Princess of Lanfor (Heroes of Ravenford Book 4)

by F. P. Spirit

  The Heroes of

  Ravenford

  Book 4

  Princess of Lanfor

  F.P. Spirit

  F.J. Fogelman

  First Edition

  Copyright @ 2017 F. P. Spirit

  Cover Art by Jackson Tjota

  Cover Design and Interior Formatting by S Professional Designs

  Edited by Sandra Nguyen

  ISBN-10: 0-9984715-3-4

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9984715-3-2

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

  Thanks to Tim for creating the world of Thac, and to Eric, Jeff, John, Mark and Matt for their roles in bringing the Heroes to life. Also, thanks to the rest of my friends and family who gave their time and support into the creation of this book.

  The Heroes of Ravenford

  Book 1 | Ruins on Stone Hill

  Book 2 | Serpent Cult

  Book 3 | Dark Monolith

  Book 4 | Princess of Lanfor

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Titles in Series

  Map of Thac

  A Wicked Wind

  Dark Dreams

  Enter the Dragoon

  The Dragon Master

  Green Dragon & Silver Tongues

  Death From Above

  Joy and Sorrow

  Deepwood Sniper

  Flight of Mercy

  Stirring the Pot

  To Track a Snake

  Airship

  A Picnic with the Princess

  A Bunny Good Time

  In the Wrong Hands

  Beauty and the Beast

  Colossal Destruction

  A-Stealthing We Shall Go

  Parting of Ways

  Aboard the Wind Hammer

  Love is in the Air

  Lost and Found

  Twisted Sister

  Under the Hammer

  When Heroes Fall

  Return to the Bendenwoods

  Tall Tales

  Ambush

  Pawns of Fate

  Night of Blood and Fire

  Slaves of the Serpent

  Lloyd vs. Cyclone

  The Serpent Queen

  Stone Cold Truth

  Bad News Travels Fast

  Books by F.P Spirit

  Books by K.J. Fogleman

  About F.P. Spirit

  About K.J. Fogleman

  There was not the only one Thrall Master—there were many, some lesser, some greater. Aside from the Golem Thrall Master, Larketh, there were three others who rose higher than the rest, and with their great powers of mind, enthralled veritable armies of minions. One of these great masters in particular was the Dragon Thrall Master. His identity lost to antiquity, he nonetheless had the power to bend the mightiest of creatures—dragons—to his will. His army was powerful and terrible, raining death and destruction across the land. No dragon could resist him with the exception of one, and yet that was his eventual undoing…

  - Lady Lara Stealle, High Wizard of Penwick

  A Wicked Wind

  A great dark shape descended from above and landed in the mist.

  The moon waxed a shade from full in the inky black sky, its soft glow washing over the forest, giving a silvery sheen to everything it touched. It was already deep into the night, the woods quiet except for the chirping of crickets, and the occasional whinny of a sleeping horse. A makeshift hitching post stood at the edge of a wide clearing, a dozen or so slumbering horses tethered to it.

  A short distance away, a spike-pitched wooden fence had been hammered into the ground, erected around a small encampment. Inside the fence lay a ring of tents, all in a circle around a single large pavilion. The campfires had all but died down, nothing but dull red embers visible as the last bits of wood slowly burnt away. The camp’s occupants had bedded down for the night, a scant few sentries standing vigil over them.

  Martan stood watch at the edge of the forest, near the head of the path that led into the woods. Tall trees encircled the glade, so close together that little was visible of the forest beyond. Even the silvery moonlight brought no cheer to those woods, twisted tree trunks and gnarled branches creating shapes that fueled the fearful imagination.

  A wry smile crossed Martan’s lips. Hence the name Darkwoods.

  The solitary archer spun away from the ominous trees, his eyes fixing on a tall black structure glistening in the moonlight far above him. The building rose well above the treetops, its dark silhouette framed by the inky, star-filled sky. Martan stared at the structure with awe, and perhaps a touch of fear.

