The Dragon's Blade: The Reborn King

by Michael R. Miller

  Copyright © Michael R. Miller, 2015

  Published by Acorn Independent Press, 2015.

  The right of Michael R. Miller to be identified as the Author of the

  Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  This book is sold subject to the condition it shall not, by way of trade

  or otherwise, be circulated in any form or by any means, electronic or

  otherwise without the publisher’s prior consent.

  @iamselfpub

  www.thedragonsblade.com

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements

  Map

  Prologue

  1. The Prince

  2. The Brave, The Wise And The Young

  3. The Fall Of Aurisha

  4. Unforeseen Troubles

  5. The Fate Of The World

  6. Time Flies (Part 1: The Early Years)

  Time Flies (Part 2: A Prelude To War)

  7. A Wizard Is Never Late…

  8. The Battle Of Cold Point

  9. The Lord Of The Bastion

  10. Escape From The Bastion

  11. Visions And Feathers

  12. Beauty And The Witch

  13. The Shadow Of Aurisha

  14. Bogged Down

  15. The Golden One

  16. Torridon

  17. Friends And Foes

  18. The ‘Fourth Flight’

  19. Dragons Die The Same

  20. The Trusted

  21. Val’tarra

  22. The Hall Of Memories

  23. The Murky Past

  24. The Guardian’s Burden

  25. Friends From The North

  26. To Plan A War

  27. To Start A War

  28. When Plans Go Wrong

  29. The Battle Of The Charred Vale

  30. The Reborn King

  Epilogue

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  IF FINISHING THE book was once something of a vague dream, then this is one of those pages I never thought I’d ever have to write. However, since I have managed to write the book now, it seems fitting to thank some key people for helping me get to this stage.

  Firstly, my parents who humoured me enough to give me a chance on this and took reading an alpha draft of the book seriously. It was that chance and that time that allowed me to get better and learn. Another person I should acknowledge is Meg King, who read, edited, and gave very encouraging and useful feedback on some of the earliest drafts of the opening chapters. Those pieces now look nothing like what she read, and I hope she enjoys the final product. Another mention goes out to my flatmate at the time of writing, Andrew Russell, who listened to me talk endlessly about characters, plots and other ideas, giving me someone to bounce things off and read chapters aloud to.

  An immense amount of gratitude is due to my editor, Leila Dewji, who helped drag up the weaker sections and kept on at me to improve other parts, even when I didn’t want to at times. I’m much happier with the book now than when it first went off for editing. Part of this process involved sending the book out to beta readers and their feedback was invaluable. Overlapping comments threw up some remaining problems and spurred me to make needed improvements. These wonderful people are: Christine Baker, Gavin Halliday, George McCloghry, Kalyani Nedungadi, Lilly Baker, Rachel Norman, Rebekkah Ormel and Ross Ferguson.

  Cover design and maps add immeasurably to the feel of a fantasy novel and I must thank Rachel Lawston of Lawston Design for her magnificent work on those areas. Another thank you is due to everyone else at I_AM Self-Publishing who worked on this project.

  Finally, I’d like to give a wider shout out to the members of the London Writers’ Café who are always a joy to talk to. It was comforting, especially early on, to meet countless others who are passionate about writing, striving to get better, and act as a pseudo support group. I send out my very best wishes to you all in all your writing endeavours.

  PROLOGUE

  IN THE VOID between worlds, where infinity had already gone on for too long, a voice called out.

  “Come,” it said. It echoed on through the nothingness, commanding, “Come.”

  And he answered it. He did not have a choice.

  He knew not who the voice belonged to but he could feel the force that was pulling him. His only vision was of green light and the only thing he heard was screaming. Perhaps it wasn’t screaming? It might have been the sound he made as he sped towards the voice.

  He existed because the voice beckoned him. That was all he understood.

  The green light turned to darkness and he felt heat all around him. There was a silence, brief but complete, until the voice boomed once more.

  “Rise and obey,” it said. “You will lead my armies across this world and you shall be named Dukoona.”

  The heat intensified as flames leapt up all around Dukoona. They flared so far away that the fires became only minute red dots to his vision. Somehow, all the light was concentrated on Dukoona, and he rose, as he had been bidden. He slowly looked down to his body. Fire and shadow swirled greedily around white bones, thickening and weaving until he saw a pair of dark purple hands take shape. He twitched his fingers and they danced to his commands. The rest of his body took form out of the shadows, becoming so dense it might have been flesh. His feet touched stone, which was surprisingly cool, and the voice spoke once more.

  “You will obey,” it said. “Answer me now, Dukoona.”

  “Who are you?” Dukoona said, and he found his voice was deep. “What do you want with me?”

  “You will lead my armies,” it said, rumbling through the endless cavern.

  “And who are you?” Dukoona asked again. “Whose armies am I to lead?”

  The voice did not answer.

  There was a snapping sound and then Dukoona was not alone. In front of him appeared two small creatures, gnashing and biting at the air.

  “These are the demons you will command,” the voice said.

