The Dragon Songs Saga: The Complete Quartet: Songs of Insurrection, Orchestra of Treacheries, Dances of Deception, and Symphony of Fates

by JC Kang

  He needed to reach her side, to save her and the elf woman.

  The elf maid twisted out of the slash of one of her assailants, while simultaneously stabbing another in the neck through the narrow gap between his helmet and armor. A third altivorc met her as she finished her spin, plunging his sword into her belly.

  Enraged, Thielas grunted a throaty word and the altivorc exploded in a fiery blast. Ignoring the instant fatigue creeping into his limbs, he charged into the fray as one of the attackers turned to face him. Time automatically slowed in his perception as he engaged, his enemy seemingly moving through molasses. With this advantage, he sidestepped to his opponent’s blind side, just out of the sluggish downward arc of the broadsword, and slashed across his midsection. The altivorc’s armor held, and the elf had to raise his own weapon to block a slow horizontal hack. As his enemy cocked back to swing again, Thielas flipped his sword and cut through the eye slot of his helm. A black shower sprayed from the wound as time resumed its normal pace.

  Not waiting to see if the altivorc was dead, Thielas turned toward the human. She was on her knees, bent over. Beside her, her own foe lay motionless in a puddle of black, her sword lodged in its chest. The baby’s cries echoed through the valley.

  He looked back at the elf woman, torn between who to help first, then bounded over to the human and eased her into a sitting position. Black hair was matted against her pale, sweat-streaked face, and she afforded him a smile through wan lips. Fresh blood began to soak into the ground under her. Cooing through shallow breaths, she opened her dirty robe and brought the child to her breast.

  It was then that Thielas saw the baby for the first time, her face wrinkled and flushed red. A thick shock of black hair crowned her head. Her cries stopped as soon as she latched on to the breast and suckled. A girl…

  Behind them, the elf maid crawled forward, and Thielas tore himself away from mother and child to attend to her.

  “My Lord,” she whispered. “They fell upon us so fast—they came out of nowhere. We did our best to defend Meiyun. Her own male companion disappeared, probably killed first. There are still more out there.”

  Thielas brushed the hair out of her face and smiled kindly. He knew she would not last long, for he was far too depleted to use divine magic to heal such a horrendous wound. “Meiyun lives. You did well. I am sorry I did not get here earlier.”

  “It is my honor. I believe the prophecy.” The woman’s voice trailed off, and her eyes closed for the last time.

  Thielas fought back tears as he gently laid her head down. “May Ayara take you to her bosom.”

  Not far in the distance, armor jangled and heavy boots crunched through the fallen eldarwood needles. He turned back to Meiyun, gauging his own strength and weighing his options. Grief overwhelmed him when he realized a cruel fact: he lacked the energy reserves to heal her, and he did not have the dozen minutes needed to draw on the less-depleting, ritualistic Deep Magic to teleport mother and babe to safety.

  Meiyun looked into his eyes. Her voice was weak, no louder than a whisper. “I am dying, Thielas. Take her. Take her to safety. My sword remembers its home. Use it. My father will ensure that she stays safe.”

  “I will take her to my home in Aerilysta. My sister, the queen, will watch over her.”

  Meiyun scowled. “Now that the handmaidens are dead, the only ones who believe the prophecy are you and the altivorcs. The elves won’t protect her. My father will.”

  Before Thielas could rebut her, several altivorcs stormed toward them, broadswords drawn. Behind them, an altivorc who stood a head above the rest stepped forward. He was handsome, as beautiful as an elf. In his hand he held not a sword, but a wand. It was the Altivorc King himself, clothed in the dapper uniform of a military officer going to a banquet, his head covered only by a crown. None of it would protect him from Thielas’ deadly archery.

  Thielas unslung his bow, and in a blink of an eye nocked an arrow. The Arrow. Silvery impurities veined in regular patterns through its transparent crystal point. There were only a dozen such arrowheads, passed down through generations of royal elves from the Elf Angel Aralas—The Hero of the War of Ancient Gods. He had said that this arrowhead could kill the Altivorc King with a single shot.

