The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  For a long moment, the only sound was the thin whistling of the wind. Then Ciann spoke. “Why should we wish to seek bindlings, if to do so puts us in danger? You say you represent your father’s people, but what of your mother’s? I can smell the mortal within you.” His nostrils flared in distaste. “We may be able to put our trust in the elves, but by what authority do you speak for mankind?”

  Isolde, the silver dragon, gave Leif a more conciliatory reply. “We are pleased by your father’s greeting and his gracious offer, but skeptical of this vision of harmony. If we are to reveal ourselves to man once more, which we have not done since the fall of the Before, we must be assured it is safe to do so. Indeed, are the elves prepared to do the same, and risk exposing themselves again to the intolerance of ignorant humans?”

  Leif strove to remember what Elvinor’s answer had been when he’d posed much the same question. “It’s true that some men wish to brew trouble anew. Old alliances are being broken and dangerous new ones forged. There are reports that the Jagars’ new vaar is preparing for war. The time has come—”

  Ciann cut him off. “And you speak of harmony?” The drake ruffled his wings impatiently. “With every word you utter, I become more convinced that nothing has changed.”

  “Are you not listening?” Rhiandra hissed. “Drinnglennin will inevitably be drawn into these new conflicts. If she should fall, there will never be another chance for us to return to the world. The last place where man, elves, and dragons might again coexist will be lost. And if that happens, we are doomed to living and dying on Belestar for all eternity.” The smoke from her nostrils was now as dark as Syrene’s. “Our sister Ilyria has gazed long into the flames. She has seen what is to become of the world should these malevolent forces prevail. It is an evil beyond imagining. But she has also seen a glimmer of hope, a light against the foreboding darkness. There are many more good men than bad, and we know the quality of the elves. If we all join forces and lend our power to—”

  A blast of fire rent the sky. “Here is my light—the light of vengeance!” Syrene roared. “You were not yet born at the time of the Purge, Rhiandra! You cannot know what we suffered as we counted our dead! Where were your good men and fine elves when we were being shot out of the sky or netted and butchered?” Syrene brought her snout within inches of her youngest sister’s. “What is your bindling doing here? How could you be such a fool as to risk that which for certain holds the key to dragon survival?” She narrowed her gilded eyes at Leif. “For all we know, he could be a wizard.”

  Leif hastened to reassure her. “Oh, no… I don’t know any magic, truly I don’t. Once, I’d hoped Master Morgan would teach me some, but then Rhiandra chose me. If I were a wizard,” he pointed out, “I could have magicked myself here to find Rhiandra. But I couldn’t… because I’m not! I had to walk for days across the ice, and then I fell into a crevasse back there”—he waved vaguely toward the south—”and had to climb up through that…”

  Too late, he realized his mistake. Syrene’s eyes widened, and Leif hastily dropped the arm he’d raised toward the tunnel.

  With a growl of fury, the goldenwing reared and sent a blast of fire barreling toward him.

  Leif tried in vain to scramble away from the flames, but they engulfed him all the same. A terrible bellowing arose, and he heard Rhiandra cry out in fear and rage.

  But even she fell silent when they all saw he had suffered no harm. Why? he wondered. They know I’m dragonfast, and fire cannot hurt me.

  “He is a wizard!” Ciann cried, lunging toward him with bared teeth.

  Leif reeled out of reach a second before the drake’s jaws snapped closed, then bolted for the tunnel. He heard Rhiandra’s roar of anguish above the pandemonium of the dragons’ pursuit. She couldn’t hope to protect him against the wrath of all her siblings combined.

  As he dove into the mouth of the tunnel, he wondered how it had all gone so terribly wrong. Now they think I’m after the eggs, he realized as the roaring grew angrier. There was no time to explain he wouldn’t harm the clutch; he’d be torn to a pulp if he hesitated long enough to try.

  His feet skidded from under him, and he careened blindly downward at dizzying speed, like a turtle on its back. He had a few seconds’ lead, and the tunnel was only wide enough for the dragons to pass in single file, but the sound of them hurtling after him was terrifying, even more terrifying than his fall.

