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

by T. J. Garrett

  Sensing her made him want to leap out—leap and attack—but he held his nerve; he had waited too long to waste this chance. Steadying his breathing, he visualised the scene, pictured how he would react when he saw her: Two long strides… Must be quick… Two long strides. Then swipe—cut her throat out!

  The guard stationed outside the big tent drew the flap to the side. Arfael knew who would be coming out, but he waited for the few seconds it took Vila to emerge. He coiled back, and with a loud grunt, leapt into the air. Landing hard, he pushed forward with one long stride and—

  Vila raised her hand. Arfael caught a glimpse of the Shard she was holding, then a blinding light engulfed the clearing. He ran into what felt like a stone wall…

  He found himself lying on his back, staring up at the black clouds. A sharp pain pulsed in his head and neck as if someone had hit him with a hammer. Sitting up, he saw Vila a few paces in front, smiling at him. Beside her, a tall… man was standing, staring at him.

  Arfael blinked and shook the dizziness away. It wasn’t a man! It had arms, legs, and a head, in the same proportions as a human, but it was black and covered in scales. Its lizard-like head turned to Vila.

  She raised her hand. The creature seemed to stand at ease.

  It was like him, Arfael realised. No, the creature didn’t look like him, but it was born of the same Power. It could have been his brother. That thought made him shudder.

  He knew the creature was Fa’rann, one of the six Sentriachs: the original Oracles. But he didn’t know how he knew. Nor did he know how Vila’slae had managed to control the demon. It should have been able to crush her with a single thought. Was Vila really that powerful?

  The demon had long talons and thick muscular arms. It was tall, probably a hand taller than he was—the top of Vila’s head barely reached its waist. But its face was what held Arfael’s gaze. Yes, it looked like a lizard’s face, but all too human. Its eyes seemed to shine with a bright orange glow. Its nose, although wide and scaly, looked like a man’s. Strangest of all, a dozen small horns made a crown around its head—a crown of bone. The demon was thin; its waist seemed no more round than one of its legs were. But for all that, it still looked like a man: a cursed, demon of a man.

  “Diobael might reward me for killing you,” Vila said. “He would likely give me more Power than any other Oracle. Ash’mael himself would serve me.” Arfael heard gasps coming from those gathered in the clearing. Vila raised her hand to stop the chatter. She waited a moment, then, “But Diobael will not have me, Cinnè’arth.” She flashed a quick glanced at the creature. “I have my own destiny.”

  Vila took a step forward. She caressed the stone as she stared down at him. She whispered, so only he could hear, “Why would I bend a knee to him, when I could have it all to myself?”

  Arfael felt his throat tighten. He tried to speak, but no words would come. He felt as if he was teetering on the edge of a cliff; one wrong move and he would fall. But fall into what? A familiar feeling came over him; he had been here before. His skin crawled, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Vila. What was she doing to him…? No! Not doing; what had she done to him?

  “So… you remember,” Vila said, smiling.

  Yes, he could remember—the feeling of drunken obedience he had endured at the hands of Vila’slae. Back then, it had taken a battle to break the bond she had held over him, a battle that ended with him cursed for over a century. But, as familiar as the feeling was, this was different…

  He could see the ties with which Vila was attempting to bind him—thin lines of twine that looked like tendrils of glowing silk. The tendrils pulsed as they moved across his body. It was as if they were feeling around for a way inside him. They recoiled each time he denied them—though he didn’t know how he was denying them.

  One of the tendrils moved to his hand and brushed the bare skin of his palm. The touch instantly warmed his hand, as if he was holding it in front of a roaring fire. The warmth began to spread, first to his wrist, then to his elbow. Arfael relaxed as the wave of heat made its way towards his shoulder. A sense of calm came over him. He wanted to lay down and sleep right where he sat. Smiling, he looked up at Vila—her still smiling face—

  “NO!” Arfael shouted. “You will not have me! Not again!”

  The triumphant look in her eye had jolted him from his revelry. He fought to escape the glowing twine that had now encased his left arm in an effervescent glow. He yanked at it, kicked at it. Finally, with a hard pull that felt like he was wrenching his heart from his chest, he snapped the tendril.

