Return to Dragon Planet: Book one of the Dragon Planet Trilogy

by S A Robertson

  Aside from the throne room and his royal bedchamber, the training rooms were where High King Zerian spent most of his time. Having been schooled in the arts of swordplay ever since he was a small child, it was said—and without flattery—that he was one of the finest fencers in this or any kingdom. It was an honour, therefore, to be chosen from the elite ranks of the army to spar with the High King. But, like the weapon that Zerian twirled in his hand, such an honour was a double-edged sword.

  “Get up and try again,” Zerian instructed as his young sparring partner winced and picked himself up from the floor. The sparring armour, with its low-level force field, protected the elf from any real damage. However, every now and again the edge of Zerian’s sword flicked so quickly that it somehow managed to penetrate the glistening veneer. A nasty gash had already opened across the soldier’s chin, and he sustained another to his left hand. A few inches lower and it would have cut off one of his fingers, and no amount of Terevellian water would have been able grow it back.

  The young elven soldier steadied himself. Against the long racks Zerian’s squire—an elven child tasked with waiting on the High King at almost every hour of the day—watched with a mixture of sympathy and concern. No wonder. Old rumours still circulated of how the High King would sometimes become so angry with the quality of his sparring partners that he demanded they dispense with their power armour entirely to teach them better instincts of survival. And while it may have simply been idle gossip, one old story was still doing the rounds that suggested one soldier had died in the process.

  “Are you ready?”

  Zerian, dressed in little more than a thin, sweat-soaked shirt and soft leather breeches, drained a goblet of wine that was set on a wooden table close by. The High King had no need of any sparring armour. The young soldier, for all his efforts, had not even challenged his opponent’s defences.

  “Yes, sire.” The young elf didn’t look ready. He looked scared.

  Zerian put down his cup. He turned. “Then marshal your defences.”

  Even for an elf, the High King moved at incredible speed and grace. Before the young elf had even time to adjust his stance, Zerian was upon him, blade sweeping down with barely a visible blur. In a panic, the young elf just about managed to swing his sword to meet it, and the two weapons rang against each other like tuning forks. Zerian smiled. “Good,” he said. “You’re learning.” Then, with a flick of his wrist, he twisted his blade beneath his opponent’s, and almost disarmed him, leaving the young elf no time to make an attack of his own. Instead, Zerian was already throwing his full weight against the trembling curtain of protection between them and bowling the young elf back into a rack of spears. His opponent let out a cry of surprise as he clattered into the weapons and tried to lift his sword again, only for Zerian to slash at the blade with such force it was jarred from the young elf’s grip.

  A narrow look of displeasure passed over Zerian’s cruel face. He lifted his sword up, hovering it at the young elf’s chin, the force field crackling slightly against the razor-sharp tip.

  “This is worrisome,” said the High King, “that one of my soldiers is so easily disarmed. I wonder how you might fare in a real battle.”

  The young elf blinked back sweat that was leaking into his eyes. He was also aware that the king’s sword was slowly inching its way through the faint, shimmering curtain of protection. If Zerian applied enough pressure, even the force field would not stop the blade. It would soon pierce the elf’s throat.

  “My apologies, sire,” the young elf gasped. “Let me try again.”

  The High King’s eyes were lightless. He didn’t seem to hear the young elf’s plea.

  “Sire? Sire…I can do better…”

  Then the doors to the training room burst open.

  To the young elf’s relief, the King’s Tree Reader, Crosas, shambled into the room. It was enough to jog Zerian from his trance, and the fog seemed to lift from the High King’s eyes. He lowered his sword.

  “Your Highness,” Crosas bowed deeply, “Forgive the interruption.”

  Zerian grunted. He continued to stare at the young elf soldier for a moment, as he was deciding how he might be best punished for his ineptitude, before slowly turning to his wizard and saying, almost casually, “Ah, there you are, Crosas. I was wondering where you had got to these last few hours.”

  “I have been engaged in the Depths, Highness. And I have much to report.”

