by K. C. Julius
She might have been able to reason with Aed and Gryffyn, to turn them from this betrayal of their very nature, but in following Zal, they were beyond her powers of persuasion. And Zal would never bend. Until now, he had bowed to consensus, which meant waiting to see what mortals and elves made of the Known World without dragons in it. But he had always been fascinated with the idea of dragon dominion… and now he waited no more.
Ilyria knew that she and Rhiandra must bear part of the blame for this turn of events. By leaving Belestar to seek bindlings, they had broken faith with their siblings. And although they were within their ancient rights, it was clear that Zal deemed their bindings as traitorous. Now he felt free to follow his own inclinations, and to urge Gryffyn and Aed to do the same.
Ilyria had searched the fire for the other dragons, to glean where they stood in this battle—for battle it would become—but she had met with only blinding light whenever she opened her mind to them.
Until tonight.
For after Maura had fallen asleep, the flames had at last revealed the Belestar dragons. She had seen that Rhiandra still lived, and was among them. She had also seen, with her own dreaming eyes, the rubble strewn around the empty cradles of broken shells, all that remained of the shattered hope for the continuance of dragonkind.
Even now Ilyria could still hear Syrene’s bellows and the roars of anguish from her sisters and brothers as they bore down on their prey.
So there was to be no joining forces with men and elves against Lazdac’s rise. The dragons would never agree to this—not now.
Now, it was to be war. A war that would not end until either the last of the unbound dragons, or the last of all who opposed them, had passed from the Known World.
The fire burned itself to ash. Only the steady drip of water from the cave ceiling broke the stillness. Maura stirred in her dreams, and Ilyria blew softly onto her lovely face, wishing she could shield the girl from the chaos that was to come.
Knowing she would not succeed.
Book IV:
The Wings of Dread
by K. C. Julius
Dedicated to Will,
my best beloved son,
a kindred weaver of words and worlds
Main Characters
The Royal House
Roth Nelvor–High King of Drinnglennin
Queen Grindasa—Roth’s mother
Members of the Nelvor Court
Lord Vetch—High Commander of the Royal Forces
Lord Lawton—King Roth’s Master-of-the-Chamber and distant cousin
Lady Maitane—Roth’s cousin
The House of Konigur
Princess Asmara—cloistered sister of Urlion & Storn (both deceased)
Maura—dragonfast bastard daughter of Storn
Heulwin—a palace maid
Llwella—Asmara’s maid
Gilly—proprietor of The Tilted Kilt, a tavern in Drinnkastel
The Tribus (counselors to the High King)
Selka—a sorceress from Langmerdor
Audric—a wizard, and Morgan’s former mentor
Celaidra—an elven princess of Mithralyn, cousin to the elven king Elvinor
The Lords of the Lower Realms
Lord Grathin of Morlendell
Lord Ennius of Valeland
Lord Heptorious of Branley Tor
Lord Lewin DuBleres of Tyrrencaster
Lord Wogan of Fairendell
Lord Roth of Nelvorboth
Lord Whit of Cardenstowe
Lord Nolan of Lorendale
Lord Howhell of Karen-Rhad
Lord Ien of Glornadoor
Lord Merrik of Palmador
Lord Grenville Fitz-Pole of Langmerdor
The Northerners
Morgan—discredited wizard and former Tribus member
Borne Braxton—Herald to Crenel, King of Gral, serving in the Olquarian court
Avis—grandmother of Leif, wife of Pren Landril, mother of Lira Landril
Maisie—mistress of Port Taygh
Horace—Maisie’s husband, master of Port Taygh
