Two Necromancers, a Dragon, and a Vampire (The Unconventional Heroes Series Book 3)

by L. G. Estrella

  The bandit leader opened his mouth to reply. A streak of impossibly bright fire lanced right past him and into the forest behind him. There was a brief pause before a tower of fire rippled into the air and bathed the night in brilliant white light.

  “We surrender.”

  “I thought you would.”

  * * *

  “So… you brought a criminal back with you.” Timmy watched his zombies haul the remains of the hydra off to a more convenient part of the castle. Spot watched his half-eaten meal go with a happy grin and wrapped himself around one of Avraniel’s legs like a snake. The desert elf in question remained behind Avraniel although he did give Timmy a cheerful wave. “Would you mind filling me in on who he is? You didn’t exactly explain when you were threatening the bandits.”

  “Ah, allow me to introduce myself.” The desert elf gave a regal bow. He wore the distinctive robes and face-coverings common in the desert to the east. “I am Jared, desert elf, thief extraordinaire, and petty criminal without equal. If you need something stolen or someone fooled, then I am your man.”

  “Right. Well, I don’t need a thief. I have a clan of them living in my castle although technically they’re not thieves. They’re ninjas.” Timmy rubbed his forehead. The rats had been quite vocal about the difference. “How does a desert elf even end up as a criminal? I was under the impression that there weren’t enough of you around for any of you to get thrown out of the desert for anything short of murder.”

  “I wasn’t banished. I chose to leave.” Jared sighed theatrically. “Alas, I tried to help my clan with my magic, but I might have almost killed everyone in my clan by accident.”

  “Good grief. What kind of magic do you have?”

  “It vastly increases the rate at which plants grow. That doesn’t sound bad, but there were a few… complications.” Jared winced. “When I used my magic to help my people grow more crops, the plants…” He cringed. “They grew out of control and swiftly drained our entire water supply.”

  “I can see how that might be a problem in the desert.” Timmy leaned on his shovel. He doubted that he’d have to use it, but it was safer to have it around. “Have you considered pursuing legal employment?”

  “I’m a wanted criminal. I may have robbed a lot of people, you know, people with money and influence. I may also have indirectly contributed to the downfall of two kingdoms. One of those was definitely an accident, and the other one was as much Avraniel’s fault as it was mine.”

  “Don’t pin that crap on me,” Avraniel muttered. “If that king didn’t want to get burned, he shouldn’t have tried to grope me. He definitely shouldn’t have ordered his army to attack me. It’s not my fault that people happen to be highly combustible, and I was on holiday. No one ruins my fun when I’m on holiday.”

  Timmy had not known about that particular debacle. He’d have to do a little digging. “I suppose that you can stay for a few days until you work out what you want to do, but if you steal anything, you’re out.” He tapped his fingers on the handle of his shovel. “Have you heard about the program that the Council is running?”

  “What program?”

  “It’s something you should look into. You might be able to earn a pardon, and your magic could be very useful. There’s this place up in the mountains that could use some new vegetation since we sort of beat up a half-demon who summoned a gigantic, god-like entity from another dimension that we killed, leaving behind a portal to the aforementioned other dimension.”

  Jared turned and stared at Avraniel. “You get into even more trouble these days than you used to.”

  “Oh, shut up, dumb ass.” Avraniel scoffed. “Enough talking. I need something to eat. Spot might have had dinner already, but I haven’t.”

  * * *

  Avraniel patted her stomach contentedly as Spot ambled along beside her. They were on their way back to her part of the castle after a big dinner. The two idiots had been surprisingly helpful when it came to Jared. Timmy had mentioned the desert elf’s magic to Gerald, and the bureaucrat had gone through his correspondence. It turned out that the Council was interested in people who could help them restore the mountainous area that Lord Taylor had ruled to its former glory. Given the large amounts of water in the mountains and the regular rainfall the area received, Jared should have no problems using his magic freely. Gerald had even written a brief letter for Jared to present to the bureaucrats in charge of the area, so he could apply for a pardon through service as quickly and efficiently as possible.