  “Thielas, Thielas.” The King was almost laughing. He stretched out his arms, inviting the elf to shoot. “You may have killed many of my sons, but it is not you who will slay me. Not even your esteemed grandfather could do that. You know the prophecy.”

  The prophecy. It wasn’t worth risking such a rare relic. Thielas lowered the bow, and his eyes darted to the babe, wrapped in her mother’s arms.

  The Altivorc King followed his glance. A cruel smirk formed on his lips. He made a sharp motion with one hand and pointed the wand at Thielas with his other. “Kill the woman and bring the whelp to me. The elf is mine.”

  The King’s cohorts surged forward, broadswords raised. The Great Orc uttered a harsh snarl, and a bolt of red energy exploded from the wand.

  Time seemed to slow again, unbidden.

  Thielas spun back, out of the line of fire, dropping his bow and taking up Meiyun’s blade as he finished his turn. Another blast just barely missed him, as the horde of altivorcs closed in on the new mother and her child.

  He had to get there first.

  In three bounding steps, he reached Meiyun’s side. He held her desperate gaze as she thrust forth the bawling babe in outstretched hands. In a decision that would haunt him forever, Thielas took the child into his free arm and uttered the single syllable that spirited them away through the corridors of magic, leaving Meiyun to face her fate alone. The vision of her last wistful smile burned in his mind’s eye.

  He popped back into existence in utter darkness that not even his night vision could penetrate. The cloying scent of incense assaulted him. Exhausted to the core by his repeated use of Shallow Magic, he did not have the power for the simplest of spells, a magical light. He collapsed to the ground, taking care not to harm the whimpering child in his arms.

  Tears burned his eyes as reality set in. Meiyun. Dead.

  As he tried to draw breath into his grief-tightened chest, his sensitive hearing picked up the almost inaudible shuffling of a dozen footsteps. He wobbled to his feet, rocking the child in one arm while drawing his sword in another.

  His blade had barely slid free of its sheath when someone twisted his wrist and knocked the weapon away. He found himself sprawled on the ground, cradling the now crying babe. Cold steel crossed his neck in two directions, while his leg was pinned, knee twisted at a painful angle. Completely helpless, he relaxed, using what little energy he had for patting the baby.

  Blinding light flooded the room, and he squinted as his eyes adjusted. Blurry, dark shapes coalesced into a dozen human male and female forms, all with black hair and honey-toned skin. They wore tight black clothes, and held weapons.

  A few cleared a path to allow a man of middling years to step forward. “Starsong.” He almost spat his name. “How did you find us?”

  Thielas made a slow, unthreatening gesture toward Meiyun’s sword.

  The man made a horizontal gesture, and all of the warriors backed away. “The Black Lotus Sword. Where is Meiyun? And Feiying?”

  “Young Master Yan,” Thielas addressed the man, tentatively climbing to his feet. “Feiying was nowhere to be found. I assume he was killed by the altivorcs, who fell upon them unawares. Meiyun… she bid me to save her baby, to bring the girl here to be put under your protection…”

  The man’s face contorted, eyes narrow and jaw tight. “Her blood is on your hands. My daughter was born to rule our sect. Feiying was to be her husband. They cared for one another until you came along. I rue the day she met you. You never loved her; you just wanted to fulfill your outrageous prophecy. How did it go? A half-human girl of Aralas’ Blood? Who believes such fairy tales? And now…”

  The elf flinched, the ranting accusations hitting him like physical blows. Still, his heart hurt even mo
re. “I did love her. It was never about the prophecy. I am sorry.”

  “You are sorry? Get out of my sight.”

  “Just give me a few moments to regain my energy and I will leave you forever.”

  “You will leave her forever, too.” Young Master Yan motioned toward the babe in Thielas’ arms. “She is my granddaughter, and the heir to the Black-Fist Sect now that Meiyun is dead. I will raise her as my own, and she will be protected here, for nobody—not even the King of the Altivorcs himself—will find our Temple unless we allow it.”

  Thielas bowed his head, contrite. In that moment, he met the girl’s curious gaze. She had brown eyes, large as an elf’s, and even more almond-shaped from her Cathayi heritage.

  His daughter.