  “Do you now? Very well…” Zerian glanced back to his opponent with barely restrained disdain. “You may go. And train better. Or I’ll hear about it from your captain.”

  “Yes, Highness. Of course, Highness.”

  Hurriedly, the young soldier placed his sword back in the rack and almost ran from the training room. Zerian’s squire following quickly after.

  Languidly, Zerian wandered to a nearby table where he propped his sword and lifted a goblet of wine again. He blotted some beads of sweat on his forehead with the back of his sleeve and drank deeply. When his thirst was quenched, he said, “Well?”

  Crosas took a step forward. “It’s the dragon, sire.”

  “The dragon? What about it?”

  “The goblin told me. The goblin who was captured by our two eagle riders in the Throgorolind. He says he’s a pilot. Transporting a hunting party. They have come to slay the dragon.”

  Zerian looked across to Crosas as if he had misheard. “Are you sure?”

  “There can be no doubt, sire. I extracted the truth from him by the thorn. The goblin told me that his ship crashed in the Deep Forest, brought down by wyverns. He was tasked to repair it, but the hunting party continued their quest regardless. And by my estimate, they are already out of our reach.”

  Zerian stared at Crosas with a mixture of disbelief and gathering anger. The dragon? But it just wasn’t possible. And yet he supposed he had sensed it deep inside the kernel of his being even so. The Balance was being compromised. He felt it like a change in the wind.

  “Sire?” Crosas wrung his hands. “What’s to be done?”

  High King Zerian said nothing at first. Instead, he put down his goblet, turned on his heel and headed for a set of balcony doors, throwing them open. Bright afternoon sunlight swept into the dark training hall, enough to make Crosas shy. Then Zerian stalked out onto the wooden balcony, waiting until his elder wizard scuttled quickly after, although he hesitated to step onto the balcony and join his king. Zerian sneered. He knew of Crosas’s weakness with heights, but he had little patience in that moment.

  “Come here, Crosas,” he instructed. “Stand beside me.”

  Uneasily, the Elder Wizard hobbled forward until he was standing just behind the King’s shoulder. Zerian looked back to the commanding view of the lands surrounding the Tree.

  “So?” he said. “Tell me, what do you see?”

  “Sire?”

  Zerian gestured out before him. “What do you see?”

  Squinting against the sun, his white hair tugged by the wind, Crosas stared out to Sacred Eld beyond the Petitioners Village in the south and the clustered farmlands and fields of the Darnash beyond, to the very edge of the Throgorolind in the east.

  “I see…I see your kingdom, Highness.”

  “That’s right. You see the world I have inherited to command. To rule as I see fit. And so far, I have been worthy of that challenge. For before I took the throne much damage had been done to Terevell, Crosas. My father and his father before him were eroding all the good work that had long been built, over so many long years. And why? Because they ignored the Balance. They willed to create disequilibrium across all provinces and lands. They desired flux. Yet I have brought the Old Ways back. Ways that had lasted for so many thousands of years. They are tried and tested laws that have made our world strong. Precious. Unique. So it pains me to hear that, on my very doorstep, disruption threatens the fabric of that order that I have so painstakingly nurtured. Do you see?”

  “I do, sire. I do.”

  Zer
ian approached the balcony and laid his long hands upon it.

  “Maintaining The Balance is not an easy task, Crosas. It requires resolve.” Zerian then dropped his eyes to the clusters of tents and make-shift buildings that comprised the Petitioners’ Village. It had grown quite considerably these last months, spreading out around the monstrous trunk of the tree like a hideous carbuncle. “There is an order that must be adhered to; a hierarchy that must be employed. And the dragon’s presence in my lands is a sign from the World Tree. It is a sign that must be heeded. You understand?”

  “Yes sire.”

  Zerian drew his hands back from the rail of the balcony and turned to regard his wizard. “So, tell me: is it possible that such a party are capable of killing the dragon?”

  “I would say very unlikely,” Crosas admitted. “It appears they are just five strong, and they are up against a Crimson Wyrm.”

