Defenders of The Sacred Land: Book One of The Sacred Land Saga

by Tyson, Mark

  “Then you are twice as mad as I expected.”

  “Am I?” His gaze turned thoughtful. “Or could it be that my plan is really that good?” He put his hand to his temple and tapped it with an index finger mockingly. “Is my plan good, is it good, and is it brilliant? Aye, it is brilliant. I expected as much from myself, and I was right. I trust me, do you not, Drakkius?” He scowled at Drakkius with his last statement.

  “Just make sure you do not fail, or you will see how brilliant I can be,” Drakkius replied.

  “How,” he searched for a word, “original.”

  Drakkius scowled and left the room without another word.

  “I hope I do not offend,” Naneden called out after him. As soon as Drakkius was out of earshot, Naneden laughed at his own wit.

  A few moments later, Dredor returned with several parchments. “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I have several matters of the castle to discuss with you.”

  “Not now, Dredor,” Naneden said, waving the servant off.

  “Sir, you have put these matters off for a week. I must insist.”

  “I said not now,” Naneden snapped.

  “When then, your grace?”

  “When I am not so tired of your constant persistence,” Naneden replied.

  “Not good enough, sir, I need to—”

  Naneden sighed. “All right, all right, I will look at your parchments, but first, hand me the parchment on that table to your left.” Naneden pointed.

  As Dredor responded and turned to retrieve the parchment, Naneden took the candle from his desk and casually tipped it to light the back of Dredor’s robes on fire, all the while Dredor never suspected. Black smoke began to rise above the servant’s head.

  “What is that smell?” Dredor asked after a moment.

  “I believe you are on fire.”

  “What?” Dredor asked confused.

  “I lit you on fire,” Naneden repeated, appearing nonchalant.

  Flames leapt up from behind Dredor. A look of utter panic crossed his face, and he screamed.

  Naneden laughed maniacally as the flames completely engulfed Dredor, and he ran screaming from the room.

  As he left the castle, Drakkius motioned for Kimala to follow him out. She could not help but stare at him. Something in his eyes made her realize he was a far deeper and darker soul than she had imagined. He led her to the garden among strange, purple hewn trees. The moon hung full in the sky, gently illuminating the hedges and low bushes. The smell of sweet flowers intermingled with the pungent smell of decay made her dizzy with delight. Drakkius took hold of her arm and spun her around to face him. She longed for him to take her, but instead he held her in a death-like grip only an inch from her lips, staring into her eyes.

  “So it is power you crave. I can give you what you want if you can give me what I want.”

  Kimala was suddenly coy. “What is it you desire, my lord?”

  “Ah, that is the question. What I want may carry a price too heavy for you to pay.”

  “I will judge the cost for myself, my lord. You don’t know the depths of my needs or what I seek.”

  “Indeed.” He lessened the grip a bit. “If you will serve my needs, I will have a place for you by my side. Naneden appears to care not for you or your wellbeing.” He paused. “I will ensure it. Do as I ask, and I will deliver to you your power and wealth. But fail me and I will destroy you.”

  “All you need to do is ask this task of me, my lord, and I will not fail you.”

  Drakkius smiled and let Kimala go. “Know that I do not trust you, wench.” In an exalted moment of passion, Kimala embraced him in a deep kiss, biting his lower lip as she parted, drawing a drop of blood. Drakkius curled his lip under and tasted it, cocked an eyebrow and turned to leave, his red cloak and cape whirling around him.

  “My lord, what task will I perform?” she called after him.

  Drakkius stopped and without turning, he replied, “I will contact you. Do not speak of this to anyone and remember—”

  She interrupted him. “I know. You will kill me if I talk to anyone about this,” she said mockingly. He nodded and then resumed exiting the garden. Kimala reentered the castle and returned to her room where she sank into her plush red velvet chair, breathing the sigh of a woman smitten, or of a woman who got exactly what she had been after.

  Dorenn teemed with anticipation of seeing an actual dragon knight. He remembered childhood stories of fierce dragon worshipers with fighting skills unparalleled in all the known kingdoms. Tradition suggested they were mostly benevolent, but any sensible person knew to fear them. The double doors opened, and Mavis walked in. “Bren Hallah, first dragon knight of the dragon called Amadalea the Red, to see you, Master Ianthill.

  “Bid him entrance, Mavis,” Ianthill said, rising from his chair.