  Vila’slae was struggling with the Shard. Her arm outstretched, she looked as if she were trying to push it on him. The tendrils flayed about in mid-air; it seemed his outburst had stopped them all. The thin cords of light stabbed in all directions, like a scorpion striking in the dark. Some of them turned on Vila.

  “No!” she said. “You are mine!”

  Her arm began to shake, and Arfael felt a different warmth. This time, it covered him from head to foot, as if the witch herself was radiating heat.

  Only it wasn’t heat, it was the Power—his power, the power she had stolen all those years ago. She had taken it from him, and only now did he realise it was missing! The Power surged. For a moment, Arfael felt numb. A sweet taste filled his mouth, like honeywine. She was losing; he could sense it. Another minute and everything she was would be gone—power and all.

  “Come back to me, Cinnè’arth!” Vila hissed. “Nooooo!”

  The Shard began to glow. Vila held the stone as if it was a hot coal. She turned her head to the creature. “Away!” she growled through gritted teeth. “Take him away!”

  The world blurred, and Arfael was no longer in the clearing. He shivered as a wave of cold washed over him, then shook his head to clear his vision. A light had surrounded him for a few moments, a light as bright as the sun, but not at all painful to look at. As the light dimmed, Arfael thought he could see a road surrounded by mist, but no sooner had the road appeared than it vanished to nothing.

  He stood in a vast field, surrounded by puddles of mud. The north wall of Bailryn was in the near distance, and beyond it he could see the palace. He was back in the real world, and by the look of it, standing in the middle of a battlefield.

  Armoured King’s men, their clothes muddied and armour dented, stabbed their pikes at Kel’madden troopers. The troopers slashed back at them with long swords and axes. All around, Arfael could hear the cries of the dying. The sounds filled his head as if they were consuming his mind: the cries of attack, the screams of pain, the curses of the fallen. Every note bit at Arfael’s throat, choking him with panic.

  He fought to gain his bearing. Blinking, he glanced around. The Kel’madden camp was to his right, and the Crescent to his left. The battlefield stood dead centre.

  Suddenly, Arfael heard a chorus of screams, as if a dozen men had died all at once. Facing south, he could see the creature hacking a swath through the King’s men. He stared in disbelief, as the Surabhan appeared to stand there and wait for the creature’s attack.

  “Move!” he shouted at one group. None turned their heads towards him. He ran forward until he was but a few paces away. “Don’t just stand there, RUN!” Again, the Surabhan ignored him.

  Arfael grabbed one man by the shoulder. The man began to scream…

  “It’s on me! It’s on me!” the man shouted, as he tried to brush Arfael’s hand away.

  Arfael let go. Staring at his hand, he realised the Surabhan couldn’t see him. And likely as not, they couldn’t see the creature, either.

  He staggered back as the wounded ran from their invisible attacker. Another man ran right through him. How is it I can touch them, but they can’t…?

  Arfael ignored the question. Gathering his wits, he turned to face the creature. Its bristling black skin seemed to pulse at every strike of its huge, taloned claws. It moved lightly across the field, striking out at random as soldiers passed within its reach. The creature seeme
d to revel in the carnage it was causing. Now and then, it would turn to Arfael with a broad grin on its too-human face. Arfael stared back and felt the heat of anger rushing through his veins.

  The wind seemed to rise as he took a step forward. Pulling his sword from its hilt, he leapt to the creature’s side. He was about to stab at it, but the creature flicked his hand back, sending Arfael flying ten paces through the air.

  He landed on his back; the wind knocked out of him. Gasping for breath, he rubbed at his chest where the creature had struck. His scale-over-leaf armour had disintegrated, and his own steel skin was bubbling, dribbling down his chest. Groping around where he lay, he picked up a helmet that had been discarded and pushed the steel against his bare skin. The helmet melted, and spread steel across his chest. He threw away what was left of the helmet, then propped himself up on his elbow.

