Onyx Dragon (Book 1)

by Shawn E. Crapo

  He knew his only means of laying waste to the walls and attacking the city was to bring the Defiler to the gates. There, the fearsome beast could kill any archers mounted on the walls, and his men could climb them in safety. Not that he cared anything for his soldiers; they were mere fodder to be sacrificed for the greater good, but his numbers were already few.

  “Rajeesh!” he called to his lieutenant.

  Within seconds, the man was at his side. “Yes, my master?”

  “Awaken the Defiler,” the Sheikh commanded, his grin widening. “We march on the city immediately.”

  Rajeesh bowed, then scurried off to do his master’s bidding. Khalid sat down on his sedia, commanding his slaves to lift and carry him to a good vantage point.

  “Prepare to advance!” he gave the order as he whipped his slaves, prompting them to walk faster. “We attack.”

  The Sheikh’s soldiers lined up without question, their faces hungry for blood. Khalid ordered his spearmen to the front of the line, the infantry in the middle, and the archers in the rear. He stayed behind them, as was his custom, and gave the final order.

  “Forward!”

  With a single foot stomp to signal their obedience, the men marched forward. Khalid followed, seated upon his portable throne, his anticipation growing as they neared the city walls. He would use the Defiler sparingly, the creature having been fatigued by its brief battle with the banshee. Then, the melee could begin.

  With two hundred men, and the Defiler, the battle was sure to be won. It would be quite a show.

  The Taryn guards saw the approaching army as it exited the valley. It was a fairly large force, to be sure, but Taryn’s guards numbered at least five hundred. Nevertheless, the alarm was sounded.

  The townspeople scattered as the bells rang. Soldiers and militiamen grabbed their weapons and ran to their posts, urging the civilians to seek shelter, and the blacksmith passed weapons out to all of the men who volunteered to help in the defense.

  Soon, the city walls were lined with archers, and the catapults were manned, as well. The soldiers clapped their shields with their swords in preparation, building their own morale and signaling to the approaching enemy that they were prepared to defend themselves.

  “What’s going on out there?” Kaelos demanded, pulling his clothes on after a hot bath. His door opened forcefully, and an older man, his personal valet, stumbled in breathless.

  “My Lord,” the valet panted. “An enemy army approaches.”

  “How do you know they are hostile?” Kaelos asked, slipping into his boots.

  “They are armed and ready for combat. They are marching toward the city as we speak!”

  Kaelos growled in frustration. “How many?”

  “Two hundred, at least.”

  Kaelos laughed out loud. “Are they mad? This is a fully fortified city. Our reserves are larger than that.”

  “Indeed, my Lord, but your presence is needed to coordinate the defense.”

  Kaelos waved the man away. He quickly strapped on his armor, struggling to buckle its straps.

  The Jindala army marched forward, quickening its pace as it neared the gates of Taryn. From the distance, they could see that the city walls were lined with archers. Khalid did not fear them, though, as he had the Defiler to dispose of them. He was not prepared, however, for what happened next.

  “Ride!” Kaelos shouted, commanding his cavalry to exit the opening gates. He looked upward to the archer Captain, who stood at the wall awaiting orders. “When you can see the last of us pass the gates, fire the first volley.”

  “Yes, my Lord,” the archer Captain answered.

  Kaelos led his men out the gates at full speed, his lance high and proud. The thundering of hooves carried across the fields, shaking the very ground as they rode on. He could see the black face plates of the enemy as they approached. Then, the volley of arrows sailed above them, darkening the sun with its numbers. The enemy cowered as the arrows rained down upon them, forcing them to drop their spears to take cover.

  With a deafening clash, the cavalry broke the enemy’s line, sending their bodies flailing into the ground. Kaelos dropped his spear as he broke through, drawing his sword and hacking his way to the rear of the line. His men did the same, reaping the enemy soldiers like weeds. When there were no more, he turned to the infantry that still faced him mere yards away. He released his battle cry, urging his men to let loose their rage. The cavalry roared, clapping their swords and shields like battle drums.