  For a few seconds, he considered keeping her, escaping through the ethers back to his homeland. Would he even survive a third Shallow Magic teleportation in such a short time? Maybe. However, the Young Master Yan was right. She would be better cared for here. The elves back home would always look down on the half-human, even if she were of his royal blood. And certainly, the altivorcs would look for her there. He extended his arms, his daughter in his hands. She was screaming again, even as a young woman stepped forward to receive her.

  His daughter. A half-human girl of Aralas’ Blood. Destined to slay the Altivorc King.

  Thielas withdrew the Arrow. “Whether or not you recognize me as her father, whether or not you believe in the prophecy, this is her birthright. I beg you to give it to her one day, when she is ready to receive it.”

  With one last longing look at his daughter, he sang a half-minute lullaby in the musical language of Deep Magic. Her crying ceased, and her gently pointed ears perked up at the sound of his glorious voice. With the last syllable, he disappeared.

  Jie’s adventures, past and present, continue with more stories in 2018

  Turn the page for an exclusive look at Masters of Deception, the next installment of the Legends of Tivara. It follows Jie between Songs of Insurrection and Orchestra of Treacheries, as she works with a different cast of characters.

  Thank you for reading the Dragon Songs Saga. I am humbled and honored that you have spent time in Kaiya's world. More stories in Tivara are planned for 2018 and beyond.

  I would love to hear from you. You can email me at jc.kang.author@gmail.com. Please join the Mailing List for monthly updates, and a monthly chance to win signed copies and other swag.

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  A Sneak Peak at Masters of Deception

  Standing by the aft bulwark on the Indomitable, Yan Jie was about to let personal affection get in the way of a mission for the first time in her life. With effort, she tore her gaze away from the handsome foreign prince giving orders from the quarterdeck, and looked across the stone quay to the black-hulled, five-masted behemoth she was supposed to infiltrate.

  The Intimidator might’ve been the Indomitable’s twin. Its crew had already withdrawn the gangplank, and were busy casting off the moorings. Meanwhile, she fidgeted on the Indomitable as it finished docking procedures. There was no time to cross the wharf, and board the other ship, which she suspected harbored the assassin who’d murdered two lords back home.

  But if anyone could do it, it would be her, an orphan half-elf raised in the Black Lotus Clan.

  She looked at Aryn one last time, his refined features a vestige of his people’s traces of elf blood. He was so handsome, and charming, and amazing between the sheets. And above the sheets, or with the sheets twisted into bindings. He’d been a fun diversion, to keep her mind off a certain clan brother back home, who never saw her as anything more than a little sister.

  He turned, a smile blooming on his face. Oh, that handsome face! There was no time for a long, passionate farewell kiss— their relationship had been a secret to his crew, anyway.

  Fixing her expression to vapid girl in love with a prince, she waved back, all the while gauging the distance from deck to dock. At about forty feet, it was much too far to jump without leaving a bloody splatter of half-elf on the grey stone. However, the dockworkers had already moored the ship, and the calm harbor kept the lines taut. Even in the cute pink dress, she’d be able to tightrope-walk down one of them, while giving the sailors and dockworker’s a view of the lacey undergarments Aryn had given her. Then again, a display of acrobatics would compromise her identity as a simple translator sent from Cathay.

  She sighed. Her time with the Tarkothi prince was over, so there was no need to continue hiding her skills.

  Or maybe she could hedge her bets. Just in case there really wasn’t enough time to get down, grab a pole, dash up the dock, and pole vault to the Serikothi ship's stern gallery.

  Aryn turned his head to one of the deck officers. No one was looking.

  Gathering her skirts in the crook of her elbow, she turned and dove over the gunwhale. She hooked her elbow over the line. The dress’ smooth satin slipped down the rope.

  A little too easily.

  The dock rushed up to meet her. Her billowing skirts must’ve put her flat body on display for the likely undiscriminating sailors and dockworkers who might happen to look up. In seconds, she’d become the aforementioned bloody splatter of half-elf.

  She pulled herself up and wrapped her legs around the line. The fibers, while fine, first warmed, then seared into her thighs and calves. Nevertheless, rope burn was far preferable to death, and her descent slowed to a manageable speed. At the last second, she tucked and rolled several times over the dock’s seamless stone, bowling over a couple of laborers along the way.

