by Sarah Hawke
Reckoning
An erotic epic fantasy adventure
Published by Jade Fantasy
Copyright © 2020 Sarah Hawke
Cover Art by Warmics
Maps created with Inkarnate software
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or used fictitiously.
All rights reserved.
The Northern Reaches
Dedication
I want to offer a special thanks to all my wonderful supporters on Patreon, especially Onyx, Noah, Sean, Dumblindeaf, Michael M, Joe, Michael B, Commisar Hecht, Tom, Billy, Tom, Timothy, Alan, and David.
And an extra double special thanks to my super patrons Paul, Harold, and Lamar!
I also want to thank Sean for his irreplaceable advice and editing. The book wouldn’t be the same without you!
Content Warning
This erotic novella contains explicit sexual content. If you are offended by adult language, rough sex, and/or the idea of a harem of badass, bisexual fantasy babes, then you probably shouldn’t be reading this! Consider yourself warned!
And perhaps intrigued…
Prologue
Another Reckoning approaches. Behold the harbinger of your world’s end.
Inquisitrix Marcella, the Raven Queen of Vorsalos, balled her claw-tipped hands into fists. From atop her throne, she watched the ongoing battle in Highwind through the eyes of her bound channelers, though she remained powerless to act herself. Her forces encircling the city had already suffered heavy casualties; the Senosi traitor and the highborn Ranger-General had wrought untold havoc from the back of their stolen wyvern. And now, the unanticipated appearance of the Wyrm Lord—a real one, not a mere illusion—had all but guaranteed the end of the blockade.
The dragon will be the end of everything if you cannot stop him. He will burn your cities and plant the seeds of a new empire in the bellies of the women he conquers. In a generation, his progeny will usher in an era of suffering and torment. The entire world will quake beneath the shadow of their wings.
Marcella grimaced as the voice of the Godsoul continued whispering its warnings into the back of her mind. When she had first absorbed the power of the Fount beneath Nol Krovos, she had believed that the voice was coming from the Aether itself…and in a way, it was. The Aether was the blood of the Fallen Gods, after all; their thoughts and memories and power were all contained within its currents.
But the voice had been steadily growing in strength over time, and today it felt more like a singular presence than an ocean of scattered divine memories. There was a clarity of thought—a whisper of sentience—behind the words and the demands.
And for the first time, the voice sounded afraid.
Only a god can rebuild what the mortals have destroyed. Only a god can restore the world that once was—and ensure a future that must be.
Through the eyes of her servants, Marcella watched as the Dragon of the Highwind roared across the sky and unleashed his fury. The Purity’s Hammer was powerful enough to stand against a flotilla of smaller vessels, and yet with the aid of the Senosi traitor, the dragon obliterated her mighty warship in a single strike. Flames engulfed its sails and immolated its crew, and she felt her Bound servants die in terror as the conflagration swept from deck to deck…
Another Reckoning approaches, the voice in her head repeated. And only you can stop it.
Marcella inhaled sharply as she reopened her eyes. As always, the physical world seemed unnatural after her mind had been elsewhere. She could still feel the Aetheric tendrils leading to her other servants scattered across the Reaches, and with a single thought, she relayed everything she had just witnessed to them.
The siege of Highwind had been broken. The war for its soul, however, was far from over.
“One day, many years from now, the dragons will return,” the Raven Queen whispered into the stillness of her dark, empty throne room. “And when that dreaded hour is finally upon us, the faithful servants of the true gods shall rise to meet them. From the ashes of the Second Reckoning, the world will be reborn anew…”
“Mistress?”
Marcella let out a long, slow breath and turned to the face the golden-armored woman standing in the dim torchlight beside the throne. Sorine, the leader of the Sanctori, had been fretting and pacing ever since the battle had started. Her frustration was understandable, given that she had no means of watching it play out. She was a loyal servant—she was Marcella’s most loyal servant—but she was not bound to the Godsoul. Her vatari tattoos shielded her from the Aether’s wrath, but they also prevented her from experiencing its many blessings.
“It is a quote from an old book the Tel Bator priests in Darenthi consider sacred,” Marcella said. “They believe that their gods are trapped within the Pale, and that the only way to ensure their return is to purge all mortals of sin. It is a fantasy—like so many fools before them, they wait for destiny’s compliance rather than forcing its hand.”
Sorine shook her head. “I do not understand. The battle—”
“Is already lost,” Marcella said, tapping her golden claws upon the arm of her throne. “I have ordered the survivors to retreat and wait for reinforcements.”
The Sanctori’s face twisted, first in confusion and then in horror. Her arm visibly squeezed at the golden helmet clutched at her side. “The battle is over already? But—”
“The Wyrm Lord had risen, and he is more formidable than we feared.”