  The enemy did not move.

  Kaelos lowered his weapon, bewildered at the lack of response. Confused, he turned to his men, shouting, “Ride them down!”

  With battle cries sounding, the men reared their horses to charge again. But then, the enemy infantry parted and stepped back.

  Within their midst, a cloaked figure raised up to its full height. It towered above the enemy soldiers by the whole height of a man. Its cloak billowed in the wind, and the dust around it began to stir. Kaelos and his men stared wide-eyed as the very life of the land around it began to wither and die. Grass crumbled, weeds twisted themselves into twigs, and insects began to seep through the ground. Even the vermin and decrepit life of the dirt was attempting to flee.

  The dark figure raised its cowled head, revealing nothing but a pair of hellish eyes that glowed red through the darkness that was its face. Kaelos heard the creature hiss. It was an unearthly sound, one that sent a chill up his spine and stung his ears. The horses began to panic, throwing their riders from their backs as they reared in horror.

  The monster’s arms slowly rose to waist level, the fraying sleeves of its cloak falling back to reveal two long, bony fingers that ended in sharp claws. Kaelos was forced to the ground as his horse threw him, and was nearly trampled as the animal scrambled to flee.

  “Fall back!” he yelled. “Fall back!”

  But it was too late. The creature curled its claws and opened its rotting maw. The air around the cavalry began to crackle, growing as hot as the sun. Men screamed and fell to the ground in pain, their skin blistered and burned. Kaelos struggled to breathe, trying to get to his feet to help his men escape.

  The beast then pulled its arms back, drawing the very life from the cavalry. The men cried in agony as their bodies began to disintegrate, Kaelos along with them. The energy that once drove their bodies swirled and gathered in a vortex as they fell to the ground and crumbled to dust, the ethereal moans of a hundred horsemen echoing through its mass.

  The Defiler drew the energy into it, absorbing it and relishing in its warmth. When the last remaining tendrils of life had disappeared into the creature’s body, it closed its cloak, returning to its crouching position. The entire cavalry of Taryn lie in a heaping pile of ash and twisted limbs.

  Khalid smiled in delight. “Forward, men!”

  The Defiler had triumphed again. The archers on the wall would be no match for its power, and Khalid’s army would slaughter the townsfolk like cattle.

  What a great gift the Lifegiver had provided.

  Chapter Nine

  Eamon and Wrothgaar crept carefully through the ruined city. All around them, crows cawed, crickets chirped, and small mammals scurried here and there through the dried foliage. The horses had been left behind, near the opening of the temple grounds, and Eamon glanced back occasionally to make sure they were still there.

  “I do not like this place,” Wrothgaar stated. “And I doubt I will like the inside, either.”

  “I don’t like it, either,” Eamon replied, his gaze darting side to side along the road. “I can’t help thinking something is going to jump out from behind a wall or dead tree and attack.”

  Wrothgaar hadn’t considered that until now. He reached for his axe, gripping its handle tightly.

  There was a mist that seemed to roll in as they neared the center of the city. It was thin and gray, moving slowly across the deserted street. Obviously it was harmless, but unnerving nonetheless. It almost accentuated the desert
ed feeling that already blanketed the city.

  “Look ahead,” the Northman said.

  Eamon followed his gaze, seeing two dragon statues that guarded either side of the entrance to the temple’s courtyard. They were fearsome beasts. Not at all like the dragons of myth, but more mysterious and bat-like. Their front legs, arms really, comprised their wings, each hand having long, clawed fingers with membranes stretched between them. Their heads were sinister, yet noble in appearance, each one slightly different from the other. The statues themselves were lifelike, as if either one could step right off its pedestal and attack at any moment.

  “Frightening,” Eamon remarked, “and so different. I never imagined dragons would look this way.”

  “The dragons of our myths had four legs and wings,” Wrothgaar said. “These are more beastly. The front legs...or arms...are their wings. I wonder how they walk.”

