by Ben Hale
Draeken shook his head. “They should have been here.”
“Who, my Lord?” the Lady Dentis asked at his side.
He spared her a look. She stood trembling, her beautiful green dress stained with blood and smoke, dirt covering her face. She’d been a powerful wife to a powerful lord, but only in public. In private, she’d been the ruthless Raven, head of a thieves guild expanding across the south. Few had known she’d also served Serak as an appendage to the Order of Ancients.
“The Hauntress,” he said dismissively. “She should have come. I made my plans clear so they would come.”
Serak approached and bowed his head. “Gendor is killing the last of the bandits. Bartoth is scattering the city guard.”
Shouts and screams came from outside the estate walls, followed by a brutal crash and the splintering of wood, the sound of an armored body bashing his way through the base of a building. Unstable from the conflict in the street, the structure collapsed, billowing dust into the smoky twilight sky.
“Why did they not come?” Draeken growled.
“Perhaps because they saw your intent,” Serak said. “Elenyr is crafty, and the oracle would have seen what you intended.”
“I know her capacity,” Draeken said, his lips twitching with irritation.
Elenyr would prove to be a problem. She’d survived three attempts on her life by a lightning mage, and her continuing guidance to the broken fragments kept them focused. In addition, Serak had seen the oracle and Tardoq headed east after they’d failed to stop Bartoth’s conversion to Draeken’s general. The two parties likely joined outside of Blackwell Keep. The oracle would have foreseen Draeken’s turning the Raven into a third general, and Elenyr should have tried to stop him. A perfect opportunity to rectify Serak’s biggest failure.
“Why did she not come?” he growled.
He’d hoped to end Elenyr for good. If she would have come to the Raven’s estate to stop him turning the Raven into his general, he would have been able to kill the woman, before she could thwart his plans. But she had not come.
“It seems they chose a different path,” Serak said.
“Obviously,” Draeken said.
Serak’s intelligence grated on Draeken’s flesh. The man had spent five thousand years preparing for Draeken’s arrival, preparing so Draeken could open the Dark Gate, yet he treated him like a fool.
But if Elenyr had not come to stop Lady Dentis becoming a third general, where would she have gone? What quest would she possibly deem more important? A thought crossed his mind and he smiled. If Senia had foreseen him coming to Keese—with Serak, Bartoth, and Gendor—it meant she had foreseen their absence in other locations.
“She seeks to stop the fourth general,” he replied.
“That means they have discerned her identity,” Serak said. “We must move quickly.”
“And we must divide,” he said.
“Master?” Serak asked. “I believe that is unwise. If we take separate ways, the oracle might learn that we are alone.”
“That is my hope,” he said. “Elenyr must die, and she will not attack unless she sees a chance of victory.”
“But if we separate, she could kill you,” Serak said.
“You think me vulnerable?” Draeken laughed, the sound causing the Raven to shudder and look to the exit. “She cannot harm me, not anymore.”
His amusement faded into a scowl. Five thousand years, trapped inside the fragments, caged by Elenyr’s teachings of protecting others. His might had been used to repair walls, grow plants, end conflicts, while his identity was known by only a few. He deserved better. The people of Lumineia should tremble at the mention of his name.
“Shall I get the cloak?” Serak asked, glancing at the Raven.
“No,” he said.
Clearly surprised by the answer, Serak raised an eyebrow. “Master?”
“You said there were two candidates for the position,” Draeken said. “Let us insert an element of indecision into the oracle’s visions.”
“A clever ploy,” Serak said with a nod of approval.
“Take her to your mount,” he said. “It’s time we depart.”
Serak bowed again and then lifted the Raven on a pedestal of stone. The woman bared her teeth but did not move, the stone shackles on her legs preventing escape. A red dragon dropped through the smoke and landed in the gardens, its claws tearing furrows in the earth. More shouts came from the streets and Draeken smiled. The music of fear.