  Mavis curtsied and showed the broodlord in with a wave of her hand. Dorenn’s eyes widened as the man entered. He was even more impressive than Dorenn had imagined. His red dragon scale armor covered almost all of his body, and he held a great dragonhead helm under his arm. Sheathed on his left side was his dragon fang, a long slightly curved blade forged from tempered steel and an actual dragon fang hilt. Various pouches hung from his side, and a great red bow and quiver sprawled his back. A smaller parrying sword called a dragon’s claw hung to his right. Dorenn tried to see into the red quiver. It was rumored in stories that dragon knights carried bone-shafted arrows, but he could not see any. The dragon knight had a short cut, thin beard from ear to ear and a thin, neat moustache to match. On the left of his face, just below his eye, was an old scar about a quarter of an inch long. His steel blue eyes focused on Ianthill, but Dorenn could feel the man’s attention on him as he entered the room. Jet-black hair, cut short on top with a small braided lock at the side, adorned his head.

  “Welcome, broodlord of Amadalea the Red. My lair is open to you, and its treasures are your treasures,” Ianthill said, bowing with his hands turned outward and upward.

  Bren cocked an eyebrow and then reciprocated the gesture. “You honor me with your knowledge of my culture, friend elf, and I will not forget your attention to detail.” Bren saluted Ianthill in the manner of the Arillian elves by putting his hand over heart and extending it out open toward Ianthill. “I give my heart to you so you may feel welcome.”

  Gondrial rolled his eyes.

  “You honor me, now how may I assist you?”

  Bren looked around the room. “May we speak privately?”

  “As you wish, friend knight, but I have no reservations to speak openly.”

  “Very well, your word is known to be true.” He paused. “I have been sent out on a quest by my master. Amadalea speaks of prophecy that I must protect, and that my quest begins with contacting you here in Adracoria. I have traveled from the red city of Draegodor nine months to reach you.”

  “I see. And to what prophecy does your master refer?”

  “The prophecy of the Lora Dren Na.”

  Dorenn saw recognition in Ianthill’s face, but for whatever reason, he paused. “I am afraid I have never heard of that particular prophecy.” Dorenn caught a brief finger gesture with Ianthill’s left hand.

  “Ah, well,” the dragon knight stammered unconvincingly, “I will join your quest until my quest reveals itself,
  “Very well, broodlord, I bid you welcome. We leave for the Great Forest in the morning. Be prepared to join us then.”

  “As you wish, Lord Elf.” The dragon knight turned to leave the room but stopped and focused on Dorenn for a long moment. Dorenn was beginning to get uncomfortable, and finally the broodlord broke his stare and exited the room.

  “What was that all about?” Gondrial asked.

  “Our chances have just improved greatly. The broodlord will be a great ally.”

  Mavis entered the study. “I have turned back the beds, and the cook has stayed in the kitchen if anyone is hungry.”

  “Th
ank you, Mavis,” Ianthill said. He raised his arms in welcome. “I leave you to yourselves. My home is open to you all.”

  Dorenn tossed and turned on his feather bed. He dreamt of a beautiful woman with black hair and a pleasant smile. She kept repeating that she was there to save him, and Dorenn knew he felt love for her. His heart reached out for her. No, I love Tatrice, and I plan to marry her, he thought to himself. He awoke in a cold sweat. Shaken, he rose from bed and put on an overshirt. Cautiously, he moved from his room, walked down the hall three doors to where Tatrice was sleeping, and gently tapped on her door. There was no reply; again he tapped, and the door began to open. Tatrice saw who it was and opened the door with a smart yank. “Dorenn, what are you doing?”

  “I am not sure. I had to see you. My dreams are troubling tonight.”

  “Well, come inside before someone sees you,” she said, pulling him inside her room. After Dorenn was safely inside, she put her arms around him in a hug. “You had become so distant lately I thought you no longer cared for me.”

  “Nothing could be further from the truth, Tat; I am just worried about our fate. All of this has happened so fast. It unnerves me to think we’ve come into the presence of men such as Ianthill, Morgoran, and their apprentices. Ianthill’s faith in me has to be a mistake. We are simple folk from Brookhaven, and I long to return to our home.” He held her close. “I had hoped to ask you to marry me this coming Summerwills day.”

  “Oh, Dorenn, that doesn’t have to change.”