  He realized his only salvation would be to get among the eggs. When they see I did nothing to them, it will prove I mean no harm.

  The rising heat from below told him when he was almost to the cavern. He dug his heels into the slushy ice, trying to slow himself, but it was not enough; he catapulted into the air.

  He landed with a shattering crash, and a thousand needles pricked his skin. He looked down at his hands to see that they’d been pierced by countless tiny golden splinters.

  It was only then that he realized the unspeakable horror of what he’d done.

  He was in the nest, wreckage strewn all around him.

  His fall had shattered Syrene’s eggs into a thousand shards.

  A cry rose in his throat as the dragon mother burst out of the tunnel, her siblings behind her.

  Leif scrambled to his feet amidst the broken shells.

  “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?” Syrene thundered, her outrage sending icy stalactites crashing down around them.

  “I didn’t mean to!” Leif cried, backing away. “I’m sorry—I didn’t—!”

  “Sorry?” Syrene bellowed. Then she raised her head and let loose a terrible, howling wail, a sound Leif knew would haunt him even across the Abyss.

  Behind the golden dragon, the others had fallen silent, the black smoke from their nostrils pluming around them.

  “I never meant to hurt them!” Leif sobbed, edging to the far side of the nest. “I swear! They were Rhiandra’s kin, so nearly mine as well… I would never have deliberately caused—”

  His plea was cut short as his feet met with thin air. The drop wasn’t far, but his head struck the ice with a crack, and the world went black for a moment. He struggled back to consciousness, and in his swimming vision, he saw a galaxy of Syrenes spinning in orbit above him. His ears rang with a strange chittering as he steeled himself for the gnash of her terrible teeth. The chirring grew louder, and now there was a low rumbling as well. All the dragons circled around him, gathered to witness his just punishment for his unforgivable crime.

  Rhiandra was the last to come into his wavering field of vision. He wished he could beg her forgiveness, but he was beyond words. She would not wish to hear them anyway.

  With a sharp pang of loss that cut far deeper than any knife, he saw that it was not sorrow that lit Rhiandra’s golden eyes, but anticipation. Her frilled ears were raised, and pale smoke wisped from her flared nostrils. She’d be free of him now, and able to bind with someone worthy of her. Someone who wouldn’t fail her, as he had.

  Thus Leif Elvinor fell to the fate to which he had been born. When the first talon pierced him, he screamed in agony, and then screamed and screamed again, as one by one, the last dragons of the Known World exacted their revenge for the doom of their kind.

  Chapter 23

  Morgan

  “Grendel! ’Nother ale!”

  Roarin’ Regis slapped a grubby coin down on the tavern table. Grendel peered at it and tossed her auburn curls.

  “That copper won’t pay for a sip, Master Regis, let alone another mug.” She stepped back to let a hooded customer pass. To the barmaid’s surprise, the newcomer took a seat across from the drunk and placed a silver skell next to Regis’s penny.

  “We’ll have two, please,” he said in a low voice.

  When Grendel returned with the frothy mugs, the newcomer took possession of both and disappeared into the back of the pub. Roarin’ Regis rose unsteadily to his feet and lurched after him.


  Grendel looked over at Gilly, the owner of the Tilted Kilt, who removed his stained apron and headed toward the warren of rooms in the tavern’s interior. ““Mind the till, Grendel,” he called over his shoulder, “and see that we’re not disturbed.”

  Regis looked up as Gilly entered the hidden room behind the storeroom’s sliding panel. His brown eyes were unsurprisingly clear and bright, the ale before him untouched. The hooded man with him remained hunched over, his long fingers wrapped around his own mug.

  “You’d better have a good reason for being here, Regis,” Gilly said gruffly. “This room is not to be used for your private business.”

  The stranger drew back his cowl. “What about the business of the realm?”

  “Gods’ bones and breath!” Gilly cried, yanking the panel closed behind him. “What are you doing in Drinnkastel? Your life’s not worth a ha’penny if you’re recognized!”

  “On the contrary,” Morgan replied, “I believe it’s valued at a thousand pieces of gold.”

  * * *

  The tavern keeper ran a hand over his bald pate as he sank down opposite the wizard.

