Dragon's Revenge

by Debi Ennis Binder

  Dragon’s Revenge

  Book Two

  The Ring-Witches of Nesht

  by

  Debi Ennis Binder

  https://debiszoo

  Story © 2018 Debi Ennis Binder—all rights reserved

  No part of this story may be reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  * * * * * * * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Art Work

  Front Cover Art by Adriana Musetti Dávila

  https://adrianamusettidavila.deviantart.com/

  Contact

  Debi Ennis Binder: https://debiszoo.com

  04042019

  BISAC Subject Headings

  FIC009120 FICTION/Fantasy/Dragons & Mythical Creatures

  FIC009090—FICTION/Fantasy/Romantic

  * * * * * * * * *

  Dedication

  To my Muse, Leandra

  Acknowledgement

  I would like to acknowledge the invaluable assistance of some amazing alpha readers, Bruce Berg and Cheryl Ennis. And to Jerry Loeb—you tell it like it is! And a writer needs that above all else, thanks so much.

  To Tom, an alpha reader who has the soul of an editor, thank you so much for your wisdom and insight, your expertise on commas and M-dashes, and of course , your willingness to beat a point absolutely to death before we get it worked out.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  The Ceshon Mountains

  Day one of the First Moon of Wynter

  High in the mountains of Ceshon Pass, the great black dragon Gaulte rested, dreaming of death. He had killed before, and so he would again; there would be no bargaining with the blue-skinned Phailites. Those savages had stolen the females and youngling dragons of his Aerie and enslaved the males, taking them to the kingdom of Nesht and using them to lay waste to innocent humans. With the males freed, their one undertaking now was to find their families. And then, the Phailites would die.

  Gaulte sat unmoving. The moonlight that surrounded him had turned him into a magnificent statue of a savage beast. The two enormous black horns crowning his head spiraled back to curve around either side of his long, intelligent face. The groupings of smaller horns that ran down his long, thick, scaled neck formed low spikes on his back, protection against being bitten, but low enough to allow his riders to sit well above them. With his husky, muscular body and thick limbs, he was the largest dragon in his Aerie—in any northern Aerie. He was also learned and altruistic, he loved the witches—witchlings to his kind—and he looked forward to introducing them to the others of his Clan. It was unfortunate that the Phailites had discovered that one element that would turn any dragon of the Ceshon Aerie into one as savage as a wild dragon. They had harmed his kin.

  His eyes—like a burst of golden sunlight—closed as he fell back into a miasma of memory. Gaulte had not killed alone. His strange, starburst eyes went to the witchling, Mayra ara’Ferren, who lay tucked up, warm and safe, with her mate, Wolfe Sieryd. They slept under the edge of Gaulte’s leathery wing.

  Mayra was diminutive, yet so fierce. She seemed too small to fight, let alone win a battle. Yet the first time he had laid eyes upon her, she had been bloody and wounded, fighting to free him before she had known he was a dragon. She fought a savage human and his demon-animal, the bushdog, and killed both to free Gaulte. Against the command of her grandfather, the King of Nesht, Mayra, Wolfe, and Gaulte had freed the males of Gaulte’s Aerie and fled Nesht with a small assembly of witch-warriors.

  The witchlings slept deeply now; they had battled hard to earn their respite. That they trusted the dragons enough to sleep with them filled Gaulte’s heart with something he had thought forever lost: love for humans.

  Mayra has great bravery and compassion, dear Hesta. Gaulte spoke with what the witchlings called mind-speak. That was customary among all dragons, but none but he conversed with a mate who was not there. Her mate is only slightly less a dark and savage assassin now, but she is taming him. You will like him. He huffed softly, a dragonesque chuckle. Once both were wealthy and powerful Ring-Witches, but now possess little more than clothing and weapons. Having bonded with a dragon and left her home behind, she seems content now. I believe you will find her enchanting—Gaulte hesitated. That likely wasn’t a good word to use—for he had been enchanted and he had killed with no good cause.

  Despite Gaulte’s resolve to maintain his composure, reality returned in a rush of dark memories. Phailites—the savage blue humans with whom the dragons shared a frozen homeland—had stolen into the dragons’ Aerie while the male dragons were away, hunting. They drugged the females and younglings, took them to a location still unknown to Gaulte, and then returned for the males.

  The trap and capture the blue humans set for the males differed greatly from that of the females. Gaulte’s long, sharp teeth ground together as he remembered the vicious blue man’s words—I have drugged your females and younglings. I will just as easily kill them! They are dragons and I do not care. The Phailites had forced the mighty males of the powerful Ceshon Aerie to submit to having reins placed over their heads and saddles on their backs.