  As the two examined the statues, they revealed long thumb like appendages protruding from the wrist. Four fingers and a thumb. Hands for wings.

  “I imagine they walk like bats,” Eamon guessed.

  “I don’t care much for bats,” Wrothgaar said.

  The courtyard opened up behind the statues. It, too, was strewn with rubble and overgrown with vines and foliage, both dead and alive. The mist also persisted, covering the courtyard in an oppressive atmosphere. Above them, the tower loomed, and the dragon maw door beckoned them inside.

  “I would hope this temple was more inviting in the past,” Wrothgaar said.

  The two men hesitated at the courtyard entrance, gathering the confidence to push forward. Though they were both terrified, they also felt a presence that promised safety and comfort. Something that told them they should enter.

  With a quick glance to one another they stepped foot into the courtyard.

  The hunters remained hidden as they observed the two men approach the temple. They wondered why the humans had come to Dol Drakkar, and why they wanted to enter the temple. Something told the hunters that these men belonged here, and that the Dragon had beckoned them.

  Eamon drew his sword as he and Wrothgaar approached the temple’s gaping, toothed maw. The stone was cracked and chipped in places, surely a sign of the temple’s age. But there were also signs of several attempts to break in. Though Eamon doubted anyone would be brave enough to enter a Dragon’s lair simply to loot, it was still a possibility. The single, round stone door inside the dragon’s mouth seemed intact, without many blemishes, and looked sturdy enough to withstand any damage. The temple looked secure.

  “How do we get in?” Wrothgaar wondered.

  “I’m not sure,” Eamon answered. “There are no levers or switches.”

  Wrothgaar leaned in closer, spying a hand-shaped depression that was located in the center of the door. He reached his hand out to place it in the depression. When he made contact with the stone, he turned to his friend.

  “It’s warm,” he said. “But nothing is happening.”

  He pulled his hand away, motioning for Eamon to try.

  “I’m not a dragon,” Wrothgaar said.

  Eamon swallowed and gently placed his own hand in the depression, pressing firmly against the stone. An audible click was heard, and the hand shape slid deeper into its cavity. A circular seam appeared around the hand and also sank in slightly. Eamon turned his hand, as it seemed to be the logical thing to do. The contraption turned with him, sounding more clicks, and a loud clunk.

  Eamon pulled his hand away, letting the switch activate fully. The door slowly rolled to the side, crushing whatever rubble was underneath it, revealing a long, perfectly round hallway. From deep inside, a faint red glow lit the moist walls. The two men stared into the hallway, neither one prepared to enter.

  “After you, my friend,” Wrothgaar said.

  Eamon slowly inched forward, hesitant to enter the darkness. He backed off for a second, took a deep breath, allowed his eyes to adjust to the dim light, and entered. Wrothgaar followed close, gripping his axe even more tightly than before.

  They had taken no more than a few steps before the rumbling sound of the rolling door was heard behind them. Before either could react, the stone had rolled into position and locked with an audible click. They were trapped.

  Both men stood motionless facing the door. Wrothgaar grunted, tapping the stone with his axe handle.

  “Great,” he lamented. “I guess we have no choice but to continue.”

  “That’s the way it looks,” Eamon sighed.

  “Again, after you.”

  The two men, led by only the faint red glow, made their way into the temple.

  The hunters had watched the men enter the temple, and were happy to see that the Dragon had allowed it. That fact alone convinced the hunters that the two men were friendly and that the Dragon trusted them. And if the Dragon trusted them, the hunters would trust them as well. With the land in danger, as they knew it was, the two men, especially the strange one in black, would make excellent allies.

  The hunters agreed that they would make contact soon. If these men were allies of the Dragon, then it was their duty to serve them. They had served the Dragon for thousands of years, and would extend that honor to his other allies.

  The hunters left Dol Drakkar. Though they would not return to the temple any time soon, they would seek out the two men again when the time was right. The hunters hoped that, with the arrival of the men, the Onyx Dragon would return and lay waste to the enemy. They looked forward to fighting at his side again.

