Dragon Magic

by Megan Derr

  Table of Contents

  Dragon Magic

  Book Details

  Dedication

  Lost

  Fearmonger

  Oath

  Healer

  Broken Monastery

  First Blood

  Debt

  Hemal's Pass

  True Blood

  Monster

  Lady Eser

  Betrayal

  Faith

  Shadows

  Fire

  Memories

  Lirana's Point

  Prince Seda

  Defeat

  Dragon Magic

  History

  About the Author

  DRAGON MAGIC

  MEGAN DERR

  Four strangers. A shared moment long forgotten. A bond forged in desperation.

  On the first day of the Festival of Counting, the beginning of the royal census that takes place every ten years, the royal city is filled to overflowing. Everyone is happy, excited, and proud to be counted amongst those who live in the glorious kingdom of Orhanis.

  Then a fearmonger strikes, killing thousands in mere seconds and leveling the city. As the royal castle burns, only four men remain to drive the fearmonger away—and in their desperation, accidentally bind themselves together in a legendary Oath, unable to part ways until they find and kill the fearmonger once and for all.

  Mahzan, the King's Jester, an orphan who clawed his way to the top and hides a fearsome magic… Sule, the notorious North Captain, who sacrificed everything to live as a strong, capable, highly respected man… Cemal, a priest who traveled the continent bent on murder and now lives lost… and Binhadi, the mercurial shadow mage with a dark history and bloody ties to the throne…

  Four men used to standing apart, standing alone, who must learn to stand together if they hope to save themselves and all of Orhanis.

  Dragon Magic

  By Megan Derr

  Published by Less Than Three Press LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

  Edited by Samantha M. Derr

  Cover designed by Phill Simpson

  This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

  First Edition March 2018

  Copyright © 2018 by Megan Derr

  Printed in the United States of America

  Digital ISBN 9781684312016

  Print ISBN 9781684312597

  To all the fantasy authors I loved growing up, thanks for the stories, and the desire to spin my own.

  LOST

  "You fucked someone else," Mahzan said in disbelief, feeling as though he had just been stabbed, the pain sharp and white-hot. "In our home."

  Kuzey sneered. "Your home, maybe. Never mine."

  "Ours. I have always said this is your home too." His skin burned as anger rushed through him. Mahzan lunged, threw a fist, and caught Kuzey dead on the nose. Kuzey gave a muffled cry, blood streaming, drenching his clothes, as he dropped to his knees.

  Mahzan resisted the urge to hit him again, though mostly only because his hand hurt. He shook it out, grimacing at the blood on his knuckles. "I gave up much for you. I kept my promise. Even the position you were so angry about, I was going to turn down because of you. I had decided you were right: we should leave the city. That is what I was going to tell you tonight. But you—you fucked someone else! In our home, in our bed! I can still smell it! I have my faults, but I kept my vows. Get out of my house. If I ever see you again, I will kill you."

  Turning around, he picked up the food he had brought home for them and threw it against the wall. Then he stormed back out into the night, yanking his cloak back up around his shoulders, pulling the hood down low.

  He stopped at the alleyway near the corner and held out a coin. "Give me one." The coin was taken, and a small paper packet was pressed into his hand. Mahzan walked on without another word, unwrapping the paper and pulling out one of the pungent, potent cigarettes inside. Drawing matches from his tunic, he lit the cigarette and took a long drag, then another.

  By the time he reached the intersection that led to either the harbor or the market, the familiar, floating buzz had fallen over him, dulling his anger and pain. He had missed the taste and feel of the mist-leaf. It was another pleasure he had given up for Kuzey. Well, no longer. He had tried to be what Kuzey wanted and had never succeeded.

  He took another drag, breathing in the smoke, relishing the calm it brought. Great Dragon burn him for a fool. Tears threatened, making him feel that much more stupid. Desperate to avoid the self-pity and despondence he knew were lurking, he kept pulling at the cigarette, uncaring if he made himself sick by morning.

  He should have known better. But he wouldn't make that mistake again. He was finished. Never again would he be stupid enough to love—

  —Sule scowled at the halfwit who had run into him and lay sprawled in a heap on the dirty street. His gaze fell on the half-smoked mist-leaf lying next to him. He rested a hand lightly on the hilt of his sword, fingers twitching, gripping tightly as the words played over and over again in his head.

  "You're no daughter of mine! Take your perversion and get out!"

  "What are you doing out on the streets at so late an hour?" Sule asked coldly. When the man did not reply, he snapped, "Answer in the name of the King!"

  "Fuck you," the man slurred as he stood up, absently wiping blood from his scratched cheek. Sule felt a flash of guilt—but then the man flourished a medallion that banished any hint of softer emotion. Sule glared at it: the Great Dragon curled around a crescent moon, made from silver and gold, with a bronze, frowning mask overlaying all. Of course he would run into a royal jester in the dead of night in a part of the city no one had cause to walk around at so late an hour. "Royal fool," he spat.

  The jester chuckled, but it wasn't a nice sound. "We are both royal fools. I simply make people misbehave, and you make them behave."

