by Arthur Slade
That said, I know they’re not everyone’s cup of tea. So I’ve included the first chapter from the next episode. I leave it up to you to decide whether to read it or not.
And, as always, I want to thank you for taking the time to read this series. I am overwhelmed and appreciative about the response to this world of dragon riders and assassins.
Warmth and many brave flights,
Arthur Slade
Book 5 Chapter 1 Preview
The blade descended and my dragon eye flashed. Time grew slow and, though one part of my mind knew less than a second had passed, another part measured every minuscule increment of time passing.
He had said I loved him. And in my heart I knew it to be true.
And this blade would end his life.
The edge had been kept sharp for thousands of years by magic older than any of the Ellos civilizations. The blade split each particle of air in half, nearing his chest. His beating heart.
I saw the first time he’d appeared in the cave in the light, emaciated and yet so powerful, and how small I’d felt. The first thing he’d called me. A one-eyed crow. A featherling. Weak.
How he smelled of chrysanthemums. His first compliment: You are a brave one. How could I kill him?
But it was an oath. And I was my word and my word was me. I had promised him and I would not, could not break that promise.
Still the blade descended.
He had given me sight. The very eye from his head.
And I remembered the experience the first time he allowed me onto his back, and how he was seething with anger and the pain of losing his eye and his dignity. Allowing a human to ride him.
And how, when we first tasted the air, I knew that being on his back was a place I was meant to be. A place where I belonged. I was finally home. I knew it from that moment.
And soon that home, that place, that oneness would be gone.
The twinness I was supposed to experience with my brother had vanished by the time we were teens. Brax had filled that space. Become my other. My reflection.
My brother.
The blade continued downwards. I knew with certainty that a part of me would die, too. With him. All the things I had become.
I felt such a connection. Such a oneness.
The blade, my blade, would sever that.
My oath would sever that.
The blade was now only a width of my finger from his chest. Then closer. Closer. Soon the flesh would part, the heart would be cut.
But the blade was going down even more gradually. Time had slowed to a minuscule movement.
There were loud booming noises in my ears, as if I were carving through such magic that it caused thunder. The domed room responding to this ancient ritual. This promise of bringing someone back from the dead. The light on the column grew brighter.
The blade cut his flesh and blood appeared—the droplets floating up so slowly. Like rain falling backwards.
But they slowed, too. And were soon suspended in the air.
And the booming became something almost recognizable.
Words. Words were being spoken.
But not by Brax. Words beyond me, and my blade stopped.
Time stopped. Only my dragon eye slowly moved, because a distant motion had caught my attention.
A man was walking toward us, down an aisle between the rows of statues, his cloak billowing out behind him as if caught in a wind.
No. Not a man. But a dragon on two legs. A staff in his hands pointing at us. And the slowly booming words were coming from his lips. Words of power. That sounded like thunder. It was as if one of the statues had come to life.
Then the dragon on two legs, his eyes as ancient as my blades, made a motion with his staff, and I drew the knife upwards and I thought at first time was going backwards. Life was going backwards. But the wound remained in Brax’s chest. The blood slowly dripping.
And the knife was dropped and clattered to the stone floor.
I tried to reach for my second dagger, but my arm refused to move. My body refused to respond. My eye could move and I saw that Brax was also frozen. His eye, though, was looking at me.
With anger. It was hard to tell since his face was frozen in a rictus of pain, from when the knife first hit his chest.
The other dragon was nearing, his mouth still moving, and behind him were more larger shadows that were not yet clear. Not in the light yet.
He halted several feet from us and gestured with his staff, and my hands went behind my back.
Then he walked around me, and something about being in that proximity made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. As if the power he was displaying was like a magnet drawing me toward it. He looked down at Brax. “The blood of the father returns,” he said. He drew his staff in a straight line in the air above the wound I’d made and the flesh came together, leaving a white scar over Brax’s heart. “You play at being a god and the gods play through you. Such playthings we are.”
Brax could only stare at him. Again his emotions were not readable. “Heart. Blood. Ache,” the man said, still staring at Brax. “Old are the words. Old is the ritual. Broken is the heart.”
It was as if his speech had been fractured, or his thoughts. He now turned toward me and I was shocked by the wrinkles—if there was one for every year, then he was thousands of years old. His skin—he had skin that became scales below his neck. Here was an ancient dragon, his staff clutched in gnarled hands made crooked by age. “A companion strange,” he said, and he poked my hand with one of his talons. “An eye of serpent. Two legs. A child of mortal.” He reached up and I thought he would touch my eye itself, he was staring at it so readily. But he held his palm there. “Two trunks make one tree,” he said. “Two roots. Two magics. Intertwined.”
I could not make any sense of what he was saying. Then a cry drew my attention, and I looked to the right to see Dyn lying on the stone floor as if he had just been tossed there.
Which he had, for a Scythian dragon, much larger than Brax, waited there with his wings spread. Beside him were two large dragons with scales so red that they glowed. Crimson dragons! They looked to be all muscle and power, with great bellows for chests. It was one of them who had just tossed Dyn aside.
“The slave was telling the truth,” the Scythian dragon said. “You shall be rewarded, slave, for letting us know of this arrival.” Then the Scythian dragon looked up at where we were. “So my son has returned. And he has attempted forbidden ritual magic. Tell me, dear son, why shouldn’t I kill you where you stand?”
Also by Arthur Slade
Crimson. A ruthless queen. An ancient god. One brave girl with an impossible choice...
“A wildly inventive, action-packed fantasy. A darkly fascinating read.”
— Kevin Sands, author of The Blackthorn Key
Click here to check out Crimson
Book one in the bestselling young adult series. Over 100,000 copies sold. Modo is the greatest spy of the Victorian era, but it will take all of his skill to survive the Clockwork Guild.
Mission Clockwork
About the Author
Arthur Slade was raised in the Cypress Hills of southwest Saskatchewan and began writing at an early age. He is the author of over twenty books, including Dust (which won the Governor General's award), Flickers, and Amber Fang. He currently lives in the mythical city of Saskatoon, Canada where he writes on a treadmill desk while listening to heavy metal.
It’s true.
Connect with Arthur Slade online:
www.arthurslade.com
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