Defenders of the Sacred Land: Expanded and Re-Issued (The Sacred Land Legacy Book 1)

by Mark E. Tyson

  Ianthill feigned a weak smile. “My dear boy, you still cannot see the larger picture here. You and your friends have a higher purpose in the scheme of events unfolding.”

  “I don’t understand, sir.”

  “You will in time. You have not come here by chance and sorcery so that we might have the company of four youths from the mountains. You four have a greater significance, and it is our responsibility to see that you remain safe.”

  Ianthill began pacing behind his desk. “We need to take them to Foreshome where they will be protected by the Sylvan elves. Sildariel and the Archers of Endil will keep them safe.” Ianthill put his hand on the black tome with silver runes. It is tempting to use this tome, but I fear it is enchanted. Each time you used it you may have alerted Naneden to your location. I will destroy this book, and we will travel most of the way by ship. In fact, I suggest we use the wielders way only under extreme circumstances. I don’t wish to draw attention to the road we travel or our destination.”

  A knock on the door startled the old elf. “Enter,” he said.

  “Sir,” Mavis interrupted. “I beg your pardon, but a man requires your audience.”

  “Oh?” Ianthill lit up with curiosity. “What sort of man would be calling to my home this day?”

  “He is quite a frightening warrior, Master. He wears armor made of what appears to be red dragon scales.”

  “A dragon knight,” Ianthill said with enthusiasm. “Show him in.” He returned to his chair, a smile gracing his lips. “It seems our prophecy moves swifter than I imagined.”

  Chapter 29: Burnings

  Naneden clutched the edge of his enormous, velvet chair; his attention darted from painting to painting on the walls of his study. His grey-blue eyes almost running up inside his skull. Naneden’s pale white face contorted hideously. He watched in fascination as the wall paintings slid and twisted. Battles that never took place raged on dingy tapestries, and ancient ancestors shook their heads disapprovingly, mocking him as he rocked back and forth on his throne-like chair. The colorful mosaics of his hanging tapestries moved and slithered like snakes in tall grass. Clouds blew across the ceiling in a storm of imagination as he nervously ran his hand through his oily, wild, black hair. He cut his eyes at one painting in particular, and in a sudden burst of anger, he rose up from his chair and screamed curses at the painting of his lover, Kimala.

  “I cannot hear you!” he yelled at her pale face. “What do you want of me?”

  “I want you to give me what you promised,” a voice said from behind him.

  Naneden whirled around to see Kimala standing in the flesh. All at once the paintings and tapestries went silent and stopped moving. “And what would that be, my pet?”

  “What do you see in that devious mind of yours when you stare at those paintings and tapestries?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  Kimala slowly and seductively made her way to Naneden, placing her full red lips an inch from his ear. “You asked what I wanted.”

  “Aye, what? What is it?”

  “Power, my dear Naneden, power.” She recoiled giggling.

  “Ah yes, my precious Kimala, you poor thing. Always hungering for more no matter how much you are fed.”

  “Would you have me be any other way?” she said, tossing her jet-black, shoulder length hair out of her face with a flick of her slender neck.

  Naneden did not answer. Instead he left his chair and marched away from her into the forum of his castle. Naneden stopped and stood in the forum with a maniacal smile. He gazed amusingly at a young, handsome woman who tilted her head sideways and licked the black wall near one of his bookshelves and clawed the side of her face with her hand. Naneden began to laugh as another man, in the far corner opposite the handsome girl, pounded his head on a large wooden table. “You are all positively mad,” he said gleefully.

  One man near the opposite entrance of the room stopped what he was doing to see why Naneden had come, and Naneden’s glee turned to anger. Naneden spoke through clinched teeth deliberately in a low, grumbling voice. “You…are…mad!”

  The man’s startled glance converted into one of pain, and he quickly resumed burning his fingers with a candle, laughing with a high-pitched cackle.

  “Much better,” Naneden said, gleeful once more.

  Naneden the Mad picked out a book, decorated with silver bindings and red runes on the cover, from an isolated shelf and returned to his study with it. “Here is your power, my precious Kimala.” He began laughing hysterically. Kimala stared at the tome puzzled. A knock at the study door broke Naneden’s crazed laughter. A youthful man dressed in black entered the room.

  “Your grace,” the man in black said with a bow. “I hesitate to bother you, but Master Drakkius rides to the main gate.”

  Naneden’s horrified expression became somber as he comprehended the servant’s words. “Excellent, Dredor, see that he makes his way in here to me.”