  His mind’s eye would forever see him bending his head so the blue man could place cursed reins on him. The device had seemed so small and insignificant, until pain seared every part of Gaulte’s being and liquid fire burned into his body. Something with unbound evil had created those reins, for every time the blue bastard drew back on those reins, the mind-numbing pain shooting through Gaulte felt like countless fire-seared swords blasting through him.

  The memory haunted and shamed Gaulte, tasted like rotted meat in his mouth. He shook his head, flung away savage anger, and felt the reins. He stopped, took a deep, calming breath, and embraced the memory of Mayra, gently laying the reins over his head, the leather that had almost killed her as she removed its magic. And she had whispered her apologies, promising the
y would fly together, gloriously high as they sought his family—

  Yes, he wore those reins now! But their sensation was so different, like soft, weathered leather, their only purpose now to ensure the safety of the witchlings who had freed the dragons.

  Before the happenstance that joined his mind with Mayra’s, Gaulte had doubted he would ever be free of the enchanted reins that had forced the dragons into service as pack animals, carrying men who slaughtered without reserve.

  Remembering would always haunt him. Butchery. The Phailites destroying without reason—animals, people, villages. Forests burning, fire everywhere, the screams, the horror—the smell. It still made Gaulte ill.

  Gaulte’s thoughts flung about, seeking anything to replace that memory—and they sharpened on Tamsin, his youngest nestling. Pride displaced fear. Even when dread filled him, thinking somehow, someone knew about Tamsin’s magic, he still felt his heart swell with pride over the tiny, beautiful youngling.

  Tamsin was the first dragon to hatch with her mystical magic since the first Chronicles were written. All dragons could cast some levels of magic. Dragons could speak to each other, mind to mind, and a dragon’s scales gave protection against both magical and non-magical threats. But little Tamsin had a sort of magic not seen in centuries and he had to find her.

  Gaulte and his male kin, accompanied by the witchlings who had saved them, were at last able to start north, to home. Eight massive male dragons now flew free, carrying twelve witchlings, bound for the north. The Ceshon Aerie and Gaulte’s Clan was redefined—it now included humans. And these witchlings had earned the respect of the dragons as no other humans ever had. His Clan’s witchlings were not weak.

  Neither Gaulte nor his kin believed the kidnapped dragons of the Ceshon Aerie to be dead. Humans succeeding at killing dragons? It did not happen, especially not females protecting young. It was almost laughable, picturing what a female dragon would do to any human even trying to harm a nestling.

  Females were more savage than males. That was a simple truth, which led three male dragons to warily ask a simple question—did Gaulte expect the Aerie females to welcome humans as fully as the males had?

  Gaulte didn’t answer. He wasn’t one to offer answers without certainty. What would he say now? He bonded to another being? Another female? He tried it out, mentally—

  I bonded to another being—though neither of us saw the other before that bond became fixed. I know that is a rare union, Hesta. Not as our union, and not unknown to our kind, but you cannot lay blame at my talons. How could I save the other males, and then you, were I not courageous enough to blindly trust an unknown presence and bare my pain, my fear, as I did to this witchling?

  He winced. He couldn’t say such a thing to Hesta, he sounded ridiculous. But somehow, the black dragon had to make Hesta understand! Only then would his mate truly appreciate the basis upon which a mighty dragon, Gaulte, her mate, had bonded with another female. A human.

  The thought of returning home and beginning his search for his family warmed Gaulte; he finally felt the cold grip of his fear and anger trickling away. Watching the witchlings and dragons sleeping further calmed him. They huddled together, dragons warming the humans; and for now, all was peaceful.

  Before he drifted back to sleep, he merged with all that was tranquil and quiet around him, and again opened his mind to hunt for Hesta. Time after time, he searched the towering mountains and low valleys, sent thoughts through high winds and ice, seeking a trace of her Center, that inner part of Hesta that made her draconigena—dragon-born. It was that part of her that none but he, as her mate, could touch. As he had left Nesht, he felt her, fleeting and desperate, searching for him. The joy that coursed through him spurred them on to seek, now with hope they lived. But he had felt nothing since and this was no different.

  Nothing responded to his seeking. But he was almost home. Home—a place to start seeking.

  Chapter One

  The Ceshon Mountains

  Day two of the First Moon of Wynter

  The Ceshon Mountains are legendary, well known as arduous to traverse and even more challenging to inhabit. The seemingly endless mountaintops serve as a barricade, hiding what lies at the center of that vast ring of boiling springs and massive rocks—dragon Aeries, human villages, and pastures and small forests that feed a variety of small and large animals alike. Most of those who occupy Ceshon try to do so in harmony, and for the most part, it is a land of peace—albeit a cold one—to those of us hardy enough to make our home here.

  Riding upon Gaulte’s broad back, Mayra, Wolfe, and his familiar, the black cat, Poppie, joined the other witch-warriors and dragons, traveling in silence as they listened to the black dragon expound upon the wonders of the endless mountains of ice around them. Mayra wondered if she should tell the black dragon his welcoming speech was far from that to the humans.