The Midlanders
Lady Inis of Lorendale—widow of Lord Valen, sister of Rhea, cousin of Urlion
Halla—eldest child and only daughter of Lady Inis and the late Lord Valen
Nolan—Lord of Lorendale, son of Lady Inis and Lord Valen
Gray—second son of Lord Valen and Lady Inis
Pearce—youngest son of Lord Valen and Lady Inis
Lady Rhea—Lord Jaxe’s widow, sister of Inis, cousin of Urlion
Whit—Lord of Cardenstowe, only child of Lady Rhea and Lord Jaxe
Cortenus—Whit’s tutor from Karan-Rhad
Wren—Lord of Elthing and one of Whit’s vassals
Sir Nidden—another vassal
Mistress Ella—chatelaine of Trillyon, a hunting lodge of Cardenstowe
Lord Belnoth of Boarsgrath—vassal of Roth Nelvor
The Southerners
Sir Glinter—leader of Drinnglennian mercenary company serving in Gral
Lord Grenville Fitz-Pole of Bodiaer Castle, Langmerdor
Lady Guin—Lord Grenville’s wife
Master Kelton Trevor—grand-nephew of the Fitz-Poles, heir to Bodiaer
Teca—former Helgrin thrall
Ruen Rassley—singer/lutist with the Trilling Troubadors
The Elves of Mithralyn
Elvinor Celvarin—the elven king
Ystira—Elvinor’s wife and queen
Aenissa—Elvinor’s niece and heir
Frandelas—an elf
Egydd—an elven mage
The Faeries
Tarna Mrenhines—the Faerie Queen
Cliodhna—rebellious faerie, cast down to the Unseelie Court
The å Livåri
Grinner—Fynn’s cellmate
Bria—Halla’s childhood friend
Florian—Bria’s brother
Baldo—leader of the rebels in Gral
Barav—friend and informant of Master Morgan
Lehr—Barav’s cousin, leader of his clan
The Helgrins
Fynn Aetheorsen—son of Aetheor Yarl and Jana, his Drinnglennian mistress
Jered Aetheorsen—elder son of Aetheor Yarl and Wylda Olviddotter, his lawful wife
Aksel Styrsen—nephew of the yarl, Fynn’s cousin
The Gralians
Crenel Etiene Fralour Du Regis —King of Gral
Latour—Marechal of Gral
Comte Balfou—leader of the Gralian mission to Olquaria
D’Avencote—aide to Sir Borne, King Crenel’s herald in Olquaria
The Albrenians
King Jorgev—ruler of Albrenia
Seor Palan de Grathiz—Commander of the Albrenian forces
Encertesa—High Priestess of Velicus in Altipa
The Olquarians
Zlatan—Basileus of Olquaria
Shareen—Basilea of Olquaria, wife of Zlatan
Yasiha—Shareen’s niece and a royal princess
Mir—bastard son of Zlatan and a Drinnglennian member of the hareem
Kurash Al-Gir—hazar of the Khardeshe, the Seven Thousand Companions
Taqui-Rash—eminent scholar
Alima Nina—highly acclaimed tutor to the ladies of Their Imperial Majesties’ household
The Dragons
Ilyria—bronze, bound to Maura
Rhiandra—blue, bound to Leif
Isolde—silver
Gryffyn—gray
Emlyn—forest green
Aed—red
Syrene—gold
Una—sea green
Menlo—indigo
Ciann—white
Zal—black<
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Other
Lazdac—dark wizard, last of the infamous Strigoris, vaar of the Jagar of the Lost Lands
Prologue
“He has come, lord.” Lash stood in the doorway, framed by the flickering light of his single candle. “Will you see him now?”
Lazdac raised himself from his pallet and swung his feet heavily to the floor, schooling his face to hide his anticipation. It had been a long, tiresome wait preparing for his conquest of the Known World. Almost time, he reminded himself.
He flicked his finger at the serving boy crouched in the corner, and the lad leapt up to light the lamps.
Outside the stone tower, the wind’s bluster drowned out the clank of chains, the rumble of wagons, the roars from the holding pens, and the tattoo of drums as his officers drilled the troops. The noise never ceased, but to Lazdac’s ears, it was music heralding all he would achieve.