  The creature was still attacking the Surabhan. Even the Kel’madden were staying clear. Arfael couldn’t blame them; watching a man die for no apparent reason would be enough to stop any soldier in their tracks.

  Arfael got to his knees and then used his sword as a crutch to stand. He steadied himself, then picked up a shield off a dead guard. It was small, but it would be better than nothing. He leaped at the creature. Again, it flicked him away as if he was no more than an annoying insect.

  Arfael threw away the ruined shield, then flexed his wrist and elbow. His armour was intact, but another hit like that would likely break his arm. He looked up. The creature spared him a contemptuous glance before continuing with its slaughter.

  It must have killed a hundred men. More! Arfael glanced around at the dead as panic filled his chest. What could he do? It seemed that the harder he tried, the more fiercely the creature attacked. It was as if it was mocking him, daring him to put a stop to it—or try to.

  He noticed one of the dead Surabhan was still holding his pike—if he couldn’t get close, maybe he could use that to slow the demon down. Standing, he pulled the pike from the dead man’s grip. Taking a deep breath, he set his sights on the creature and—

  ARFAEL!

  The Voice seemed to come from everywhere. As Arfael listened, all the sounds of battle diminished, until he was standing in a world of silence.

  ARFAEL!

  “Olam? Is that you?” Arfael whispered.

  YOU MUST STOP, ARFAEL. YOU ARE FEEDING IT. CAN’T YOU SEE WHAT YOU ARE DOING?

  “Olam! Where are you?”

  STOP IT, ARFAEL. FIND PEACE! LOVE! MERCY! REMEMBER THE BALANCE!

  Arfael span around in a circle as the sounds of battle slowly reappeared. “Olam! Come back!”

  He shouted his plea to the heavens but already knew his friend had gone. “Peace, love, mercy…? The Balance?” What did that mean? He didn’t think the creature would back down just because he asked it nicely.

  You are feeding it! Can’t you see what you are doing?

  Abruptly, Arfael remembered something…

  The caves at Barais’gin were cold and dark when Arfael followed the witch through the tunnels. He had searched for hours before finding her standing on the edge of a precipice. An enormous snake-like creature was standing in front of her. It had the upper-body and head of a man. Its snake body coiled around what looked like a stone altar.

  “…and what if it doesn’t work, Ash’mael? What then?” Vila asked.

  “You know the prophecy as well as I,” Ash’mael said. “If we are to defeat Diobael, we must have the dragons under control. The Dragonkin could have delivered them to us. But thanks to you, Arlyn Gan’ifael is the only one left. You cannot kill him!”

  “But I can control the—”

  “Whatever control you may gain over the dragons will be temporary.” Ash’mael slithered around to the other side of the Altar. “No Vila. I would kill you before I let harm come to him.”

  “Is that why you sent the Karakin after me?” Vila asked. Her voice was quiet but full of disdain.

  “You needed to learn your lesson, Oracle. You will move when I say, and stop this futile powermongering.”

  “But if I control Aleras, it will be that much easier to place our forces.”

  “This battle won’t be won with swords and spears. Have you learned nothing? Your task was to intervene in the Toi civil war so you could reach out to the Cinnè’arth. And what did you do— you killed half of them. You should grateful I haven’t sent you to join your fallen comrades, not stand there demanding to rule all of Moyathair.”

  “Someone has to act. And you are bound to the tunnel—”

  “Enough!”

  Ash’mael raised his hand and a flash of light filled the chamber.

  Blinded by the light, Arfael tripped and fell. Scrambling, he tried to grab a hold on the sharp rocks, but his grip failed him. Another flash of light, and Arfael felt his head bash against the chamber floor. He blinked away the white flecks that danced in front of his eyes and tried to stand. Stumbling, he felt a hand on his shoulder and then a wave of nausea forced him to his knees. Shaking, he tried to look up, but…

  When he opened his eyes again, he found himself lying on a damp slab of rock. It was dark, the air smelled of rain. Sitting up, he tugged at the shirt he was wearing, wondering why it was in tatters, and looked around.

  “Where am I…? Who am I?”