Bendelinish, the red dragon, dipped its head and opened its jaws, eager to join the conflict. But the battle had ended quickly, and Draeken patted the red dragon on the flank. It was middle aged, large, but not giant, lean and powerful. A worthy mount for Serak, even if Draeken could hear the sullen tinge to the beast’s thoughts.
Serak placed the Raven on the dragon’s neck and mounted. Nodding to Draeken, he directed the dragon skyward. The red dragon disappeared into the haze as Gendor exited the burning structure and advanced to Draeken, who noted the blood on his scythe. Bartoth too, returned, albeit through the outer wall.
He burst through the stone, his deep laughter scattering the few soldiers still in the street, and then advanced to join Gendor. Draeken smiled at his two generals, so powerful, at his command.
“Shall we return to Blackwell Keep through the Gate?” Gendor asked.
Although the assassin tried to keep his voice even, there was a trace of hope. He did not want to continue killing, not for Draeken. The man’s reluctance and defiance brought a measure of pleasure to Draeken, for now. Draeken valued Bartoth for his brutality and power, but Gendor provided much more amusement.
“You said there was no intruder at Blackwell Keep,” he said.
“There was not,” Gendor said. “A golem’s magic had failed and it had begun to wander about. I dealt with him and returned.”
Draeken wondered if the man was lying. He was certainly crafty enough to evade giving the truth, even if Draeken pressed him on it. But this time, Draeken found he did not care. He had more pressing concerns.
“If Elenyr failed to come here, that means she might know of Lachonus. Find him. Kill him.”
“Serak said he needed to remain alive,” Bartoth said.
“He’s not the master anymore,” Draeken said. “Make sure he’s dead.”
“As you order,” Gendor said, and turned away.
Bartoth sheathed his sword and motioned to Draeken. “What about you?”
“Serak has a mount. It’s only fair I have my own.”
“You want your own dragon?” he snorted in amusement.
“Doesn’t everyone?” Draeken replied with a laugh.
“There are always outcast dragons on the outskirts of the Dragon’s Teeth,” he said. “I would enjoy the hunt.”
“No,” he said. “I want you to go with Gendor. Make sure Lachonus dies. The oracle’s vision proves he is a threat.”
Draeken wished Serak had killed Lachonus before. The man was obviously a threat, and Serak had possessed the power to end his life. But the vision Serak had taken from Senia had been clear, if Lachonus died early, another would rise in his stead. Still, Draeken decided to cast the vision aside. His future was his own, and it was time for Lachonus to die.
“You’re going dragon hunting alone?” Bartoth asked.
“Not hunting,” he said, and reached into his cloak for the small pocket Gate that had brought him to Keese. “I know the location of my prey.”
Bartoth shrugged, clearly confused, and then turned and followed Gendor into the darkness. Draeken opened the pocket Gate and activated it by touching a small rune. Silver liquid poured from the small mirror and expanded, rising to become an oval touching the earth. Draeken swept the burning estate with a satisfied gaze and then stepped through, his body transporting into the depths of the towering mountain range south of Talinor, the Dragon’s Teeth.
The terminus lay in a small room of stone, the air also tinged with smoke, albeit the smoke of dr
agon’s flame. Draeken returned the pocket Gate to its pouch and ascended the steps through the underground outpost.
Once a krey structure, it had been abandoned when the treaty had been signed with the dragons, and the dragons had taken the outpost as their throne. He threaded his way upward and entered a vast chamber, the hollow interior between three giant peaks.
An enormous roof bridged the trio of summits, the floor stretching to the great doorways where the dragons entered the royal roost. Scored by thousands of dragon claws, the floor had blackened from dragon fire, and reeked of soot and smoke. An enormous home for the greatest living creatures on Lumineia.
The King of Dragons.
Thistikor, the giant gold dragon, lounged on his royal perch, the stone melted and shaped by ages of past dragon kings. Two other dragons were also present, a red dragon that was even larger than Thistikor, and a blue dragon, a female, by the markings on her neck. She was smaller than either of the males, but lighting crackled in her throat as she opened her maw.