  Her old crime buddy would be leaving in a couple of days to earn his pardon, and she considered this her good deed for the month. Honestly, she would have turned over a new, non-criminal leaf years ago if she’d known that she’d end up with a nice place to live, her own dragon, and a chance to help out some old friends. And that wasn’t even mentioning the nice stack of gold she’d picked up for turning the Bloody Wyvern Bandits over to the authorities of the nearest large town on her way back to the castle. She’d be able to fund her gardens for months with that money and even expand them into several other courtyards.

  But now that she’d done all of those wonderful things like smiting the wicked and protecting the downtrodden – and been appropriately compensated for her efforts – it was time to get some sleep. As she walked into her bedroom, Spot nudged her leg and gave a low trill.

  “You don’t want to sleep on your own?” Avraniel frowned. She’d already made him a bed in the courtyard closest to her chambers underneath one of the friendlier carnivorous plants, not that any of her plants would be dumb enough to try to eat him. Mr Sparkles was there, and he was under strict orders to make Spot feel welcome. The giant man-eating rose was loyal to a fault, and she’d been extra careful to make sure that he understood exactly what she wanted him to do. She hoped Spot and Mr Sparkles became friends because Spot was her dragon and Mr Sparkles was her favourite plant.

  Spot nudged her leg again. Stay with you.

  Avraniel’s brows furrowed. What kind of dragon was afraid of sleeping on his own? Then again, he was very young, and the courtyard wouldn’t feel as secure as something like a cave. Never mind. Sleeping outside wouldn’t hurt her. She’d certainly done it often enough when she was on the run, and it wasn’t like she was getting soft. No, she was only doing this to make sure that Spot grew up to be an appropriately menacing dragon. If he weren’t comfortable sleeping outside, she’d have to show him how it was done. That was it. It had absolutely nothing to do with how adorable his pout was.

  “Fine.” She grabbed a pillow and a blanket and headed for the courtyard. “I’ll stay with you, but we’re sleeping outside. If you grow as big as you’re supposed to, it won’t be long before you’re too big to fit into my room. Just don’t get used to this.”

  One of the nicest things about Spot being part corruption dragon was that he was supposed to be virtually immune to poison. There were a few capable of affecting him – she had scoured the book and Timmy’s library for information since she was not about to let anybody poison her dragon – but nothing in the garden was capable of harming him. She led him over to the nest she’d made out of rocks and churned earth. It wasn’t all that different from the nest she’d found his egg in. She put her blanket and pillow down beside it and did her best to sleep, but it wasn’t long before she felt something warm against her.

  “Fine.” Avraniel shifted to let the dragon curl up against her. The book had mentioned that hatchlings often slept against the sides of their parents to ensure their safety from predators, which usually meant other dragons. “But you better not set the garden on fire in your sleep, and I will be very, very unhappy if you drool on me. Understand?”

  Spot nuzzled against her and closed his eyes, his wings carefully folded against his body. It wasn’t long before his breathing evened out, and he fell asleep. Avraniel, however, did not fall asleep so easily. Instead, her gaze drifted to the stars in the night sky above them. They seemed… brighter than she could ever remember.r />
  It was strange. Surrounded by a garden full of carnivorous and poisonous plants that she’d grown herself and with a dragon that considered her his mother pressed against her, she felt satisfied for the first time in a long, long time. Then her thoughts drifted to everything she’d be able to do once Spot got bigger, and her lips curved up into a smirk.

  Life was good.

  But she’d make sure that it got even better.

  Chapter Three

  Old Man woke up just before dawn, something he did every day. It was a habit he’d developed in another – much bloodier – life that he’d given up years ago. In those days, sleeping in could have cost him not only his life but also the lives of those he had sworn to protect. He’d tried to shake the habit, but old habits, as people were so fond of saying, died hard. Waking early was not without its advantages. He was closer to the end of his life than the beginning, and he didn’t think he had too many years left although he liked to think he could squeeze out another decade or two if he was careful. Given his situation, he didn’t want to spend too much of his remaining time sleeping. He would have plenty of time to sleep when he was dead. In the meantime, he had things to do. True, not all of those things were particularly important, but the best things in life, the ones that made life truly worth living, were not always the ones people would normally consider important.