  The Darkwoods Monolith.

  The monolith had once been the stronghold of the Golem Thrall Master, Larketh, a wielder of great magic, unparalleled even to this day. The Thrall Masters, and all their works, were thought destroyed in the last great war, some hundred and fifty years ago. Yet earlier this week, the existence of the Golem Master’s monolith had been unearthed.

  The Heroes of Ravenford had set out in search of the spire to stop the murderous Serpent Cult from gaining the Golem Master’s secrets. In the wrong hands, those secrets would spell certain doom for the island continent of Thac. It was a truly heroic undertaking, one in which Martan was certain he did not belong.

  Martan Folke was a simple man, an archer and a tracker, not some hero like the tall warrior, Lloyd, or a knight akin to the valiant Dame Alana. Neither was he a wizard such as the tall elf, Glolindir, or an assassin similar to the halfling, Seth. He was certainly no agile swordsman like the slight elf, Donatello, nor did he carry a lightning sword as did the young shapeshifter, Ruka. He couldn’t even heal wounds in the manner of the little cleric, Aksel.

  With the exception of his expertise in the woods, it was beyond Martan why he was even there. Nonetheless, he was here, and he faithfully took his turn at guard duty. Martan had only run away once in his life, and he had regretted it ever since.

  A deep sigh escaped the lean archer’s lips. The past was the past.

  Martan swept his eyes across the wide clearing—there was not much to do on watch. Despite the eeriness of the surrounding woods, the night was relatively quiet, the air cool, stars twinkling brightly in the crystal-clear sky. The scene would have been idyllic, if not for the sinister shadow of the dark monolith.

  The Heroes, along with the Knights of the Rose, had reached the monolith by midday yesterday. After confirming that the cultists had gone inside, the Heroes went in after them, leaving the knights outside to stand watch. There had been no sign of either group till noon this day, when Glolindir, Donnie, and Ruka re-emerged. The trio had reported no trace of the cult, thus far finding only strange devices and deadly traps inside the Golem Master’s stronghold. After a short stay, the threesome returned to the monolith, carrying food back for the rest of their companions. There had been no sightings of the Heroes since, with the exception of the halfling, Seth.

  Martan had not actually seen Seth, only hearing about his appearance later from the head knight of the encampment, Sir Craven. The Heroes had finally encountered the cultists, with only
a single dark mage making an escape. Seth sought to track the mage back to his home base, so the cult could be uprooted once and for all. A knowing smile spread across Martan’s lips. If anyone could pull that off, it would be Seth.

  The dour archer stood at his post, idly stroking his short-cropped beard, when out of nowhere, he was hit by a cold gust of wind. Martan shivered involuntarily, slapping his arms together to abate the sudden chill. He glanced upward, half expecting to see storm clouds rolling in, but the night sky remained absolutely clear.

  Martan’s brow furrowed into deep ridges. That’s strange.

  The tracker suddenly froze, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. The forest around him had gone deathly silent. He cocked his head to one side and strained his ears, but not a sound came from the surrounding woods, not even the chirping of crickets. Something was definitely amiss. Nearby, the horses fidgeted against their reins, whinnying nervously as if they, too, sensed something wrong. Martan squinted into the dark forest, but saw nothing, not even down the trail that he guarded. The horses grew more anxious as the seconds passed, whinnying louder and prancing around nervously.

  Martan spun slowly around, his keen eyes sweeping both the forest and the clearing, yet still he saw nothing. That was when Martan heard it—a loud hissing noise from somewhere above. He snapped his head back just in time to see the moon and stars disappear from the sky. A strange cloud had appeared out of nowhere, completely blotting out everything overhead.

  Martan’s jaw dropped. Where in the world did that come from?