  “It’s no laughing matter, Mortimer. I’d hoped you had the good sense to flee across the sea by now.”

  Regis leaned back and crossed his arms over his stained tunic. “Our Master Morgan’s not one for fleeing. And no one knows he’s in the capital. I’d have heard if they did.”

  “But how did you get past the sentries at the city gates? They’re searching every wagon and questioning all who come through.” Gilly leaned forward and dropped his voice. “You aren’t practicing again, are you?”

  Morgan shook his head. “Alas, no, Gilly. I haven’t suddenly recovered my magical powers. But I never lost those of my brain. There are ways to enter Drinnkastel that don’t require a guard’s inspection.”

  “The question is, why would you want to,” said Regis, “what with the price on your head and all?”

  Gilly’s eyes narrowed. “You’re going to give yourself up to them, aren’t you? Why, Mortimer?”

  “So our friend Regis here can collect the reward,” Morgan replied, keeping his tone light. “Now Gilly, don’t look at me like that. I have a plan. It’s not ideal, but if it gives me the opportunity to convince the High King of the dangers that lie ahead, it’s worth the risk.”

  “Why do you have to do the convincing?” Gilly demanded. “Why can’t I tell His Majesty?”

  “Lazdac is on the rise.” Uttering the words, Morgan felt a chill enter the room. “I can’t say for sure when he will act, but there’ve been too many signs to ignore. If he’s back in full possession of his powers, there is not a sorceress or wizard in Drinnglennin who can hope to prevent him from unleashing whatever evil he has in store for us all.

  “Our only hope is to convince the High King that Lazdac poses a dire threat to the realm. If I can persuade Roth to muster Drinnglennin and to send envoys to Albrenia and Gral—indeed, to every ruler in the Known World—to join forces with us and strike first, our combined strength may be enough.”

  Gilly slammed his palms down hard on the table. “Damn it, man! Are you daft? Unless you’ve got Grindasa’s ear, you’ve not the ghost of a chance of swaying our king. She is the power behind the Einhorn Throne, and the one calling loudest for your head!” The publican leaned forward. “As for young Roth, have you not heard? He’s threatening to put an end to the twelve kingdoms’ autonomy. He’s got Nelvorbothian soldiers and those cursed Albrenian mercenaries billeted in the castles of our most eminent lords in the lesser realms. All for ‘security’s sake,’ or so he claims.” His face twisted in distaste. “And he’s pressing a host of female cousins on those same lords’ unmarried heirs—another ploy to strengthen the dominance of the Nelvors. There’s even rumors that he plans to marry one of them himself.”

  Morgan frowned. “But I thought he is betrothed to Urlion’s niece.”

  “That he is. But Lady Maura hasn’t been seen in public for several weeks now.” Gilly lifted his chin toward Regis. “Our friend here’s heard rumor she may have fallen under some sort of suspicion herself.”

  This was worrying news. Morgan had hoped Maura could lend her influence to rally the High King to arms. He assumed that by now King Roth knew of the dragons, and that his bride-to-be was dragonfast. It was possible this was not the case, but if neither Maura or Celaidra had revealed this information to Roth, he had to wonder why. Besides this, Morgan feared for Maura for her own sake. The girl was clever and strong, but no match for a hardened schemer like Grindasa.

  Regardless, Gilly’s news signaled trouble. Morgan would have to try once more to reason with the new High King. If he failed in this endeavor, the only course left was to rouse the Tribus to action. They were well aware of the havoc a Strigori-led invasion would wreck on Drinnglennin, and surely the prospect of this catastrophe should unite them in encouraging the king to repel it. Defeating the dark wizard would likely come at a terrible cost, but if Rhiandra and Leif met success in Belestar and the dragons agreed to bind, they had a chance.

  Morgan did not delude himself, however. It was a very slim chance.

  His two companions were looking at him expectantly. Morgan lifted the untouched mug of ale before him in salute. “The time has come for me to meet our new sovereign,” he declared. “Don’t look so grave, my friends. You’re about to collect a lot of gold for my capture! Surely we can drink to that.”

