by Aderyn Wood
Dragonshade
The Secret Chronicles of Lost Magic
Aderyn Wood
Copyright © 2017 by Aderyn Wood
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Edited by Amanda J Spedding
www.phoenixeditingandproofreading.com
Cover Art by Taire Morrigan
www.facebook.com/morriganartwork
Created with Vellum
For my Grandparents
Contents
Prologue
I. Azzuri
1. Sargan
2. Heduanna
II. Uthalia Isht
3. Danael
III. Estr Varg
4. Yana
5. Danael
6. Yana
7. Danael
IV. Azzuri
8. Sargan
9. Heduanna
10. Sargan
11. Heduanna
12. Sargan
13. Heduanna
14. Sargan
V. Black Eagle Mountain
15. Rayna
VI. Praeta
16. Sargan
VII. Estr Varg
17. Danael
18. Yana
19. Rayna
20. Danael
21. Yana
22. Rayna
23. Sargan
24. Danael
25. Sargan
VIII. Azzuri
26. Heduanna
IX. Estr Varg
27. Rayna
28. Yana
29. Rayna
30. Sargan
31. Yana
X. Azzuri
32. Heduanna
33. Danael
34. Heduanna
XI. Black Eagle Mountain
35. Rayna
XII. Azzuri
36. Danael
37. Heduanna
38. Danael
39. Heduanna
40. Danael
XIII. Estr Varg
41. Sargan
42. Yana
43. Sargan
44. Yana
XIV. Azzuri
45. Danael
46. Heduanna
47. Danael
XV. Black Eagle Mountain
48. Rayna
XVI. Azzuri
49. Heduanna
XVII. Estr Varg
50. Yana
51. Danael
52. Sargan
53. Yana
54. Danael
55. Sargan
56. Yana
57. Danael
58. Rayna
XVIII. Sea of Death
59. Sargan
60. Yana
XIX. Black Eagle Mountain
61. Rayna
XX. Azzuri
62. Heduanna
63. Yana
64. Danael
65. Heduanna
66. Danael
67. Yana
68. Sargan
XXI. The Great Zraemian Desert
69. Heduanna
70. Rayna
XXII. Bablim
71. Danael
XXIII. Azzuri
72. Sargan
XXIV. The Great Zraemian Desert
73. Heduanna
XXV. Azzuri
74. Rayna
75. Heduanna
XXVI. The Great Zraemian Desert
76. Yana
XXVII. Azzuri
77. Heduanna
XXVIII. The Dragonshade Mountains
78. Yana
XXIX. Azzuri
79. Sargan
80. Danael
81. Sargan
82. Heduanna
83. Sargan
XXX. Praeta
84. Danael
XXXI. Estr Varg
85. Yana
86. Danael
XXXII. Kania Isht
87. Yana
XXXIII. Black Eagle Mountain
88. Rayna
Acknowledgments
Also by Aderyn Wood
About the Author
Prologue
Dear Albinus,
My thanks for the gifts, dear friend. Dyserth is the perfect place for my work, as distractions are few, but the village-folk make the most rudimentary wine, more fitting to clean one’s shoes with than drink. Needless to say, the cask you sent is a blessing, and I shall savour every drop, especially now that winter has set in – and the winters up here are harsh indeed.
Naturally, I was alarmed to read of your concerns for the Order. Rest assured, I destroyed your letter after reading it, though there is little to be wary of in these far reaches of the realm. I’m not surprised to hear of our High Wisdom’s obsequiousness, and I do wonder if he desires His Holiness’s seat for himself. The Tower and the Church have been growing apart for years. I agree, it’s time we split once and for all, though no doubt the Church will retain the largest portion of riches for themselves.
Your questions regarding my last entry are the very queries I also harbour, and we shall discuss them at length when next we meet. It is my belief that Iluna’s tale is referenced in a number of notable myths and legends scattered throughout the realm and beyond, and I would dearly love to conduct more research. If only we had more time.
My newest entry for the archives, included herewith, also references Iluna, albeit subtly. Her shadow lingers in the background. Can you detect it?
The story takes us to the east and the desert realm wherein Greater Senchia now rules. Other sages may well call in to question the veracity of the events that unfold. King Omar’s rule, while legendary and well-famed, remains shrouded in mythical folklore passed down through the generations from ancient desert tribes, rather than examinable facts of the written word. But how can so many disparate sources point to similar events? That mystical, and by all accounts, vast library of Ballaria possibly held such documented ‘facts’. A pity Arkaad burned it to its very foundations.