  Wolfe’s wry comment—Gaulte doesn’t seem at all aware that he sounds as though he is trying to sell a leaking cottage to an ill-informed human—made Mayra smile, but it was true. Finding and saving the stolen dragons would be difficult in these wild lands, even considering how much these humans wanted to be here. Gaulte’s seemingly desperate attempts to make the place sound welcoming weren’t helping.

  The witches asked questions as they learned as much as they could about their new and challenging home. They did not complain; Wolfe and Mayra knew they would not; they had given themselves wholly to this quest, they would ride to the ends of the known world to complete it. To pass time they took turns resting and they practiced using mind-speak, an ability made easier by their proximity to dragons.

  As dragons and witches traveled, and the skies darkened, the infinite spires and savage cliffs of the Ceshon Pass mountains gave way to another sort of mountain. Here they saw vast, barely hospitable plateaus providing flat areas large enough to accommodate a clan of enormous beasts seeking a place to rest.

  Two days after the party had left Nesht, they stopped to rest on a plateau that was protected from the winds and had a thick layer of dead grass that protected them from the cold ground. The dragons had hunted, all had eaten, and near the middle of the night, all slept. Gaulte could not. So he closed his eyes to the winds, and he let his mind roam.

  Earlier that day, the travelers had passed over a broad, deep fissure that marked a pronounced difference between the lands of Nesht and the ice of the northern dragon lands. With the witchlings wrapped in layers of fur, they weren’t as aware as the dragons were when they passed into the colder world.

  Gaulte smelled the ice and snow and felt the cold of the sharp, stony mountains of home long before he saw them. The sting of fierce ice storms that swept down from the high north brought the scents and ambiance that made him long for home so keenly that, but for the needs of the witchlings accompanying them, he and the other dragons of his Clan would have driven onward. Gaulte knew his kin would follow him—without even stopping for food or rest—if it meant they would reach their home sooner and begin the hunt for their stolen families. He gazed down at Mayra. It did not matter. He owed the witchling his life; he could not have left her behind.

  Should he warn them that they would continue to sail above an endless terrain, painted in shadows of blue and white? While familiar to the massive reptiles, it was so different from the vast green forests and flowering meadows his human companions had known, that more than once, they must have recalled Gaulte’s warning as they departed Nesht—dear witchlings, my world will differ greatly from that to which you are accustomed. Perhaps to the point where you will find it difficult to stay there.

  The witches had a retort ready—don’t other humans already live there? Then so shall we.

  Perhaps they could, mused Gaulte, recalling their valiant stance. They had the determination, but did they have the physical endurance to make a home here? The Phailites were as large and sturdy as the male witchlings, but the blue-skinned humans had a level of savagery and animal-like canny—a will to survive
—that might be missing from these more civilized humans.

  Gaulte’s golden starburst eyes flickered to the dominant human male—Wolfe Sieryd, Mayra’s chosen mate. That large warrior-assassin had been known to lose his grip on civility at the drop of a talon. Perhaps with his guidance—tempered by the sage and compassionate Mayra—the witchlings could survive this world.

  A huff of laughter escaped the dragon. He again wondered what his mate Hesta was going to make of these new Clan additions. Gaulte paused in his musings and gazed around the encampment, always ensuring no one was creeping up on them. Satisfied with their safety, he closed his eyes.

  And as they always did, his deliberations turned to the Phailites. Calling them all savages, as he was now prone to do, was unfair, but he could hardly help himself. How had the once-docile, blue-skinned farmers and traders gained evil magic? Who had given them the means to enslave the male dragons of Ceshon Aerie and abduct the Clan’s females and younglings?

  Gaulte shook his head. Strange things had happened to the dragons while captured. Lack of enough food had kept his Clan nearly too weak to fly; they had been held apart from each other, and when together, were unable to communicate with words—a single uttered word would have brought the agonizing pain of the magical reins. Stranger still—and puzzling to no end—the Phailites had prevented the dragons from connecting with each other’s thoughts. What terrible magic had the power to send the dragons’ unspoken words sliding into the ether?

  The black dragon gave another soft huff. The greatest anomaly by far—though unable to communicate with his kind, Gaulte had still been able to use mind-speak to connect with both Mayra and Wolfe, without the Phailites ever realizing it. That undetected connection had been the conduit to freedom for the dragons. Once Mayra had freed Gaulte and the blue man and his fiendish pet were defeated, the witchlings’ magic had released the others of Gaulte’s Clan from their bondage. Eventually, Gaulte had conceded that whoever—or whatever—had created the magic reins for the Phailites to use, did not understand the anomalous magic wrought by the witchlings.