  Dukoona stepped closer to inspect them. Their flesh seemed similar to his own, though it was less dense, more like a black mist that swirled freely, yet still maintained its shape. They were far shorter than Dukoona, and both were twisted and hunched at odd angles. Each bore a long shard of rusted metal.

  “Now,” the voice continued, “reach out to one, order it to kill.”

  To kill? But there was only himself and the other small demon present. Dukoona instinctively found the task easy. He cast forth his mind towards the demon on his right and thought, clearly, kill.

  The demon on his right did as instructed. It spun to face its brother and pierced its body with the crooked metal it wielded. Smoking blood gushed forth from the wound and the murdering demon howled manically in delight.

  There was another great crack and three more demons joined the remaining one.

  “Again, but reach out to three this time,” the voice ordered.

  Dukoona cast his thoughts forwards and gave another clear order to kill. At first, the demons responded to his wishes, turning on the demon who had so recently murdered its brother, but, before their weapons fell, they halted, turned and faced Dukoona instead. He found that his control of the demons had been wrested from him.

  All four began to march slowly towards him.

  He tried to reach back out to their feeble minds, to tell them to stop, to regain control. His thoughts met an immovable force and he could not break through. The demons grew closer, their rusted blades raised. Dukoona had no time to think. Desperately, he tried to take hold of them again but whatever controlled the demons threw him back. They were on him, leaping throu
gh the air, shrieking as they sensed a kill.

  They paused before killing him, suddenly going silent and trooping back several paces.

  “Good,” the voice said.

  “I lost control…” Dukoona said.

  “No, I merely retook control,” the voice said. “Know you cannot hope to turn my servants against me.”

  “Yes master,” Dukoona said. “What would you have me do?”

  Dukoona received his answer in the form of images, burning into his mind. Information flooded him, showing him the world he was now on and the creatures that inhabited it. An image lingered for longer than the others. There was a pale-skinned creature, with two arms, legs and hair on its face. This, Dukoona knew, was a human. Beside the human was a similar-looking creature, though its skin was blue, its hair was silver, and folded, transparent wings rested on its back. This, he knew to be a fairy.

  “Kill,” the voice commanded.

  A final image was forced into his mind, of a creature very much like a human, but with a beardless face, a hardened expression, and a thickly set body in golden armour. This, Dukoona understood to be a dragon.

  “Capture,” the voice told him, “and bring as many to me as you can. Kill only if you must.”

  Dukoona’s frustration at his master grew. “And who are you?”

  In answer, an outline appeared of purest darkness. It hovered above Dukoona, then floated down towards him. Its body might have been of one of those humans, or a dragon, but looking at it was like staring into the void. For a moment, Dukoona thought it might have another limb, but then saw it was only a pointed dark line, jutting down from the figure’s waist. Likely, his vision was not fully functioning yet. The figure hung in the air, a little off the ground, its faceless head peering down upon Dukoona. It was more of a force than a physical being.

  The figure rose one dark arm and waved it. Where once the cavern had been empty, some invisible veil was lifted to reveal a horde of cackling demons. The noise was overpowering. Their numbers were beyond counting.

  “To you and this world, I am Rectar,” the voice said, lifeless, beyond power and beyond resistance. “Now, Dukoona, we have much work to do here.”

  Chapter 1

  THE PRINCE

  IN THE MIDDLE of a curved, golden-stoned room, holding a strung bow and taking careful aim, stood a dragon. The ringed target was the smallest he could find in the armoury. His visibility was poor in the dark room. Only one small gap in the heavy shades let in a shard of light from the dazzling day. His chestnut eyes focused intensely on the target, glistening gently in the darkness, for a dragon could admit more light into their eyes than a human. To look at him would be to see a human. One with thick brown hair, hanging loosely off his handsome face, slightly obscuring his sharp jaw and aquiline nose. Golden-plated armour encased his lean, muscular frame. Yet his strength was far greater than his human appearance suggested. His name was Darnuir, Prince of Dragons, and, despite his sixty years, he was the only heir to the throne.

  Brackendon looked on with a patient curiosity. Tall and slim, the young wizard wore iridescent robes of sapphire blue. He held a mighty wooden staff, which stood just taller than he did. It was silver in colour and the wood had been expertly smoothed. His own eyes sparkled silver with the magic that had been gifted to him. Unlike Darnuir, his hair was short and already had a grey tinge to it, despite his youth, as using magic slowly drained a human’s body of its physical appearance. Brackendon had stopped counting the grey hairs long ago.

  He was impressed by the intensity with which Darnuir both prepared and took his shots. The Prince’s actions were altogether non-human. They were too quick. Darnuir had the sort of rapidity that would snap the muscle and sinew of a human man. This was of course to be expected; yet it had always caused Brackendon a slight unease to see dragons in action. He had decided years past that this discomfort stemmed from fear. Not the fear of imminent danger, he had decided, but the fear of knowing that you are powerless against this thing. Like being around a predator, not knowing if it will strike. If it will kill. This fear was tempered by his own power, but he had always wondered how ordinary humans must feel when surrounded by dragons. Very afraid, he had concluded. Reasoning that this fear must cause most of the tension between the two races. Darnuir released his arrow and sent it slicing through the air to bury itself in the centre of the target.