  “Even so, it has been done before, yes?”

  “From memory, perhaps only a handful of times.”

  “And yet we risk a greater imbalance if we simply do nothing.”

  “I suppose so, sire. But…”

  “But what…?”

  “What if this is meant to be? What if the dragon’s destruction is the Will of the Tree, too?”

  “You would have the beast die, is that it?”

  “Would it be so bad? Your people burn, sire.”

  “Not forever,” Zerian said coolly, and seeing the flatness in his king’s eyes, Crosas swallowed. “I appreciate your connection to the tree, Crosas, but I think we can assume our mother’s influence has already intervened against the success of this party. The ship crashed, you said, brought down by wyverns. This is a sign of the Tree’s influence. We now have the goblin as our captor, preventing their escape. Everything points to the Tree’s desire that the dragon should live, do you not think?”

  Crosas hesitated. Then he bowed his head. “Aye, sire.”

  “Eventually balance will be restored, and the dragon will move on when the time is right and so too the petitioners. Still, I am uneasy. I feel that our mother offers us a challenge.”

  “You do, sire?”

  Zerian recalled the faint shudder in throne room that had alerted him to the disturbance in the tree. Now, he was beginning to see why. Perhaps the Tree was more awake to the affairs of the elves than even a Tree Reader, gave it credit for?

  Zerian’s eyes sharpened. “Yes,” he said softly. “It is a test, I think. A test of our loyalty to that which imbues this planet with life. A test of my judgement, and your skills.”

  “I…I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Then I see I must be more explicit. You say the hunting party is out of reach, yes?”

  “By my estimate, sire. And we cannot send eagle riders that far south for fear of encountering the dragon.”

  “Yet we are not entirely helpless. We have means at our disposal.”

  “Means?”

  Zerian sighed. “You are a Tree Reader, are you not, Crosas? You profess to have influence over the Soul of the World? Tell me, what use are you to me if you cannot help Terevell in its hour of need?”

  “Then you mean for me to…to…?”

  “Extend your powers, Crosas,” Zerian said. “Coax the Tree to prevent the hunting party from succeeding in their endeavours. Then, when we have saved the dragon, and should any of these people still be alive, I want them brought before me to face my punishment. Can you do such a thing, Crosas? For your king?”

  “Well…I can try. I mean…I’m sure I can, Your Majesty.”

  “Then that is well. Fulfil your purpose to me. Summon the powers of the Tree.” And turning back to the dizzying vista, the High King of Terevell added, “Let the balance of the world be restored.”

  2

  Hanaway docked his ship at the Command Post slipway and settled momentarily back in his seat. He had managed to steal a few hours’ sleep on his journey from Genek IV, but he was still tired. It reminded him of long, soulless trips through the Void when he had been a Sweeper. Back then, most rangers functioned on what little rest could be taken before heading out to the next assignment. He wished he were that age again now. He would be better able to cope with the challenges he was currently facing. As it was, he would just have to keep his eye on the prize, and hope will alone might see him over the line. That, and the streak of ruthlessness he had relied upon to take him to the top of the Ranger Patrol.

  Which reminded him. Hanaway glanced over to his case where he had stored the vial. He hadn’t got where he was today without making some tough decisions. If he were going to get things back on track, he would still have to make sure no trail led back to him. He only hoped Corvus had done his job. And Maddox did his.

  3

  “So?” said Raabus Janick, fidgeting in his seat. “Where are we up to?”

  Hanaway stood, hands clasped behind his back, staring out of the porthole in Janick’s office beyond the mighty construction of the Border Gate to Terevell. It had been some time, Hanaway thought, since he had seen the Dragon Planet; years as a matter of fact. As Section Chief, he had had no cause to travel here. And in some ways, he was glad to see the back of the place. Terevell had caused more rifts and difficulties in the star system than any other planet. He had come to hate it in his way. Even so, studying its brilliant, perfect surface, with its sparkling blue ocean and verdant continent encircled by swathes of white cloud, he was surprised at the feeling of longing that took hold of him. Once, it was said, Earth had been a mirror of Terevell. It had been its own jewel in the bleakness of the cold, unforgiving reaches of space. Now, it was little more than a desert. It was why humans had been so eager to possess Terevell when they had first seen it. But even that was long ago. Now, humans were rootless; ejected from the promise of a dream; exiled without a home.