“Thistikor,” Draeken said, coming to a halt.
Draeken, the great dragon dropped from its perch, sending a shudder into the mountain. Your presence is unwelcome.
Draeken eyed the trio of dragons, a slow smile spreading on his face. Their posture indicated they were second and third in command, likely generals, or possibly a prince and a princess. Which mount did he prefer? A giant gold dragon? An even larger red? Or the smaller blue?
“I’ll just be a moment,” he said.
The last time you were here, you killed several of my kindred, the red snarled, flames spilling from his jaws.
“You shall do nicely,” he said to the red.
The gold dragon reared back and roared, the sound reverberating in the chamber like thunder. ENOUGH, the king bellowed. Gorewrathian, I want his corpse hung on my wall.
The red lunged forward, fire bursting from its throat. Draeken reached for his own magic and gathered the fire, shaping it to his will. Arms and a torso formed, followed by legs and enormous fists. The golem took shape and swelled to fifty feet, large enough to cause the red to cut off its breath and stumble back in shock. The golem leaned forward and punched the red dragon.
The enormous beast rocked to the side, several teeth coming loose and scattering across the ground. The blue dragon opened its jaws but the towering golem reached out and wrapped a hand about her throat, lifting the dragon off the ground and slamming her against the wall.
“I will have what I came for,” Draeken said from behind the dragon.
He gathered the light from the room and leapt forward. Thistikor dropped to the ground and snapped its jaws, its maw large enough to crush a house. But Draeken possessed the speed of the fragment of Light, and he leapt aside. The jaws snapped shut and Draeken conjured a six foot spear of pure light, a sliver of power that pulsed.
He plunged the spear into the dragon’s throat. It pierced the nearly impenetrable scales and sank deep—and then began to grow. Thistikor stumbled back, flames pouring from its jaws as its fought for breath, but the spear continued to grow, stretching and extending, a shard that became twenty feet, and then thirty, until it pierced the dragon’s skull.
Thistikor’s strangled roar again reverberated in the confines of the throne room, the sound of a dying beast. Still the spear grew. Thistikor thrashed on the ground and dug its claws into its own neck, desperate to dislodge the weapon. Then it charged Draeken, a desperate attempt to crush his killer.
Draeken didn’t move, but the giant fire golem raised a knee, bashing the king of dragons in the chin, a brutal blow that sent the beast into the wall. The spear stuck through both the jaw and the skull now, and it jammed into the ground, lifting the dragon upward. It clawed at the hundred-foot spear of light magic, but its claws cracked and broke against the rod, its body sliding up the wall. Its hind legs came off the floor, and then its tail, until the rod struck a protrusion and sank into the stone, pinning the dragon against the wall. Only the tip of its tail still touched the ground, where it flopped from side to side.
“You did want a corpse on your wall,” Draeken said.
The red dragon and the blue hung back, their heads swinging between the dying king and the mage that had killed him so easily. As Thistikor twitched his last, Draeken turned to the red dragon.
“Gorewrathian was it?”
The red snarled, but made no move to attack. Prince of the reds, second in command to the king.
“You have my congratulations on ascending to the throne,” Draeken said.
A red has not sat on the throne in ages, the dragon said, greed filling his voice.
“Sadly you will not be able to enjoy your new position,” he said. “You may be king, but you are also my mount.”
I am not a horse, the dragon growled.
“Would you prefer I find another?” Draeken asked. He cast a second spear of light.
Gorewrathian looked to the dead king Thistikor, and then bowed its head. You have your mount.
Draeken smiled and turned to the blue. The female had shifted towards one of the entrances, her posture one of escape. Draeken asked her name and she spoke in a surprisingly light voice, the tone indicating a female.
Lagailien, the blue dragon replied.
“I have a special task for you,” Draeken said. “A Hauntress that needs killing.”
She glanced to the dead king, still pinned to the wall. If my companions die, and I succeed, I want the throne.
Draeken laughed as Gorewrathian growled. He loved dragon greed. It was so predictable. “You shall have it.”