  The layout of the temple was fairly straightforward. A long hallway led to a large round chamber, built from the same black stone, with censers arranged along the walls. Their shallow bowls were filled with a strange substance that glowed red, providing the ambient light that led their way. There was no smoke rising from them, only the faint glow that gave the chamber its eerie, warm atmosphere.

  Along the walls, between each censer, were more dragon statues. Each of them was depicted in a relaxed pose, with its wings folded and its head lowered as if they were bowing. Eamon looked at each statue in turn, noting the names that were engraved on silver plates attached to the pedestals.

  “Daegoth,” Eamon read, recognizing the name. “He was the first to wield the Serpent’s Tongue.”

  “Your ancestor?” Wrothgaar asked.

  Eamon nodded. “The first to be known as the Onyx Dragon. All of these statues must represent the past Kings who took that name. Sons of the Dragon himself. My brothers.”

  “Why are they depicted as dragons?” Wrothgaar wondered out loud.

  “To demonstrate their power or bloodline, I would assume,” Eamon answered

  Wrothgaar went to the North end of the chamber, eyeing a door that was sealed with another hand lock mechanism.

  “Here,” he said. “Another door.”

  Eamon joined Wrothgaar and placed his hand in the depression. The door unlocked, this time opening outward on well balanced hinges that moved smoothly and without noise. The hallway beyond was well lit and lined with black and amber stones. The upper and lower corners were trimmed in black onyx slabs, carved with familiar designs.

  “These are the same runes that were carved in Jodocus’ tower,” Eamon said, feeling their texture with his outstretched hand.

  Wrothgaar studied the runes, still not sure of their meaning, but recognizing them as well.

  The two continued down the hallway, eager to see what lie ahead. Their way was lit by torches that glowed with magical blue light, similar to Jodocus’ staff. The ceiling was vaulted, rising upward at an angle in the center, with cross beams of stone that were likewise carved with strange symbols. Both men realized that they were going downhill at a slight angle.

  At its end, the hallway opened to another chamber, round like the chamber they had just left, with a wide staircase in the center. The walls were painted with scenes of battle, depicting former Kings leading their armies against the forces of darkness. Each King was dressed in fearsome-looking armor
, wielding the same sword. And each was accompanied by six other men that bore similar armor.

  “These must be the Knights of the Dragon,” Eamon exclaimed. “And that is the Serpent’s Tongue.”

  “I’ve never seen a sword like it,” Wrothgaar remarked. “The blade is strange. Almost alive. But it doesn’t look the same in any of the paintings.”

  “It’s magical,” Eamon explained. “Maybe it molds itself to the type of sword its wielder is accustomed to.”

  Wrothgaar glanced at Eamon’s own sword, which was curved, with a long handle. Not the typical straight-bladed sword of Eamon’s own people, but more akin to the swords of the East.

  “I wonder what it would look like as an axe,” Wrothgaar mused

  After the men had studied the murals sufficiently, they investigated the staircase. Its banisters were carved with dragon scales, and the treads were smooth and black. The entire staircase appeared to be carved from a single piece of onyx.

  The two began to descend, taking one step at a time into the blackness below. Wrothgaar counted twenty eight steps before the two reached the bottom, where a small square room suddenly lit up with the blue light of magical torches. This time, the torches were held by cloaked figures standing on either side of a door emblazoned with the insignia of the Knights of the Dragon.

  They were tall, but slightly hunched over, and their faces could not be seen under their cowls. Their general shape underneath the cloaks seemed odd, as if they were not entirely human.

  “Northman,” one of the figures spoke, its voice a harsh whisper that resonated like many voices speaking at once. “You may go no further.”

  Wrothgaar didn’t protest, but instead backed away as the two figures opened the large door and beckoned Eamon inside.

  The Prince turned to his friend, placing his hand on the Northman’s arm in assurance. “It will be alright,” he said. “Wait here. I will return.”