  "I am not in a patient mood tonight, fool," Sule said. "Do not test me."

  "You should not have knocked me over," the jester replied, eyes glowing silver.

  Just what he needed. A fool with mind magic. Sule summoned fire in one hand, the other reaching for his sword.

  They both froze at the sound of footsteps right before a priest came into view and—

  —Cemal tamped down on his panic. "What have we here?" No one was supposed to be out so late. No one ever took this street at this hour. He had chosen his path with care, Dragon eat them. At least the light of the street lamp they stood beneath did not penetrate as far as where he stood. He had come too far to fail now.

  He almost murmured one of the prayers that had been drilled into him over the years, but he always felt ashamed of himself for clinging to such things, given the pretenses under which he had become a priest.

  If these two saw the bloodstains on his robes, the traces on his hands that he could not seem to scrub away no matter how hard he tried—well, he had little reason to continue living now, but he did not want to die. "Peace, brothers." He eyed the two men critically, and noted the one was lost in mist-leaf and the other exceedingly drunk.

  Sighing because he could not risk taking them to a temple or poorhouse the way he should, Cemal tried to think of what he could do to both fulfill his priestly obligations and get away with no one the wiser of the murder he had just committed. "What troubles you, my brothers?"

  "Him!" they both snarled, then glared at each other.

  "Children!" Cemal barked, shaking his robes, only then remembering he had removed the bells that should have adorned
the bottom so that he would not make any noise traveling through the city after curfew.

  The drunk—a royal soldier with the badge of one who worked in the castle—sneered and shoved away from the other man. "I am wanting to hit someone tonight, priest. You will do as well as the fool."

  "You will not find me an easy man to strike," Cemal said softly. He could feel the knife in his hand all over again, see the flash of metal in candlelight right before he killed the bastard. Could feel the blood, hot and sticky as it sprayed him. He had not expected the sounds a dying man made. Had forgotten how horrible the stench of death could be.

  The soldier drew closer, and Cemal braced himself, calling up his magic. After murder, a fight was nothing. He started to lunge at the same time as the soldier, then realized he could not move.

  Movement caught the corner of his eye, and he shivered with genuine fear as he saw—

  —Binhadi looked over the three men as he moved slowly into the light of a nearby street lamp, his steps loud in the sudden silence. When the three men tried to struggle, he strengthened the grip of his shadows, amazed at how easily the shadows obeyed, as though eager to hold fast to the three men.

  Shaking off the strange, moon-induced impression, he said, "All of you are out after curfew, and I doubt you have permission. Not a one of you is fit to be around other people. When I release my shadows, you will each return to where you should be. I will accept no protests. Am I understood?"

  "Yes, my lord," the men all said.

  Binhadi released them slowly, watching for mischief. When they'd gone, he reached up to touch the pendant resting in the hollow of his throat. It glowed as he engraved the memory, not certain why he did, but trusting his instinct.

  Alone again, he walked on, searching for the exhaustion that would banish all else for a time.

  FEARMONGER

  One year later

  Mahzan loved the city when it was overcrowded, full to the point of bursting, as though people would break through the walls and spill out into the Great Lake. He had watched them arriving earlier that morning from high above in the main watch tower with a couple of the guards, who'd been happy to accept and share his mist-leaf bribe.

  All four of the great Compass Bridges had been crammed with people—visitors, residents, guards striving to keep order, peddlers, and food vendors. He had heard talk that more than a few people had gone into the lake when arguments had turned physical.

  The Great Lake stretched on for miles in all directions, an ocean in the middle of the surrounding valleys and mountains. The royal city was built right in the middle, with ships and the Compass Bridges the only access.

  Even on a normal day, the city was crowded. It was so much more fun when it was flooded with more people than could easily be contained.

  Mahzan launched into a series of backward tumbles, ending with a flourish at the far end of the long, narrow stage that had been set up in front of the main gates of the Queen's Courtyard. There was another, larger stage set up closer to the castle proper, where two jesters performed. Mahzan performed alone, privilege and price of being King's Jester.

  As applause sounded, he moved in twists and turns and spins back to the center of the stage, bowing in all directions. The applause increased, mingled with cheers and cries for more, the sound of coins striking the stage as the more generous expressed their pleasure with currency. Mahzan beamed at the milling crowds, then reached into one of his pouches and withdrew the colorful crystal orbs he used for juggling.

  The sun beat down, making him sweat all the more, but it was worth it. City natives were used to jesters, barely saw them anymore. When they were drunk, they loved to throw food and other substances at whatever unfortunate jester they could locate. Being the King's Jester spared Mahzan most of that, but not all of it—and the nobility who watched him perform each night could be far worse than the people on the streets.