  “Just hear me out,” he interrupted. He hesitated a moment to collect his thoughts. “I had hoped to settle down with you and eventually take over running Father’s inn. If Ianthill has his way, we will be far from Brookhaven on Summerwills day.”

  “Maybe we should leave,” Tatrice suggested.

  “What?”

  “We should leave. You, Rennon, Vesperin, and I. Let us flee this place and go back to Brookhaven.”

  “I thought of that already, but I don’t believe it would work, Tat. What if Ianthill, Lady Shey, and Gondrial are right? I wouldn’t want to run into Dramyds without them, would you?”

  “No, what do we do then?”

  Dorenn smiled, pushed her back and got on one knee.

  “Dorenn, what are you doing?”

  “Tatrice, I can think of no better time than now to ask you for your hand in marriage. I know it is traditional to ask for your hand from your father, and I promise I will as soon as we get back to Brookhaven. What do you say?”

  “Oh Dorenn, I…”

  “FIRE!” someone shouted from the hallway. “Everyone get out while you can!”

  “Come on, Tatrice,” Dorenn said, grabbing hold of Tatrice’s hand.

  As the two exited the room, they could see the flames for the first time coming up the stairway, blocking them in. Vesperin and Rennon joined them in the hallway. “Get your things,” Dorenn shouted, “and come to the far end of the hall.”

  At the end of the hall, Dorenn opened the small window, and one by one, he threw their belongings out onto the lawn. “I saw a trellis here when we arrived. We should be able to climb down it.” The four friends climbed out of the window and made the short leap to the trellis as the flames inched closer to them. At the bottom of the trellis, Dorenn stood to the realization that he was face to face with a Dramyd. The foul beast bared its teeth and claws. Dorenn reached for his sword, but he had not buckled it on. Panic began to well up inside him.

  “Run, Dorenn!” Tatrice shouted from the trellis. Dorenn prepared for the coming claw and teeth attack, but to his surprise, the Dramyd stayed its ground and screeched to alert the other Dramyds lurking in the darkness. Dorenn heard the singing of a sword, and he watched in shock as the Dramyd’s head sailed over him. Standing behind the fallen body of the decapitated Dramyd was Bren, his two swords drawn and gleaming in the moonlight. “Run to the docks, run!”

  Vesperin and Rennon took off running as soon as their feet touched ground.

  Bren helped Tatrice down from the trellis. “Ianthill and Lady Shey are near the road.” He pointed to the general direction. “Either find them or run to the docks.”

  Dorenn, still holding Tatrice’s hand, ran in the direction the broodlord had pointed.

  Dorenn noticed several dead Dramyds lying about. He spotted Ianthill and ran to him. “What happened here?”

  “We sensed the Dramyds attacking, and we engaged them. We were too occupied fighting them off to see who started the fire or to warn you in time. Gondrial is searching the area, and the townspeople will arrive soon to help put out the flames. May I assume Rennon and Vesperin made it too?” Ianthill asked.

  “Aye, they made it out of the building at least. I think Bren is going after them down to the docks,” Dorenn replied.

  Dorenn observed Ianthill holding the tome Lady Shey had brought with her from Symbor. “We have to get to the docks and leave as soon as we can. This fire and these dead Dramyds will raise concerns and questions from the townsfolk that I dare not answer. Here, Dorenn, take Tatrice and Lady Shey and head for the dock. Moored to the seventh peer is a ship called The Sea Goddess. Go aboard and rouse the captain. His name is Felladan; tell him to make ready. I will round up the others and meet you there shortly. Tell him I want the ship to pull away from the docks as soon as I arrive.”

  Dorenn nodded and then grabbed some of the equipment he had tossed out of the window. Tatrice and Lady Shey gathered up the rest. Just as the weight of the packs began to slow the three down, Rennon and Vesperin joined them and helped ease the burden.

  Dorenn rubbed his tired shoulders. “Keep an eye out for a ship called The Sea Goddess when we get to the dock,” he told Rennon. “It is moored to the seventh peer.”

  “The Sea Goddess it is,” Rennon replied.

  As they reached the docks, Vesperin spotted the ship, and the small party made their way toward it.

  “Ahoy, Captain Felladan,” Dorenn shouted as they ran aboard ship. “Rouse the ship. Ianthill says make ready for sail.”