  The tracker’s eyes remained glued to that cloud, watching in astonishment as it billowed out in all directions. Then the treetops disappeared, and Martan realized the cloud was falling—in mere seconds, it would envelope the camp. Perhaps it was just some strange natural phenomena, but with the knights depending on him, did he really want to take that chance? Deciding to err on the side of caution, Martan cupped his hands together, and screamed as loud as he could, “To arms! To arms!”

  Similar shouts echoed from all corners of the encampment, Martan’s cry spurring the other sentries to action. The camp immediately stirred in response, armored men and women spilling out of their tents just moments before the strange mist settled upon them. The fog swiftly fell across the camp, people and tents alike now nothing more than dark shapes in the mist. An acrid smell reached Martan’s nostrils just as the first screams started. The dark forms cried out in pain, flailing their weapons wildly in all directions, as if the very mists were attacking them.

  Martan’s eyes went wide with horror. Is there something in the mist? Or is it the fog itself?

  The archer swept his gaze around, frantically looking for an answer, when his eyes fell on two small forms next to the nearest tent. That had to be Syndir and Lamorn, the two squires who had befriended him over these last few days. The young men screamed in anguish, waving around violently in all directions, yet Martan saw nothing around them. It must be the mist.

  Martan now realized he couldn’t help the others, but he would not abide the boys suffering. Without another thought, he vaulted into the mists, pulling up his hood and scarf as he went. The damp fog caressed the exposed parts of his skin, and within seconds it began to burn. Martan bit down a cry, still plunging toward the beset boys.

  As luck would have it, they had turned his way, the smart lads making for the safety of the forest. Martan reached them moments later, throwing an arm around each, and dragging them the rest of the way out of the mists. The three of them broached the edge of the fog, and fell to the ground panting with exhaustion, yet their exposed skin still burnt with pain. Martan ripped off his scarf, and wiped himself off, then swiftly did the same for the boys. Moments later, their skin dried, all three of them sighed with relief.

  “Is that you, Mart...” the one boy began.

  “Shhhh,” Martan hissed. He did not know what spawned the deadly cloud, but he had a dreadful suspicion. He grasped the two boys by the neck, pulled them close, and whispered, “Free the horses and get away into the forest.”

  “But…” the other boy interrupted him.

  “No buts,” Martan hissed sharply. “Stay hidden until I come for you. Understand?”

  Both boys nodded. They swiftly got up and rushed toward the horses, the mounts thankfully still outside the burning mist. With the squires safe, Martan turned his attention back to the fog. The painful screams of the people inside were suddenly overshadowed by a bone-shuddering roar. Martan watched in horror as a great dark shape descended from above, and landed in the middle of the mists. Sharp gusts accompanied the ominous silhouette, swiftly dissipating the deadly fog. Pale moonlight seeped through the thin remains of the mist, illuminating the large figure. Martan’s eyes went wide, his worst fears confirmed.

  A dragon!

  The great beast had landed in the middle of the camp, directly atop the pavilion. The thin structure now lay flattened on the ground under four large clawed feet, no match for the dragon’s massive weight. Martan gulped, a lump sticking in his throat. The great beast was a terrifying sight to behold. It dwarfed the large tent, easily fifty feet long from its massive head to the tip of its long, sinuous tail. The dragon had landed in a crouch, its belly low to the ground, powerful legs taut beneath that thick, muscular torso. The great, bat-like wings were partially folded back, the dragon’s tail twitching, as the large head whipped around on its long, snake-like neck.

  Loud squeals and nickers had been echoing across the clearing since the dragon’s first roar. Back at the hitching post, Syndir and Lamorn wrestled with the horses’ reins, desperately trying to cut them without getting trampled. At the same time, across the campsite, a small group of men and women had miraculously survived. In the midst of them stood the dark-bearded Sir Craven, tall and unflinching, like a rock in the storm. Holy sword in one hand, shield in the other, he faced the great dragon and shouted to his remaining troops, “Stand fast! You are Knights of the Rose!”