  He washed and changed his clothes before making his way to the specially designed room that housed his bonsai trees. He tended to each of them with the utmost care and then went to the courtyard closest to his chambers. He’d noticed that all of them had courtyards near their chambers. It was most likely a deliberate move on Timmy’s part. Avraniel had turned hers into a very interesting garden. He had visited a few times, and the plants there were truly unique. Gerald had left his largely as it was although he did read there from time to time. Katie had a miniature village of rats in her courtyard. The rodents worked tirelessly on a range of different projects devised by Katie herself. Timmy kept a few of his favourite zombies in his courtyard, and he had a tendency to work on them when he couldn’t sleep or needed to relax.

  As for Old Man, well, he liked to practice. He could say, without exaggeration, that he was one of the greatest swordsmen who had ever lived. There were some who would go even further and argue that he was the greatest swordsman who had ever lived. Personally, Old Man wouldn’t have gone so far. He was a humble man, and it wasn’t fair to compare swordsmen from different eras who had never fought each other. Even so, he could barely remember the last time that a swordsman had truly challenged him. It was almost a shame that Timmy’s master was dead. By all accounts, he had been a terrible person, but he had been one of the finest swordsmen that Everton had ever produced. Perhaps he could have given Old Man the battle – and even the worthy death – he craved.

  Oh well. What was done was done, and he was too old to let things like that worry him. Young men dreamed of their place in history. Old men wondered when they would be history. All he wanted now was to live the remainder of his years in reasonably interesting fashion before finding a worthwhile death. He was confident that sooner or later, Timmy and the others would run into someone who could give him a real run for his money with a blade, and he could think of far worse ways to die than in the defence of people like Timmy and a country like Everton. He was even looking forward to it, not that he was in a hurry. After all, he was enjoying his new life at the castle. It was rarely boring.

  Old Man’s courtyard had once been a garden of some sort, but it had fallen into disrepair. Timmy had done a wonderful job restoring the castle after all of the neglect it had endured during his master’s reign, but there was still more to do. Old Man had decided to fix the garden himself, weeding the overgrown garden beds, trimming the unruly hedges, and adding in new plants. There had been a lot of dust and debris to clear away too, and Timmy’s zombies had proven extraordinarily helpful there. Normal zombies weren’t great at anything that required fine motor control, but they were excellent at moving dirt, sweeping, and hauling broken blocks of stone out of the way. That left Old Man with a large open space bordered by lush vegetation. He had chosen the new plants very carefully. They reminded him of his homeland, a place he hadn’t seen in decades – a place he would never see again, save for in his memories and dreams.

  Taking a deep breath, Old Man walked into the open space to begin his stretches. He wasn’t as limber as he had been in his younger days, and it wasn’t unusual for him to wake up with a sore shoulder or a stiff hip. His knees had also been troubling him on and off for more than a decade now, but he could still move like a young man when he had to. After completing a thorough stretching routine, he felt much better. He took another deep breath and savoured it. The air was crisp and cool, and the sun was only now breaking over the horizon. He watched the sunrise for a few minutes and then went over to a room beside the courtyard to retrieve one of his practice swords.

  His father had begun teaching him how to use a sword from the moment he’d been strong enough to hold a stick, and he’d lost count of how many times he’d gone through these practice forms. Of course, he’d added to them over the years. Some of the techniques were borrowed from opponents he’d fought while others were the result of learning new styles in foreign lands. But the techniques he was proudest of – the ones that he knew were his best – were the ones he’d developed after he had mastered his magic and worked it into his swordplay.

