped out of the room, followed by two younger women and two men—one man was holding the other up. Another young man was still in the room, bent over, looking like he might be sick at any moment. Olivia had her hand on his shoulder, offering him a drink.

  “Don’t worry about him,” the old woman said. “He’s just a bit travel sick.”

  Chrissa gaped at the woman. “I would not believe it if my own mother told me.”

  “Believe what?” Odaman barked. “Who are you people? Why are you in the princess’s quarters? Guards!”

  “There’s no need for that,” Olivia told him. “These are my friends, I’ve been exp—”

  The boy who was being held up collapsed onto the rug. One of the young women shrieked.

  “I told you,” the woman moaned. “I told you this was too much for him.”

  “Oh, calm down,” the older woman said.

  Olivia moved back into her chambers. “Bring him through here. Lay him on the bed, I’ll fetch the doctor.”

  Chrissa didn’t know whether to laugh or worry. They were an odd group, no doubt there. It was hard to see how they might be “vital for our victory,” as Olivia had said. Still, they had just travelled magically from Eiras. Maybe there was more to them than met the eye. She hoped so—if not, she still might end up staring at that noose.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Hammer

  Daric’s breakfast had been a meal of dry bread, tasteless porridge, and warm goats’ milk. He had eaten it, but only because he didn’t know when his next meal would be coming. Even so, while sipping at the tepid goats’ milk, he had been in two minds whether to ride over to the Green Man—at least they had fresh fish.

  The conversation, however, was nothing like as bland…

  Mikelmoor had spent the last half hour reading the logistics report aloud. Rage had filled the general’s eyes when he read most of the unused festival food had been earmarked for the residents of the Lampton. Daric had to agree; the soldiers’ morale would take a pummelling if that became common knowledge. Crates of salted pork, pheasant, chicken, and wine, saved for the wealthy! That sort of favouritism could well cause men to desert. Still, Daric had no doubt Mikelmoor would find a way to… divert the food.

  Despite approaching mid-morning, it was barely light outside. Daric had stayed at the Hungry Fisherman to be near the wall. But he needn’t have bothered; aside from a few argumentative guardsman, complaining about the food, nothing much had happened. He had been to the wall a few times during the previous evening. The lights from the Kel’madden camp were the only proof he had seen that an army lay north of the Crescent. Those fires were towards the rear of the enemy’s camp, closer to Barais’coi than to Bailryn. Still, he had kept his runners on the move; Daric had learned from his battles with the Salrians that something always happened when least expected.

  Mikelmoor had been more or less reticent about issuing orders. Daric had concluded that the general was being easy on the men, trying to maintain morale, maybe. The few orders Mikelmoor had given were for hot food and a half-measure of wine to be taken to the lookouts stationed on the trebuchet towers. The general doubtless knew what they were in for; there wouldn’t be much time for food or wine in the days to come.

  “We’ll get that festival food down from the Lambert before lunch, Major,” Mikelmoor said. “And I want a list of all the livestock, too. I’ll not have any of those merchants holding out on us, selling sheep and goats on the black market. You find a good captain to take care of that.”

  Daric nodded. “I know just the man for the job. Briarson has been asking if he can join the archers. The man is too old to stand on the wall, but he’ll enjoy dealing with those rich folk.”

  “Oh yes, Briarson. He has been pestering me, too. Good idea.” The general flicked through the report. “There was something else, but stone me if I can remember what it was.”

  Daric laughed. “You need a secretary. Get Evin on it, she’ll find someone.”

  “I’m a general, Daric, not a bloody silk merchant. Secretaries… pencil pushing know-it-alls. I’ll manage, somehow.”

  “If you say so, sir. But you do realise you have spent an hour staring at that report?”

  “And I’ll spend another hour if needs be. It’s not like there’s anything else to do around here; the captains have the men wound up tight as a drum, any more orders and they’ll be running for the gates. I tell you, Daric; if we’re not careful, those youngsters will wear the men down before an arrow is fired.”

  “Maybe,” Daric said, rubbing his chin. “They nee
d some discipline, though. Most of them have spent their days polishing buttons and keeping the palace square clear of beggars. They’re scared, and good orders keep a man’s hands busy instead of his mind.”

  “True, but like most good things, too much and—”

  Daric heard a noise, and Mikelmoor twisted in his chair to face the window at the front of the common room. “What was that?” the general asked.

  Daric jumped up and ran to the window. “What the—the guards are moving south, towards the palace.”

  By now, Mikelmoor was standing at his side. “Come on. Let’s see what all the fuss is about.”

  Once outside, Daric called over one of the runners. “Report, Corporal. Where’s everyone running to?”

  “The palace, sir. A dragon is attacking the palace. We’ve been ordered back.”

  “And who the bloody hell gave those orders, Corporal” Mikelmoor shouted.

  “General Denisan, sir. He says the orders are from the King, sir.”

  “One dragon,” Daric whispered. It made no sense. Unless… “The wall!”

  Mikelmoor must have thought the same thing; he was already on his way to the gate tower. Daric followed him up the spiral stairs and out onto the parapet.

  Daric peered over the wall just in time to see eight dragons emerging from behind the Crescent. He watched as the beasts rose into the air. Each had a thick rope gripped in its taloned feet. Daric didn’t have to wait and see to know what they were doing. The dragons were pulling four massive siege engines up the steep slope of the Crescent.

  Daric knew—as did Mikelmoor—that the enemy would likely use their dragons for something like this. Mikelmoor’s plan had been to deploy the trebuchets and man the crossbows. But the parapet was almost empty, and only the loaders were manning the catapults.

  Daric gazed towards the south. From where he was standing, he could just see beyond the palace. Two more dragons were flying up the coast from the Halem Road. Daric knew, from the dragon’s size, one of them was Tor. The Gan would defend the palace—especially against a single Gaw dragon. But what about the eight dragging those siege engines over the Crescent? Had Tor seen them, too? Could Daric expect half-a-dozen Gan to come flying over the southern wall? He hoped so; with his archers on their way to the palace, there was nothing he could do but watch those machines draw ever closer.