The wheels the wizard had set in motion years ago were churning along according to plan. Albrenia and Gral circled one another like street curs, and the new yarl of Helgrinia would soon join forces with Jorgev to bring down Crenel. Palan would see that this alliance did not last for long. Palan had served Lazdac well.
Of course, becoming vaar of the Jagar had been a stroke of genius on his part. The nomads would distract Olquaria, and thus the world, from guessing his true objective. After long years in this forsaken land, perfecting his creations, he would soon take up his rightful place in Drinnglennin.
He sighed with pleasure at the thought. “Bring our guest up.”
His visitor would have entered the city through the North Gate, passing line upon line of mangonels, trebuchets, and massive cannonry. He could not fail to be impressed.
Footsteps on the stairs heralded Lash’s reappearance, accompanied by a cloaked man. It amused Lazdac to observe how the newcomer kept his eyes carefully averted from the drakdaemon. Lazdac dismissed the creature, then signaled his guest to the chair opposite him.
The boy hastened to place wine and fruit on the table between them, and it was only after he departed that Lazdac saw the little fool had forgotten to lay a knife on the platter. Senfi would never have been so lax, but she was too close to bearing to climb the winding stairs of the stronghold. It was vexing to have to replace his serving women every six months, so he’d taken this useless brat on a trial basis. He’d see to it that the boy was reprimanded for his oversight.
He poured wine into two crystal goblets and pushed one toward his guest. The man drank deeply, then drew back his cowl and ran his hand over his face. He’d aged greatly since their last encounter.
“I take it from this visit that all is in readiness,” Lazdac said.
“I’ve dealt with any who might pose a threat.”
Lazdac sat back and tented his fingers. “Even our old friend?”
“I told you—we have nothing to fear from him. In fact, he’s hardly worth consideration.”
“So you’ve assured me. Very well, then.” Lazdac lifted his wine to the lamplight, admiring its burgundy glow. “Once I’ve gained control, we can dispose of them all.”
His companion looked up sharply. “You can’t mean—”
“Oh, but I can.” Lazdac took a delicate sip, savoring the smooth blackberry flavor. “You’ve known all along what stakes we’re playing for. What did you suppose would happen to them?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Now—I have a final charge for you, and then you can be on your way. I won’t need to see you here again.”
“What of your promise to me?” the man said. “I’ve honored my part of the bargain. The sweep is ongoing; we’ve transported hundreds already. I’ve buried myself long enough—given up years of my life to support your cause.”
Lazdac slammed down his goblet, sloshing wine on the pale wood. “And you shall continue to do so! Don’t speak to me of wasted time!”
The breeding had proved more complicated than he’d expected; it had taken years of trial and error. He hadn’t foreseen how frail the vessels would be, succumbing after a single birth. But he was closer, much closer; Lash was evidence of this. And now he had the Konigur girl and her unborn child. Only a little while longer, he reminded himself, so as not to give in to the urge to strike out at the fool seated before him.
His visitor bowed his head before Lazdac’s ire, but his hand tightened on the stem of his goblet. “We share a blood bond.”
That we may, Lazdac thought, but it means nothing to me. Yet the man could still be of use.
“I will keep my promise,” he said, “regarding the Einhorn Throne.”
He dropped his gaze to the wine pooling on the table. The dark stain had taken the shape of the island of his birth. Surely this is a sign. After all these long, bitter years in exile, he would achieve his heart’s desire and destroy the last of the dragons, thus avenging his ancestors. And then he would take back what was rightfully his… and fulfill the last prophecy of the Drinnglennin Chronicles.
Chapter 1
Jered
The longboats returned to ruins. Although the attack on Restaria had occurred over a fortnight before, the tang of charred wood still hung over the desecrated town. The men moved silently over the rubble where once their homes had stood, their faces downcast, as they sought some small memento of the lives they’d lost. The yarl’s compound, too, had been leveled by the fires; not even the dogs remained. Jered hoped some of his kin had managed to escape to the forest before the attack, but if so, they had not returned. And there was no knowing their fate, for there were no bodies to be found.