  “Another perfect shot,” Brackendon said in a calm voice, giving a token clap of his hands. He then flicked his hand upwards and the heavy shades covering the window lifted, filling the room with light. “How many is that then?” he asked. “Nine?”

  “Ten actually,” Darnuir said. “I’m surprised at you Brackendon, wizards are supposed to be highly intelligent.”

  “True. But you’ll find that wizards tend not to concentrate on trivial things such as how many shots you have hit in the centre ring.” Darnuir made a noise that indicated he felt otherwise. Brackendon continued, “Remember we’re at war, Darnuir; it makes a lot of things seem trivial.”

  “This is no war.”

  “Oh? Then what is it?”

  “It is a game to him, I think. No war lasts for decades unless your enemy is enjoying the carnage and your own people are too weak to repel their attackers.” He fired another shot that cut deep into the centre of the adjacent target.

  “Another town was evacuated yesterday to save them from the oncoming demons,” Brackendon said quietly. “They say it is a force greater than we have ever encountered?”

  “No one knows the exact numbers. Too few scouts have returned from the Crucidal Road to give a precise picture. Rectar will have been gathering everything for a final push. He has been slowly reclaiming the lands we re-conquered last year,” Darnuir spat bitterly. “Now we have only the city left.”

  Darnuir dropped his bow, unsheathed his sword, and began running a practiced finger along the metal of the blade. Brackendon noticed that Darnuir did this when he sought comfort. The Prince had always preferred his sword to his bow. Darnuir was talented enough with his ranged weapon, but Brackendon could frankly think of no one alive who could equal Darnuir with the sword. Well, perhaps his father, but then he had the Dragon’s Blade. Even so, the few spars he had witnessed between the two had always been close.

  “Lost in thought again?” Darnuir asked him impatiently, sword in hand, and clearly anticipating an attack.

  “Hmmm?” Brackendon emerged from his pondering.

  “You think too much,” Darnuir said.

  And you don’t think enough, Darnuir.

  Brackendon knew better than to say such things aloud. Yet he couldn’t stifle a chuckle.

  “If you’re quite finished telling me of our doom, I assume you would like to continue your training?” He pointed his staff at a barrel full of swords. As the swords flew into the air towards Darnuir, several broke off to veer to his left and right. Darnuir twisted smoothly on the spot and raised his own sword to clash against three of the enchanted ones. The Prince ducked and lashed out as he rose, cleaving two of the swords in half and they clattered to the ground. Brackendon sent in another six swords as backup, still chuckling.

  Brackendon moved his fingers rapidly to control the weapons, each finger dancing in circles, and jabbing whenever he saw a chance to strike. Darnuir parried and destroyed another one, sending the remains flying across the room. He moved with unfathomable agility as he engaged his invisible assailants and, before too long, he had beaten most of them off. Brackendon had never considered Darnuir’s movements to be graceful or elegant; it was no deadly dance he was performing. His actions were brutal and powerful, yet deliberate and measured. ‘The strength of a boar mixed with the cunning of a snake’; Brackendon had read that somewhere once during his studies. True as the description was, it was another matter entirely to witness it.

  “Very good, Darnuir. Very good,” he said. Darnuir finished off the rest of the swords, neither sweating or out of breath. “I think that will do for now. We’ve bee
n here almost the whole morning and your father was quite explicit that you were to meet his guests when they arrived.”

  “You speak as if the King of Humans and the Queen of Fairies are not above you?” Darnuir asked.

  “We wizards, Darnuir—,”

  “Are dead and finished,” Darnuir interrupted. “Your order is broken. Just like we all are. We have crumpled before Rectar’s forces and done nothing.”

  Brackendon was taken aback. A short temper was not an unusual trait of dragons, yet lately, Darnuir had grown more quarrelsome. No doubt, the recent failure of the Three Races to counter Rectar, their great enemy, was to blame. Brackendon attempted some consolidation.

  “Castallan betrayed us all, especially the wizards. Surely you cannot hold all those who wield magic accountable for him?”

  “No,” Darnuir admitted, “I cannot.” A silence fell between them, Darnuir seeming no more placated. He sheathed his sword before rounding on his companion once more. “Do you think we can win this?” he demanded. “Do you think we can hold the city?”

  “That is not for me to decide,” Brackendon said. “That is for your father and his council, of which you are a part. I have no voice there. If you wish to lend weight to your own hope to defend the city, then you must do so with the strength of your own words.”

  “How diplomatic of you,” Darnuir sneered. “My father,” he chewed heavily on the word, “and his wise council will not have the courage for it. Mark my words, we will evacuate this entire city next.”

  “If that is his decision then you must—” Brackendon began again.

  “Must what? I must what, Brackendon?” spat Darnuir, tearing from the room in his fury. Brackendon gave chase immediately, drawing on a little magic to give him the necessary speed to catch Darnuir, who was fast by nature. Using magic to enhance movement like this was cheaply done and carried little risk of an overdose. He felt the power flow through him as it boosted his body. Up to his shoulder and down his arm to his staff.

  I must still be careful. It would not do if I poisoned myself before the demons arrived.