  “As you wish, your grace,” Dredor said, bowing as he backed his way out of the study.

  A few moments later, a man dressed in crimson armor entered the study. His hard face was lined with sharp edges, and his brow tilted downward as if he were contemplating the best way to proceed with some evil task. His eyes were of a frightening nature, piercing, black, and cold. He entered the room, tossed his long black braid to one side of his armored shoulder, and gave Kimala a gaze commanding power, confidence, and respect. Kimala strolled seductively to the crimson clad Abaddonian and kissed him deeply on the lips. She stopped with an evil grin as she rubbed her lips from left to right with an index finger, licking the tip as she went along.

  Drakkius addressed Naneden with lurid disgust. “Do you not care that this wench so boldly defies you before your very eyes?”

  Naneden, barely glancing up from reading a passage in the silver bound book, replied stoically, “Hmm, what? Oh, Kimala, not at all. Her heart is as black as a lump of coal and just as cold. She goes to whomever she perceives has power, wealth, or both. I suspect she would kill me if it suited her needs.” Kimala smiled contemptuously. Naneden shut the tome with a thud and stood up from his desk. “Be gone from us now, wench, I will play with you later. Drakkius and I have much to discuss.”

  Kimala’s grim smile turned into a venomous snarl. “I am just as much a part of the plan as anyone,” she said, tapering off as she left the room.

  “You say far too much, Naneden. You are reckless as well as foolish.” Drakkius looked back through the still open door. “Why do you surround yourself with insanity? Does it cloak your own madness?”

  Naneden slammed his fist on the desk. “And you are far too presumptuous about things you have no mind for.” He took the book to his desk. “What of the army, is it ready?”

  “Aye, it is ready. What of the Silver Drake, have your servants found it yet?”

  Naneden grinned. “I know where it is, and I know how to use it; however, we must take Symboria before I can get my hands on it.”

  “How do you expect to capture it? It tore Toborne’s soul from his flesh just for trying.”

  Naneden laughed his raspy, low laugh. “I will control it.” He tapped the book. “I have the secret, the key; I am its master. Do not fear so, Drakkius. Have faith, have faith. If you keep up your end of the plan and assemble the army for the conquest, I will keep mine.”

  “I have assembled all of your foul creatures and some of my own, as well as Scarovian and Abaddonian troopers. The army stands strong.”

  “Good, good, I want you to lead it to the Southern Pass first. I hear that the second tome I made no longer resides in Symbor. Drasmyd Duil tell of a band of wielders from Brookhaven that defeated an entire brood of Dramyds.” Naneden again pounded his fist on his wooden desk. “I want Brookhaven to fall first. Level the filthy village to the ground! Kill everyone within its wall, no prisoners.”

  “What of the armies of the West stationed near Brookhaven?”

  “They will meet you at the pa
ss, of course, where I have a little surprise for them.” His eyes gleamed with madness. “As well as the rest of the Western army. When they meet our army on the march through Symbor, they will be ill-prepared for what I have planned.”

  Drakkius watched as Naneden moved his hand through the flame of a black candle on his desk.

  “The enemy knows of our army,” Drakkius stated coldly.

  Naneden looked up from the candle. “I know that. I would have it no other way.”

  “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 he enticed the flames to completely engulf Dredor. The burning man 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. He held her in a death-like grip only an inch from his 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. 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. “You have misunderstood me. I do not crave your carnal dalliances. Such behavior is base mentality.”

  “My lord, what task shall I perform for you then?” she called after him.

  Drakkius stopped and without turning, he replied, “I will contact you. Do not speak of this to anyone, especially that pawn, Naneden, 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 who got exactly what she had been after.

  She secured her chambers and made sure there were no prying ears before she spoke. “You were right, Kyrie. Naneden is merely a pawn and Drakkius did indeed approach me. Drakkius, not Naneden, is behind all of this.”

  The demure elf appeared from behind one of the sets of long red curtains. “Are you prepared to follow through with our plans?” He asked, “Even though you may be seen forever as a traitor?”

  Kimala took a deep breath. “Aye, I will do my best. Go and report, and tell her what I have told you.”

  Kyrie nodded, bounded out the nearest open window, and was gone into the night.

  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 Amadace 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 Amadace 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. Amadace 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 reac
h 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, master Elf, since my master commands me to begin with you.”

  “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.”

  “Thank 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 left 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.”