Then consider her dead, the blue said.
Draeken strode to his new mount and rose into the air, flying himself up to straddle Gorewrathian’s neck. The ability caused new shock in the dragons as he settled into his seat. Never before had a mage existed that could fly on his own, and the sight inspired a sense of fear in the dragons that Draeken savored. Serak possessed a red dragon. But Draeken rode on the back of a king.
“North,” he directed the beast. “It’s time the people remembered why they fear your kind.”
Chapter 8: Dedliss
Mind walked with Tardoq and Jeric, the trio making their way north and west, deeper into the mountains. Spring had yet to arrive in the higher altitudes, and the snow was deep. Rather than dry and crisp, the warm air led to melting snow, and winter had lost its bite.
They ascended through a pass so narrow that Tardoq had to turn sideways in order to ease his way through the gap. Higher and higher they climbed, aiming for a towering peak. Allies of necessity, the three spoke little, and Mind mulled over the events at Blackwell Keep.
His thoughts frequently shifted to Tardoq, his oversized and armored companion. The last time Mind had seen him, Tardoq had been a foe, and wielded a powerful otherworldly hammer. Now he carried a rock troll greatsword, and not a common one either, but a warrior’s soulblade. Rock trolls never relinquished their soulblades unless dead, and the family could gift the weapon to another. But who had given the blade to Tardoq? And why?
As they approached a towering peak, Jeric pulled his cloak tighter about his body to ward off the icy wind. “We’re almost there.”
“Where are we going in the Empire?” Mind asked.
“We should start at Dedliss,” Jeric said.
“The Bone Crucible?” Tardoq asked.
“She’s been spotted there a handful of times,” Jeric said, “always under disguise, of course, but she enters when she is in need of resources. I suspect she has a contact there that we can utilize.”
“Care to enlighten me?” Mind asked.
Jeric glanced in his direction. “Dedliss is a world known for a single element, brutality. It was once a world rich in forests and beautiful lakes, but House Torn’Ent converted most of the surface into the Bone Crucible, an arena where thousands fight for survival. The contests are beamcast throughout the Empire, making House Torn-Ent one of the richest.”
“Wealth gained from bloo
d,” Mind said, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Who are the combatants?”
Tardoq motioned to himself. “Dakorians like myself are frequently entered, as are outcasts, criminal krey, and human slaves. Occasionally a house in need of glint will enter one of their higher ranked dakorians, or even a Bloodwall.”
Mind understood the strange words from context. Glint was coin, beamcast meant some kind of viewing mechanism that allowed other worlds to witness events on Dedliss. In just a small conversation, Mind was forced to acknowledge the sheer vastness to the Krey Empire.
“How would you fare?” Mind asked Tardoq.
Tardoq met his gaze. “Few can stand against me, but in the Crucible, Bloodwalls have fallen to humble krey. The only sure bet is that humans always die.”
“And how will we draw the Bonebreaker out?” Mind asked.
They ascended a rise and came to a natural cave. In the recessed space, an arch of stone curved over the opening, the shape distinct and obviously made by the hand of man. The cave was empty, just a shallow crack near the summit of a towering peak.
“I think you should enter a ranked contest,” Jeric said, nodding to Mind as he pressed his palm against the side of the arch. “If you defeat a dakorian, your fame will be instant, and should draw the Bonebreaker out of hiding.”
“Who would I face?” he asked.
“Probably a criminal dakorian,” Tardoq said, but he had a frown on his face, as if he disliked the suggestion. “They never pit humans against krey. They don’t want slaves seeing other humans killing krey. It happens in the war contests, but not in the ranked events.”
Mind liked the suggestion. It was bold and would draw a quick response. With Draeken and Serak so close to opening the Dark Gate, time was against them, and a quick return with the Bonebreaker would add critical aid to their effort. It did beg one question.
“Do the krey have technology that would help us locate the Dark Gate and destroy it?” Mind asked. “Or perhaps destroy Serak from one of your skyships?”