  “She is… using me.” Arfael whispered.

  Her curse had not just confined him to a century of searching, wondering who he was; she had taken his Power! His Gift! The gift all the Cinnè’arth possessed. She had taken the Dragonkin, that part of him that was one with the Voice—the dragon’s voice.

  The creature was ten paces away.

  Arfael threw down the pike. “Fa’rann!” he shouted.

  The creature stopped attacking and turned to him. It rushed forward. Taking Arfael by the throat, it lifted him off the ground.

  “Not now!” Fa’rann growled. “You had your chance, Cinnè’arth. This is mine.”

  The creature flexed its other hand, and Arfael knew what it meant by “This.”

  “Sorry, Fa’rann,” Arfael said. He could feel the smile on his face widening. “You’ll have to find another way.”

  The creature’s hand started to shake. He dropped Arfael and took a step backwards. Arfael spread his arms wide and allowed his armour to flow away. Closing his eyes, he returned to his human form. The creature roared as Arfael shrunk back to his normal size.

  “Time for you to go,” Arfael said.

  The creature moved closer until his face was an inch from Arfael’s. It was breathing heavily. The bright orange of its eyes had begun to dim. “Ash’mael warned me not to trust the witch… or you. We will meet again, Cinnè’arth.”

  As Arfael stared into the creature’s eyes, a moment passed that seemed to last forever. He could feel the connection like a cord binding them together. He knew if he pulled hard enough, if he broke that cord, they would both die. The creature seemed to understand his thoughts. It smiled at him, then turned and ran into the darkness. Arfael followed with his eyes until Fa’rann was gone from sight. And once he was alone, he felt the warmth return. A whisper echoed in his mind. He couldn’t make out the words, but he knew Olam was there. And his old friend was happy.

  The light returned, and Arfael closed his eyes again. When he opened them, he was back in the clearing among the tents of Vila’s camp.

  He looked around. To his left, General Turasan stood with a dozen troopers, all with their swords out, and pointed at him; to his right, three dragons were standing where the hundred troopers had been. The troopers were still there, circling the dragons, but as far away as they could get while still remaining inside the clearing. Vila was kneeling in front of him.

  The witch was holding the Shard out in front of her. She was struggling not to drop it. The stone looked like any other, no more flashing lights.

  “Noooo,” she whispered. Her voice was coarse, harsh, like she had not had a drink in three days. “It can’t be. No!”

 
Arfael stepped forward and took the stone from her. Vila feebly made a grab for it, but there was no strength left in her. She ended up sprawled on the ground, moaning incoherently.

  Turasan moved forward, his sword drawn.

  But before the general could strike, Sek roared, “You will leave him be.”

  “But… but… you are on our side,” the general said, gaping up at the dragon.

  Sek slowly shook his head. “Not anymore.”

  The Black Dragon craned his head back and blew a thirty-foot high plume of blue flame into the air. All around, dragon imitated his actions. Arfael could hear the beasts roaring on all sides.

  Sek stepped forward and, swinging his long neck, moved his head so his snout was a mere hand from Turasan’s face. “You will listen to me, General. For far too long, we have followed this witch to our ruin. It ends tonight. You can come back to Toi’ildrieg with me or you can die where you stand. The choice is yours. But hear this: live or die, the siege is over. I have no interest in the quarrels of men; none of you can be trusted. There is too much at stake to play your games any longer. Make your choice, General; do you live, or do you die?”

  Turasan blinked. “But we are winning. Another hour, two at most. Bailryn could be ours!”

  The Black Dragon did not move a muscle. “Live or die, General. Choose, or I will choose for you.”

  Turasan swallowed hard. He sheathed his sword, then stood at attention. “Live! I choose to live.”

  Sek, nodding at the general, sat back on his haunches, then turned to Arfael. “So… are you going to kill her, or shall I?”

  Arfael looked down at the woman now sobbing on the ground in front of him. He had hated her, but his hatred—his weakness—had been used against him for too long. The Balance needed mercy; that is what Olam had said. An army will not win this battle; the fight resides in the hearts of good man and women.