Except for one. The tale weaver, Old Snorri, lay stretched out beneath the great Wurl, his gnarled hand still clutching his staff. His had been a recent death. It was likely he who had burned all those who climbed to Cloud Mountain before him.
Jered had learned of the Drinnglennian attack from the men aboard the Gragas. The crew had witnessed the ravaging bastards from the Isle first-hand before running their ship south in hope of crossing paths with Aetheor Yarl on his return home. When they failed to encounter the Ydlyia and the other longboats, the Gragas sailed on to Sedor, where Jered had been busy overseeing the transfer of the conquered city’s harvested wheat.
Agnarr, the Gragas’s helmsman, had been the one to break the news about Jered’s foolhardy little brother running off to try to save his mother.
Little good it did Jana, Jered thought, standing before the memory stone Old Snorri had laid in the garden of their manor on the hill. It gave Jered a small measure of comfort to know that Fynn must now sit in the Sky Hall. The lad had trained at arms like a demon possessed over the past year, and he wouldn’t have gone down without a fight. No, surely Fynn had died a good Helgrin death.
After the men had performed the rites for the departed, Jered called for a feast in their honor. But though the roasted meat of the sacrificed deer was succulent and there was sufficient mead, the men’s spirits did not rise, and this feast was no celebration of the lives of those who had gone on to Cloud Mountain. Looking at the glum faces of his brothers-in-arms, Jered feared they risked losing themselves in grief. This he must prevent—his father would expect it of him.
The yarl’s son rose to his feet and raised his goblet high, then waited for silence.
“We have lost much, my brothers—fathers, mothers, wives and children, our longhouses and all that we’ve won in past raids. This attack by the dogs of the Isle will be seared for all time in Helgrin memory, but all is not lost. Restaria is still our home, and in Aetheor’s name, I vow we will rebuild her from the ashes—only this time with stone, like the cities of our enemies, so that she will never burn again.” He looked from one face to another, willing strength to each man. “Before we begin this work, we must cleanse the bitter bile of sorrow from our throats and do our duty to our dead—we have revenge to exact!”
Growls of accord answered him, and he raised his voice a notch. “Th
e yarl and the rest of our brothers are even now raiding along the Drinnglennian coast, together with my cousin, Aksel Styrsen. Aetheor Yarl does not yet know of the attack upon Restaria, nor of its cost.” He felt his jaw stiffen in anger. “When he learns of it, my father will not be content with a mere raid in reply—of this we can be certain.”
The men began to pound their goblets on the tables, and Jered pitched his voice louder still over the din. “Our charge is to prepare for the yarl’s pleasure,” he shouted, “to rally our brothers throughout Helgrinia to arms and ensure that Drinnglennians never again set foot on Helgrin soil, unless it be with iron collars around their heathen necks!” Then he leapt up on the table and roared over the thunderous drumming. “Tonight, we drink and sing to our dead, so that they may hear us in the Sky Hall! Tomorrow, we take ship to Frendesko to call the southern Helgrins to arms in the name of Aetheor Yarl, so that when my father returns, we will be ready!”
He tore his axe from his belt and hefted it high. “And then, my brothers—we sail to war!”
Chapter 2
Whit
The waters of the Kerl had subsided after raging weeks of rain, but the river still proved to be a challenge for the flat-bottomed batteau. Whit had procured the boat in Avedell, and now he wondered if it had been the best choice of craft, for it rode the current at surprising—and at times alarming—speed. Of the four of them, only Wren and Fynn had any applied experience on water, so Wren manned the long sweep at the batteau’s stern while the young Konigur, tall and strong for his age, took charge of the one at the bow. The responsibility of wielding the long poles amidships fell to Whit and Grinner, a job that was proving to be much harder than Whit had thought it would be.