  His magic allowed him to manipulate space and time, but it could be more dangerous to him than his opponent if he made even a small mistake. He chuckled softly as he remembered one particularly awkward mistake. He had been more than a boy then but not quite a man, and his father had been one of the royal tutors. He and the crown prince had been friends, and the prince had challenged Old Man to use his magic to retrieve something from his chambers without being noticed. Old Man had been much more easily riled then, and his control over his magic had been far worse. He had found himself in the chambers of the crown prince’s younger sister, and he had learned, much to his dismay, that although the princess was not as good as her brother with a sword, she was better than her brother when it came to the spear. He had returned to the crown prince looking very much the worse for wear and with no small number of holes in his clothing. The princess had carried her spear around with her for weeks, and she had jabbed the weapon at him whenever the opportunity arose.

  Ah, those had been good days. But the good days had not lasted forever. Nothing could.

  Old Man shook himself. It was not good to dwell too long on the past. There was joy to be found there, yes, but also a great deal of sorrow. It was better to focus on the present, on the friends and comrades who were still with him. Besides, he still had half of his sword forms to complete, and he wanted to finish before his usual visitor arrived. It wouldn’t do to keep him waiting.

  Old Man finished the last of his sword forms only moments before his visitor arrived. It was Rembrandt. The dark-furred rodent with an eye patch was his most frequent visitor. Like Old Man, Rembrandt had devoted his life to perfecting his swordsmanship, and much like Old Man, his skills with a blade were far greater than those of even his most talented kin. Old Man had a feeling that if the two of them had been the same size, then Rembrandt could have given him the fight he had been waiting for his whole life. Unfortunately, Rembrandt was a rat, and that lack of size came with serious disadvantages. Nevertheless, there was still great value to be found in sparring against the rodent. Rembrandt was incredibly quick, agile, and cunning. He had grown used to his lack of size, and he had learned to wield it as a weapon instead of allowing it to hinder him.

  “Good morning, my friend.” Old Man inclined his head and swept his sword up in a salute. “Shall we begin?”

  Rembrandt squeaked his reply and mirrored Old Man’s gestures.

  For several seconds, there was only stillness as the two of them stared into each other’s eyes. Old Man had learned to see into the hearts o
f his opponents through their eyes. Rembrandt was a warrior through and through, and there was nothing in his eye except quiet confidence and unshakable resolve. A leaf drifted past on the wind, spinning end over end, until it came to a rest on the cobblestones between them.

  Rembrandt shot forward in a blur of motion. What Rembrandt lacked in size and strength, he made up for with unbelievable speed, agility, and creativity. Old Man’s sword whipped out to meet the rat’s weapon, and Rembrandt let the blow throw him back before streaking forward again, aiming low at Old Man’s ankles. It was a fine move – human swordsmen were not used to fighting opponents who could easily attack their ankles with a blade – and Old Man chose to retreat rather than block or jump. His retreat was all Rembrandt needed to seize the initiative. The rat was seemingly everywhere at once, attacking from countless different directions as he searched for a gap in Old Man’s defences.

  A lesser swordsman would have been beaten within moments. In the span of a few seconds, Rembrandt launched a dozen attacks that would either have crippled or killed an opponent, all of them coming from angles and directions that a normal swordsman would never have expected. But Old Man was not a normal swordsman. The two of them fought their way across the open part of the courtyard until Old Man finally managed to pin Rembrandt down. The rat lowered his weapon, and the two of them bowed to each other.

  “Well fought,” Old Man murmured. “Shall we move on to our next contest? You may have better luck there, my friend.”

  Rembrandt grumbled good-naturedly and followed Old Man to one side of the courtyard for their daily dose of tea and strategy. The tea that Old Man brewed was an exotic blend that he had once enjoyed in his homeland. He’d been unable to enjoy it for years, but Timmy had managed to obtain a regular supply for him. The necromancer was truly resourceful. No matter what someone wanted, Timmy knew someone who could get it. While Old Man saw to the tea, Rembrandt waited at a table with a wooden game board. Beside the board were two bowls, one filled with black stones and the other filled with white stones. The rat might not have had the size to match Old Man in combat, but this was a battle of wits, and such games cared little for mere size.