  Despite preventing a concussion, her head swam from the spins. The dock was cold beneath her back… and smooth. Dwarf-carved, perhaps? Seagulls cawed above, either mocking her, or in disappointment of being denied half-elf splatter for dinner.

  Shouts erupted. Burly dockworkers in baggy pantaloons and white shirts joined other men with black armbands in rushing over and crowding around her. The stench of man sweat and stagnant salt air did little to clear her head.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Anything broken?”

  “Stay still.”

  She'd saved time by sliding instead of tightrope walking down, but no, hands held her down. Feigning disorientation—or perhaps not feigning it—she peeked out from the throng at the Serikothi ship. It was free of its moorings, and a tug was pulling it clear of the dock. There was still a chance, when the Intimidator set oars to guide it out of the harbor and into open seas. Maybe she could swim out, climb up an oar, and squeeze through the oarlock before the sails took over.

  Right. Getting off one ship had required the skills of an actor and an acrobat—maybe a career change to opera singer would be safer—but getting onto the other ship with that harebrained scheme would need talents beyond even her wide-reaching abilities. In retrospect, not even the clan's three legendary-but-long-dead young masters could've accomplished the feat, given the exceedingly slim window of opportunity.

  With a sigh, she brought her focus back to the center of the commotion and splayed out on the dock. Another opportunity to get aboard the Serikothi ship would present itself at the next port. Perhaps that would be her last chance to root out the conspirators. In the meantime, she could spend a little more time with—

  Prince Aryn and his marines pushed the gawking bystanders aside. He waved his hands back, then knelt beside her. “Stand back. Give her space.”

  Men grumbled, but otherwise complied.

  His eyes roved over her in a more professional way than she was accustomed. When he spoke, his Arkothi accent mangled her name in the most sensual way. “Jyeh, are you all right?”

  Her insides twisted in delightful ways. She propped herself up on one elbow while covering her forehead with the back of the other wrist. “I…I think I’m okay. I tripped over the gunwale. Only my butt hurts. And I seem to have some rope burns.”

 
Aryn blew out a breath. “You are so clumsy. That could’ve been a nasty fall onto concrete. You’re lucky you managed to catch the dock line.”

  If only he knew. At least for now, she hadn’t betrayed her cover. “Concrete?”

  “Yes. Quite ingenious.” He stamped on the ground. “It’s used throughout the North.”

  She gingerly staggered to her feet. Aryn shot out an arm to support her.

  Lightning jolted up and down her spine, perhaps from an unseen injury, but more likely from his touch. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right? Come along now, let us see if we can find you a doctor.” He gestured toward his marines. “Men, go find a healer.”

  Behind him, his aide-de-camp, the enormous Peris, snorted. “She looks fine to me.”

  “She fell over twelve meters!” With a growl, Aryn pointed back to the Indomitable.

  She looked from one to the other. Driving a wedge between the lifelong friends had been as inadvertent as ending up in Aryn’s bed, but only the pesky emotions attached to the latter had sparked a modicum of guilt.

  “I’m all right. Nothing seems broken. Let’s just walk.” She waved toward the storefronts, but she stopped as the pyramid of Tokahia came into view. When they’d been well out to sea, six kilometers according to the Tarkothi standard of distance, the crystal at the pyramid’s pinnacle twinkled like a night star.

  Up close, with the sun behind it, the massive structure cast a shadow over the one and two-story daub and wattle buildings along the waterfront. The shade didn’t dim the garish storefronts, nor the equally flamboyant clothes of people gesticulating in large enough motions to kick up the wind. Hawkers pawned all kinds of colorful wares of varying practical use. So far, the Estomari were living up to their reputation as artists and merchants.

  “I’m fine,” she repeated. “Let’s just go for a stroll.” Why not, when they had one, maybe two days while the Indomitable re-provisioned? She pointed to where the stone-paved street curved along the harbor. Elegant white plaster buildings with actual glass windows and brown and red tile rooves lined the streets. They stood in stark contrast to the gaudy stores at the other end. Neither architectural styles resembled the wooden structures back home.