This tale is the culmination of a score of years’ work spent in the Taramin Isles, or Drakia as it is named within, and it is as much their story as that of the legendary King Omar. Moreover, the mention of magic is equally a factor in all the sources I scoured. No doubt you will recognise exactly what ‘dragonshade’ is, and the gravity of our task in avoiding future conflicts over that too finite a resource.
Finally, the possibility that this tale sheds light on the foundations of our own revered Tower, and the very means by which our order came into existence will also arouse scholarly interest.
Guard your work well, friend. I worry for you and our fellows in the Tower. If a split with the Holy Church does indeed eventuate, sacrifices and scapegoats will bear the brunt of the fracture.
May the Light be always with you,
Sage Vivlian of Wyllt
The Year of our Eternal Lord 375
(2783 – Old Realm Calendar)
Part I
Azzuri
Sommer
Eighth year of King Amar-Sin’s reign
5,847 years ago…
Sargan
Prince Sargan puffed his cheeks as he circled the combat ring, keeping a nervous eye on his challenger. Sargan’s feet slipped in his sandals atop the sandy ground, and his thighs burned from skulking sideways. He longed to scratch the constant itch on the fleshy stomach beneath his leather belt, but that would mean dropping the weapon, and his uncle would yell at him again. The mid-morning heat grew heavier still, and his sweaty hand held a tenuous grip on the rough hilt of the wooden sword.
“Dear Phadite,” he uttered quietly to the goddess. “How I despise swordplay.
”
Sargan’s opponent, Prince Rabi of Urul, wore a grin and an easy stance as though the heat had no effect on him. Lean and strong, at fifteen sommers Rabi was already an accomplished swordsman. He could strike and end this farce whenever he pleased.
But he won't. He hasn't finished playing yet.
Sargan let go a sigh as he lumbered along like a fat river crab.
“This isn't a dance, Prince Hog. Strike!” His uncle’s familiar growl filled the ring from the platform above, and laughter flowed from the stalls where the other novice soldiers watched. The loudest sniggers came from the benches where his royal cousins sat.
Once again Sargan was to be their entertainment. He glanced at the high seats where a number of city-folk chatted quietly amongst themselves, old men mostly –diehard enthusiasts of the old fixtures, now banned in Azzuri. They would make their unlawful wagers on the sword practice of soldiers. Sargan lowered his gaze to where his band sat. Alangar gave him a nod meant to encourage him, but the concern on the overseer’s brow was poorly disguised. Ibbi sat next to Alangar, his blank stare one of boredom, his tablet nowhere in sight. No one would bother making wagers on Prince Sargan in the ring. There was no point.
Sweat trickled down Sargan’s face, tickling his nose. His palms were wet now, and the sword more slippery in his hesitant grip. Just strike and get it over with, he thought as he blinked up into the white Zraemian sunshine. Desert dust floated in the air. It had blown in with the north wind over the last quarter-moon and now lingered, trapped in the closed confines of the combat ring, making breathing even harder.
“Strike!” General Mutat repeated.
Sargan spied his uncle through the haze. Uncle-General Mutat stood with the other officers on the platform that jutted out and above the stalls. His uncle’s height made him easy to spot, and his linen skirt – so white and crisp. The general's eyebrows, thickened and defined with black kohl, drew together in a stern frown. A scowl curled his lips. His nephew was a laughingstock. Again.
Pushing down the rising bile, Sargan twirled the sword hilt in his hands, and returned his gaze to Rabi. The young prince grinned. His pointed nose and chin reminded Sargan of the rats that ruled the granaries and city gutters at night. The fact that his mouth seemed permanently open, revealing two large front teeth did nothing to dispel the image. Rabi’s head was shaved, in the Urul fashion, save for the thick, black braid at the back – like a rat’s tail. Rabi the Rat. It had a ring to it.
The rat’s grin hardened. “If ever the day arose,” Rabi said, “in which the fate of our two great cities came down to a battle between you and I, the outcome for Azzuri would be most grievous.”
Sargan winced. Thank the goddess he'd never have to face such a duel. Sargan’s brother, Hadanash, would inherit their father’s seat. Sargan was destined for the temple and a quiet world of books and study. Sword practice would be a distant and unwelcome memory. An utter waste of time. Why bother with it at all? Sargan bowed his head and his arm fell to his side. The wooden sword landed softly in the sand.
“Pick up your sword,” his uncle yelled.
“Why don't you just strike and get it over with?” Sargan asked Rabi.
Rabi smirked. “I thought you'd never ask.” He lunged and struck Sargan in the arm with the very tip of the wooden sword.