  Visitors, on the other hand, loved the jesters of the royal city. Smaller cities might have jesters, but they were not of the same quality as those found in the Heart of the Dragon. It had taken Mahzan most of his thirty-one years to attain his skill, his position; the piddling jesters of smaller cities and towns would never compare to him and his fellows in the Heart. People knew it, and were excited to see the best of the best when they visited the Heart. They threw coins, flowers, trinkets, lavished him with praise and adulation. The clapping and cheering and cries for more were all he wanted, the only thing he truly craved. They were the only love he needed. Everything else was distraction.

  He loosed his magic slightly, just enough to feel the fringes of the crowd's emotion. If he felt too much, he would give himself a headache that would last the better part of a week. Great Dragon forbid he ever wind up mad like so many mind mages.

  What he felt was promising: joy, pleasure, anticipation, excitement. Negative emotions were buried beneath the positive. People were happy to be there, spilling into the castle to be counted, to indulge in the food and drink set out for them.

  He could not ask for a better audience. Catching the crystals up as he finished his juggling routine, he swept another series of graceful bows, lapping up the adoration, thriving on the attention. It had been worth the trouble and expense to commission a new outfit for today—the first day of the Festival of Counting for the Royal Census, conducted every twenty-five years. It brought thousands of citizens to the royal city so that every person in the kingdom could be properly counted. During the first three days when everyone began pouring in, the king held a festival to celebrate the health and vitality of his people.

  Indulging in a new wardrobe for the festivities had been the right decision. Kuzey had always mocked him for being 'much too fond' of his clothes. Not that he cared any longer what that worthless bastard thought. One year was more than enough time to stop caring about him. So what if Mahzan was too fond of his clothes? As the saying went, a dragon without scales was dead.

  The leggings were his favorite part—one leg teal, the other a diamond pattern of teal, green, orange, and white. They had cost him a goodly sum, for his stipend from the throne only went so far, but he was not sorry for it. The jacket was equally smart, dyed teal and embroidered in green, orange, and white, flashing with bits of crystal. It was short, stopping right at his hips, but he had received no complaints so far.

  His thick, dark hair, falling just past his shoulders, was woven into numerous braids that had been heavily decorated with beads, tokens, charms, jewels, and bells; weaving them all in had taken his hairdressers hours. It would take them even longer to undo it all when he was sore and tired later. He would be lucky if he did not simply fall into bed with his hair still decorated and his face still painted.

  Of course, sun and sweat would soon ruin all the effort he had put into his clothes, and if he stayed out here long enough, even his face paint, which took special soap to remove, would begin to suffer. He would need time before dinner to clean up and make himself suitable for a royal performance. His face paint especially would need attention. Presently, half his face was painted white. The other half was a pattern of orange, teal, and white flowers, and a tangle of green leaves and vines.

  He was the King's Jester, the best in the city, because he did nothing half-measure. Any who doubted him had only to see how the crowds screamed his name, how fondly the king indulged him.

  When their cheering began to wind down, he skimmed the crowds for a suitable target—it was time to tease someone. Then he would get the crowd to sing with him, and then finally he would move back into acrobatics and sleight of hand.

  His eyes landed first on a dark figure standing just beyond the main flush of the crowd. Tall, broad-shouldered, but spare and trim. As Warlock, magic advisor to the king, Lord Binhadi Morlock was one of the few permitted to wear costly full black robes. The fabric fit close to his chest, all the way down to his hips, where it flared out in a full skirt, split in the middle to show the deep violet under robe. Hanging from his hips was a series
of jewels, circle cut and set in gold, linked together to form a belt. He had light brown skin and blue-black hair neatly pulled back to reveal a set of six jewel studs in each ear.

  Mahzan had never properly met him, but it was impossible to live in the royal castle and not recognize Warlock Binhadi, last remaining member of the Morlock family and greatly feared for his power, skills, and sordid family history. The rest of his family had been killed off for one reason or another, from robbery to arson to treason. A more dangerous family had never existed.

  Teasing him was not a good idea.

  Shifting his gaze, he landed on a group of soldiers, recognizing the handsome man with black-brown skin and hair shaved close to the scalp who stood in the center of the group. He was large, well-muscled, and more than a little imposing. Mahzan had performed when the man had been promoted some months ago. North Captain Sule Ekrem, responsible for the northern quadrant of the city. No small responsibility to be a quadrant captain, and people had gossiped for weeks over whether so young a man—only thirty-two, by Dragon!—was truly fit for the duty.

  Soldiers had no sense of humor, though, save when they were mocking those they considered beneath them. If Mahzan dared to mock a soldier, he would find himself facing a sword later, and he did not want such an annoyance spoiling his night.

  Dismissing the soldiers, he searched the crowd—and smirked briefly when he saw a small group of priests. Most of them were novices and acolytes, but a few in the cluster were of higher rank, and he recognized one of them as a priest he nearly always saw laughing and smiling. And if he didn't find Mahzan amusing, people would find his ire amusing, and that was good enough.

  "G'day, holy men!" he called out, pitching his voice to be heard over the din. The priests drew up short, and the one in front that looked familiar, and who by his marks had been a priest for many years, grinned and lifted a hand in acknowledgement. "You must be frustrated, surrounded by so much merriment and yourselves so austere."