  “Hanaway?” Janick interrupted his thoughts. “Did you hear what I said?”

  Hanaway glanced over his shoulder. “Well, I’ve not had any word back about our little problem as yet, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “No word? What does that mean?”

  “It means I’m still waiting. But don’t worry. Everything’s in hand.”

  “You keep saying that. But what if it isn’t?”

  Hanaway sighed. Then he turned to face Janick. “Gemini Sohn is as good as dead. And no one will be surprised when she disappears. She’s been thumbing her nose at me ever since she was recruited from the Academy. Everyone on the Patrol knows what she thinks of me, and what I think about her. It’s perfect in a way. She overstepped her mark once too often, chasing shadows, and all her suspicions died with her on the surface of Terevell. End of story.”

  “So, you’re so confident that she didn’t mention the hunt to anyone else before she headed down to the surface?”

  “I doubt it. She wouldn’t have wanted anything to get back to me.”

  “Then what about Lito?”

  Hanaway frowned. “Lito?”

  “The Border Guard who intercepted Sohn when she arrived at the Command Post, remember? Lito knows why Sohn went down to the surface. Admitted as much when I questioned her. The cypher golem is one thing. I can easily erase the specific memory files of its interaction with Sohn during routine maintenance if I have to. But Lito is something else altogether. The longer I keep her away from her routine obligations, the more suspicious she’s going to be. So, what’ll we do about her?”

  Lito. The Border Guard. Hanaway hadn’t even given her a second thought. But Janick was right. Lito might turn out to be another weak link in the chain if she started to ask too many questions.

  “Well?” Janick asked.

  Hanaway didn’t answer at first. He turned the problem over in his mind, addressing the angles. Then he said, “She used to be Special Forces, didn’t she?”

  “Yes. Sentry duty at the Thresholds. Why?”

  Hanaway felt his innards clench at that. The image of the shadow haunting his apartment came back to Hanaway and he f
elt goosebumps prickling against his skin.

  Although, this did prompt an idea.

  “She still up on the Spire?” Hanaway asked.

  “For the time being. But she’ll be off duty in a few hours.”

  “Alone?”

  “Obviously. I told you I didn’t want her talking to anyone else.”

  Hanaway grunted. He turned back to the portal and looked out toward the Border Gate. He could just see the Spire against the brilliance of the planet’s surface: a fragile antenna attached to the crown of the Border Gate. It reminded Hanaway of a crow’s nest on an ancient galleon.

  “The Thresholds was always a rough detail,” Hanaway murmured then. “Even for Special Forces. They never last long, guarding the portals. Most put in for transfers within a few years. Some don’t get that far.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “The suicide rate is much higher than average is my point. What’s Lito’s psych profile like?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Then have it pulled. There’s bound to be something in there that you can use.”

  “For what?”

  “To justify Lito’s state of mind.” Hanaway turned his eyes away from the Spire, alighting once again on the vastness of Terevell. There was now a clear view over Ilmaris, except for a swirl of cloud gathering over the Great Eastern Forest. Which was odd, because when he was looking at it just a minute or so ago, it hadn’t been there.

  “Looks like a weather system’s coming in,” Hanaway said. “Heading toward the southern Deep Forest.”

  “Yeah. If that hunting party is under it, they’re going to get wet.”

  “Storms are bad for dragons,” Hanaway murmured, watching as the clouds seemed to bloom larger with every second.

  “Could be bad for the hunting party, too.”

  “Maybe,” Hanaway said. Then he turned his eyes back up to the Spire. “Not that there’s anything we can do about it. Let’s just concentrate on our end.”

  4