Hot pain ripped through Sargan’s elbow before another smack came to his left flank. He scrunched his eyes tight and put his hands up protectively, but a new pain slammed his other side making him crumple to the ground and scream like a child. Sand was in his nose, his throat, his ears – but the laughter in the stalls rose like desert wind. He blinked up into the dusty sky, holding up a hand. “Mercy, please. I surrender.”
Rabi laughed. “You truly are the worst soldier in all Zraemia, Prince Sargan.” Rabi raised his eyes to the platform. “General, would you give me a worthy challenger? Your nephew is even worse this quarter-moon than the last.”
Laughter rang out again as Sargan sat up and coughed. The general commanded another novice to take up the fight ‒ Alangar.
Alangar, overseer of Sargan's warband, would turn seventeen sommers in the coming days, and his arms and legs were already muscled like a grown man. He would be a worthy opponent. Perhaps too worthy. Sargan cast a glance Rabi’s way and enjoyed the flash of doubt on the rat-prince’s face.
“I hope you get walloped, gutter rat,” Sargan muttered under his breath as he brushed sand from his face and arms. He winced as he tried to stand and pain gripped his stomach. But Rabi was not yet done with him. The Urul prince lifted a sandled foot to Sargan's arse and pushed. Sargan fell face down in the hot sand. Raucous laughter erupted again around the combat ring.
“In the mud where you belong hey, Hoglet?” Sargan heard his royal cousin Ilbrit shout, and ugly sniggering followed. Sargan shook sand from his face. Of course Rabi would milk the moment.
“All right, Prince Rabi. Let’s have a real fight.” Alangar had entered the ring and was already in a crouch. The muscles in his thighs gleamed in the sunshine.
Up in the stalls, there was a flash of movement as city folk raced down to place their wagers. Ibbi was already scribbling on his tablet.
Sargan stood as quickly as he could, leaving his wooden sword where it had fallen. He glanced up to the platform to see Uncle Mutat shake his head. Sargan’s face flushed with heat, his shame hurting more than the cuts and grazes to his sides. He limped from the ring, and down a passage to the cool armoury beneath.
Prince Gutter Rat had been right. Sargan was even worse today than last practice. At least then he'd wielded his sword, not that it’d met any target. He sat on a bench in the dim room and rubbed a hand through his long hair, pulling the leather tie away. Sand fell everywhere.
What was his father thinking? Sword practice was a stupid waste of time that did nothing but humiliate Sargan and entertain the novices. Perhaps that was the purpose – to show them how swordplay shouldn’t be done. Sargan wiped more sand from his face and stood, clutching a hand to his fleshy side. It was time to retreat to his poetry.
Sargan's skin prickled from the cool water. Dust, heat and frustration washed off him as he swam the length of the pool. His lungs burned as he held his breath and glided to the very bottom then back up where he flicked his long hair and breathed hot air. The pool was nestled beneath lush green palms in the royal courtyard on the lowest terrace of the palace. Sargan floated on his back and relished the few moments of solitude. His fingers walked along the ample side of his stomach and he winced when he prodded, bruises already showing. He took a breath and dove again, but anger and shame lingered like the desert dust, intent on reminding him of his failure as a soldier. His failure as a prince.
Poetry. It was his only escape.
Unlike his brother ‒ the heir-prince Hadanash ‒ Sargan couldn't impress with swordplay, but there was no better poet in the burgeoning city of Azzuri than he. Not even his tutor Qisht, or his sister – though her verses were largely prophetic – could command imagery and wonder like Sargan’s poems. He evoked laughter and tears in the most succinct of verses. His audiences held their breath with anticipation. He’d rather have that power than any command a sword could enforce.
Sargan lifted his chin and his chest swelled with pride as he stepped out of the pool. Yes, he could almost convince himself he was princely in some way at least. The warm air touched his skin, drying him almost immediately. He threw a stretch of linen around his waist, tying it at the centre, and sat on the warm tiles under the shade of a palm where he'd placed his things.
He picked up the clay tablet that lay next to his satchel, quickly scanning the words, appreciating the cadence. Sargan enjoyed the story it told, a tale of an ancient aeon and a battle between two great cities – Bahantia and Erus. Unlike most epics, it didn’t end with a grand battle, and one victor – the hero. This one ended in peace. The two kings put aside their grievances. Put aside their lust for war. Put aside their ambition and negotiated peace with
nothing more than plain conversation. Dialogue. Talk. Avoiding bloodshed. Sargan regarded it as one of the most noble lessons history taught. He hoped it would send a message to both his father and King Amar-Eshu of Urul.