  Neither man made to raise his mug, but merely watched, with mournful eyes, as Morgan drained his own.

  * * *

  Dawn was gilding the sky when Morgan donned fresh robes for his first audience with the Nelvor High King. After a hearty breakfast of smoked sausage and duck eggs, compliments of the Tilted Kilt, the wizard and his two friends set off. Regis had shaved and discarded his ale-stained tunic for one of crisp linen, over which he wore a yellow doublet. His thinning brown hair, which usually obscured his face, was neatly brushed back. No one would recognize him as the resident drunk of the Tilted Kilt.

  Gilly wore the rose and grey of Morlendell with the black bear rampant stitched on his breast. He carried his famed silver-hilted sword, dubbed the Bridge for sending so many enemies across the Abyss. Despite his advancing years, Sir Gilbin looked every inch the champion astride his black courser.

  Although Gilly had offered Morgan a horse, the wizard insisted on riding his sturdy mule. “I’m your prisoner, remember. There’s no need to mount me on a fine palfrey.”

  “I might be escorting you to your own funeral,” the old knight growled, “but I’ll not call you my prisoner!”

  “Very well, then we’ll say I turned myself into Regis, and you agreed to accompany me for my own safety.”

  His old friend’s doleful expression didn’t alter.

  They rode in heavy silence, save for the horses’ clopping hooves against the cobblestone; the streets were surprisingly empty. It was just coming on midday when they reached the Grand Square, yet there were many fewer vendors than Morgan recalled from previous market days.

  When he remarked on this, Regis shrugged. “The farmers have less to sell now. The Nelvor king’s demanded a third of everything the peasants raise to feed his growing army. He’s also increased the number of landsmen required to serve in this force, leaving too few sons to work their fathers’ land. And to add salt to the wound, the chief monter’s asking once and a half the usual yearly tithe owed to the temple coffers.”

  “If we’re not careful,” muttered Gilly, “we’ll find ourselves in the same sorry state as yon Gral o’er the sea. Already resentment’s brewing among the lords of the north. Almost all the high court offices have gone to Nelvors or to houses traditionally allied with them through generations of marriage—mainly Tyrrencaster men. And the port at Toldarin is awash in foreigners, newly arrived from Albrenia to ‘defend’ us from the Helgrin wolves, who, according to our High Kin
g, would otherwise be roving in packs over the Isle. Worst of all, far too many of the officers under Vetch are now Albrenian—in the Drinnglennin Royal Army!” He shook his head in disbelief. “Can you believe it? When the lords who still have their balls protested, they were ignored.” He gave a disgusted snort. “The only upside is that Vetch’s nose is so far out of joint he can smell his own—”

  A squadron of approaching soldiers in the crimson and silver of the new royal house silenced him. Morgan recognized their leader as one of the angry Nelvorbothians who’d been in the audience the day of Nicu’s scathing parody of Grindasa’s house. Maura’s brother had been murdered by one such as him.

  Gilly spurred his stallion forward to shield Morgan from the soldiers’ view, and they met with no challenge as the guard rode past. They were near the inner castle gates now, and could hear the crank and clang of the iron grille being raised.

  A pack of hounds streamed toward them, followed by a dozen or more noblemen and ladies garbed for the hunt. The three men drew their mounts to one side, and Morgan scanned the aristocratic faces for a glimpse of Maura as the party trotted by amidst laughter and banter. He saw no sign of her. Only a regal blonde with full lips and sultry eyes briefly met his gaze. Some of the pearl buttons of her silver-and-red bodice had been immodestly left undone, drawing the eye to the curve of her shapely breasts. When she caught him looking at her, she gave him a brazen smile.

  One of the cousins? Morgan wondered as they proceeded to the gate.

  “Sir Gilbin of Morlendell,” the old knight at his side proclaimed gruffly to the gatekeeper. “I have business with His Majesty regarding the wizard Master Morgan.”

  The two guards took note of Gilly’s princely garb and his high-bred stallion. Regis stared arrogantly ahead as though born with a silver rattle in his hand, and not the gutting knife of a fishmonger. Neither of the soldiers recognized Morgan.