  Abruptly, the great head turned toward the knight, large, serpent-like eyes fixing upon him. A deep, menacing growl emanated from the beast, sending an involuntary shiver up Martan’s spine. The dragon regarded the knights for a few moments, then slowly reared up to its full height. Martan’s breath caught in his throat. The dragon was incredibly large—its long legs raising the massive torso twice the height of a man. Yet that swan-like neck, lifted the great head more than double that height.

  Martan was stunned, his eyes nearly popping out of his head, as they swept across the great beast’s body. In the pale moonlight, he could not tell the dragon’s color, but he did notice dark spots speckled here and there across its torso. Leathery plates ran up the sides of the neck all the way to the giant head, the head itself crowned with a tall crest that ran all the way down the dragon’s spine. The beast had no outer ears, but there was a ridge of horns over each of those great eyes. The dragon’s head ended in a long snout with a heavily curved jawline, its large mouth filled with a row of wicked, dagger-like teeth. A slender forked tongue flicked in and out of the dragon’s mouth, as it glared down at the remaining men and women.

  Martan knew his arrows would be no good against the scales of a dragon, and he was terrible with a sword. Yet he knew, from his days in Deepwood, that the best way to fight any enemy was to gain the high ground. There was a tall tree at the edge of the clearing twice the height of the dragon. Martan now made for that tree, keeping one eye on the great beast. He had almost reached the base when the dragon reared its head back, and with a loud hiss, let loose a stream of liquid directly at the remaining knights. The fluid engulfed them all, those brave men and women completely disappearing from sight.

  Martan felt the blood drain from his face, not sure anything could survive such a terrible onslaught. After what seemed like forever, the dragon finally stopped, the stream of liquid fading as it drew back its head once more. One lone figure now stood
where those last knights had been—Sir Craven glared up at the dragon, his face a mask of rage. He pointed his sword at the foul creature and screamed, “I’ll send you to hell for that, you filthy beast!”

  Martan drew in a deep breath and forced himself to start climbing. Sir Craven was certainly brave, but he was no match for that dragon alone. If Martan could just climb high enough, he might be able to plant an arrow in the dragon’s eye. It was a long shot, but it was the only chance he had of helping the valiant knight.

  Below him, Sir Craven advanced on the dragon, sword and shield at ready. Martan wasn’t sure if it was the bravest, or the dumbest, thing he’d ever seen—perhaps it was a bit of both. The determined archer redoubled his efforts, climbing as fast as he could, when something large passed overhead, blotting out the moon and stars. Martan froze in place as the moonlight returned, illuminating the huge form that had flown over him. It was a second great dragon, its vast wings sending gusts of wind across the clearing as it landed right next to the first.

  Martan suddenly began to shake, his entire body gripped with fear. This second dragon dwarfed the first, nearly twice the size! Sir Craven had stopped his advance—despite the impossible odds, the valiant knight did not appear afraid. Instead, he adjusted his stance to face both dragons, and cried out a challenge. “You may indeed kill me, foul beasts, but I promise it will cost you dearly!”

  The first dragon started to advance on the lone knight, but then a strange thing happened. The larger dragon lunged in front of it, and growled at the first dragon menacingly. The smaller dragon froze in its tracks, yet did not back off, emitting a low growl of its own. For the first time, Martan noticed a rider on the huge dragon’s back, seated just above those vast wings. The rider appeared to be an armored knight, dressed in full plate similar to that of Sir Craven and Dame Alana, but with one glaring exception—this knight’s armor was totally black. It glistened dully in the pale moonlight, making it very hard to see the wearer. The black knight turned its horned helm toward the first dragon, and with a negligent wave of his hand, dismissed the fearsome creature. To Martan’s great surprise, the dragon immediately obeyed, backing away from the knight, head bowed and tail between its legs. With the first dragon out of the way, the dark knight spun around in his saddle, turning his attention back to Sir Craven.