  “Who goes there?” a deep, raspy voice answered.

  “Friends of Ianthill. Prepare the ship for sail.”

  The captain came out of his cabin and started ringing a bell. Soon the ship was alive with activity.

  “Keep the lights low, men; we travel out of the harbor in silence,” the captain shouted. Dorenn wondered why the captain was making so much noise if he wanted to leave silently.

  Soon Ianthill, Bren, and Gondrial arrived, and the captain gave the order for the ship to leave the docks.

  Dorenn could see the fire burning in the distance until the ship finally drifted out to sea. He wondered if the other buildings around Ianthill’s house had caught fire too.

  Naneden stepped over the charred body of Dredor as he left his study.

  “Clean that up,” he said to a maid as he passed her in the hall, “and make sure you call someone to bury it.” The maid hid her horror and managed to curtsy in acknowledgement.

  As he entered his private gardens, Naneden sniffed the air. Rain clouds were gathering above. A storm is brewing, he thought. He plucked a red flower with large petals from a bush nearby and inhaled its fragrance. A slight rustling in the adjoining bushes made Naneden’s eyes narrow as he realized he was not alone. He inhaled the flower once more before he finally spoke. “The attack has failed, has it not?”

  A voice that sounded as if someone were trying to speak while swallowing a stone issued from the bushes. “I fear what you ask is so, my lord.”

  “What good are Dramyds if simple boys from a desolate mountain village can defeat them so easily?”

  “They have some powerful help, my lord,” the voice said.

  The flower in Naneden’s hand began to die and decay rapidly, turning to dust and falling between his fingers. “So do I, Drasmyd Duil, and I was under the impression that your underlings could defeat the help these boys have acquired. Will you force me to get involved? Do I have to illustrate to you what dark magic can do?”


  The Drasmyd Duil cackled, which made even Naneden take a step back. “The army you would create would die before the clerics of Loracia alone. You need me, and I will deliver. Already our trap waits.”

  Naneden felt a shiver as the creature gurgled and began flapping its leathery wings as it took flight. A sudden flash of lightning silhouetted the creature briefly in the stormy skies. “Fool thing. Toborne the Destroyer may have created them, but so far I am not impressed with the mighty, fearsome Drasmyd Duil or their underlings.” His nose twitched as he rounded back toward the castle. “I will have to create my own minions. Aye, I believe it is time.” Naneden clasped his hands together and snickered to himself as he entered the castle. He rushed through the corridors quickly before the paintings hanging in the hall had time to stare at him.

  Chapter 13: Seeds of Prophecy

  The harsh summer sun beat down relentlessly on the decks of the sail ship The Sea Goddess, reflecting light and heat onto Dorenn and Tatrice as they stood looking at the Adracorian coast. The foliage along the coast was lush and green; the tree line stood like an impenetrable wall between land and sea. Due to unusually strong currents, the captain had decided to hug the Trigothian coastline on route to the Sythian forest. Reports of raging storms farther out to sea also insured him that he was making the right decision.

  Both Sythia and Adracoria were once part of a great empire, but now each kingdom stood as individual monarchies with only the traditional Trigothian cultures in common. Ianthill had told Dorenn about the Trigothian civil wars and the splitting up of the empire after they had set sail the night before. Although Dorenn found the subject interesting, Ianthill did not seem to require sleep, and Dorenn was exhausted from a night without sleep. Much of the history went unheard.

  Dorenn loitered on the deck near the bow of the ship. At his left, Rennon fished over the side. Rennon had traded one of the crewmembers a bag of tabac for a fishing pole. He had caught several good-sized fish in the two days since they had fled from Adrontear; he cleaned them and served them for evening meals. Dorenn found the change in menu refreshing. Vesperin was stowed away down below, performing deep meditative prayer in his cabin. Dorenn was glad that the cleric had finally gotten his sea legs. On the first day, Dorenn felt Vesperin might not make it to the Great Sythian Forest. His bout of seasickness had taken on legendary status among the sailors. Tatrice strolled the deck at Dorenn’s right, her sandy golden hair gently blowing in the salt sea air. She had not yet answered his question, and he was becoming increasingly concerned. He thought back to the night of the fire just after he had asked her a hundred times over. Did he see excitement in her face that night, or was she about to turn him down? Dorenn also figured she would have brought up the subject by now if she had intended to answer yes.