“No…” Sorine gasped. “How…how is this possible? The Purity’s Hammer—”
“The Wyrm Lords once cast down the gods and enslaved the entire world. You are surprised he could destroy a single warship?”
Sorine’s lips hung open as she struggled for words. “I did not believe…I had no idea that he would ascend so quickly.”
“He has clearly received help from outside forces,” Marcella said. “Including the Senosi traitor your Sanctori sisters yet again failed to kill.”
“Arneste,” Sorine whispered, her lip twitching. “Is she—?”
“Dead, along with the rest of the crew.” Marcella slowly curled her claws into a fist. “The Wyrm Lord will answer for their deaths—as will the traitor and Ayrael’s sister.”
The Raven Queen abruptly rose and strode forward until she stood at the center of the Crimson Flame heraldry inscribed into the black marble floor. In Darenthi, the Tel Bator Keepers believed that a similar symbol—a disembodied eye wreathed in flame—was meant to represent the all-knowing gaze of Dathiel, the god of vigilance who protected the world from sorcery. She had learned a great deal from the Watcher’s servants during her travels; her Senosi and her Sanctori were modeled after the Keepers.
But where the Tel Bator had failed to purge the world of dangerous magic, Marcella was determined to succeed. Locking sorcerers away in a tower simply wasn’t enough—both Darenthi and Highwind were proof enough of that. The rise of the Wyrm Lord might inspire some to follow the legacy of the dragons, but she knew that most citizens of the Northern Reaches yearned for a return of a divine hand to guide and protect them. That was partly why she had started her crusade in the first place—the lies of the moshalim might have set her upon this path, but the wickedness of other men had kept her walking it. Nothing would disrupt her plans now, not even the return of a true dragon.
Closing her eyes, Marcella reached out through the Aether to peer through the eyes of her channelers still stationed in Ostvara. They had already replaced the city’s leadership and assigned almost two thousand soldiers to oversee the reconstruction. The rest of her men, including most of the Crimson Flame knights, would be rea
dy to return to their ships and sail upriver in a few days.
“Our forces at Ostvara are nearly ready,” Marcella said, reopening her eyes. “They will set sail the day after tomorrow. I will not give the dragon any more time to prepare.”
Sorine swallowed heavily. “Perhaps we should consider waiting a bit longer, mistress.”
Marcella’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Because our enemies remain divided,” the Sanctori said, clutching tightly at her golden spear. “The Huntresses report that many Knights of the Silver Fist still refuse to accept the power of the Eternal Priestess, and the mongrels upon the city’s walls could flee or rebel at any moment. Without our ships and wyverns looming nearby to unite them, they may turn upon one another. We could—”
“No,” Marcelle said. “I refuse to give them any more time to prepare their defenses. And if they do fight one another, I will not stand by and allow the people of Highwind to be consumed by the flames of another Dragon War.”
Sorine shook her head. “Mistress?”
Only a god can restore the world that once was—and ensure a future that must be.
“If our crusade is to prevail, we must be seen as liberators, not conquerors,” Marcella said. “We must save them from the wrath of the Wyrm Lord before he inevitably grows arrogant and abuses his power.”
“I see,” Sorine replied, clearly not convinced. “I will support whatever decision you make, mistress, but if the dragon was powerful enough to destroy the Hammer, I do not understand how we will be able to defeat him and another Conduit.”
Marcella smiled. “Because this time, I shall be there to confront them myself.”
Sorine paled. “Mistress, you can’t—”
“In the ancient world, the Fallen Gods never took the battlefield themselves,” Marcella said, curling her clawed fingers around the grip of the sword at her belt. “They preferred to fight their wars through their minions and supplicants. It was only when the Wyrm Lords finally annihilated their armies that the gods realized their error—without their followers, they had no power. I will not repeat their mistakes.”
She shook her head and unsheathed the weapon. The weight and balance were nearly the same as the blade she had wielded when she still called herself an amazon, but no moshalim wretch had ever touched this sacred steel. It was a Keeper’s blade forged by the Tel Bator artificers of the Galespire and gifted to her by a pious, honorable man who was still fighting for the future of his own kingdom. A single word—‘Jessara’—was inscribed upon the hilt.
The name was a sobering reminder of what she had left behind during her many travels, but also what she stood to gain once she finally achieved victory. Saving Highwind from the tyranny of the dragon was merely a first step; her power was meant to liberate all of Torsia and beyond.
“The gods of the new world must be better than the gods of the old,” Marcella said, lifting the hilt in front of her eyes. “And our righteous crusade has only just begun.”
1
Edge of the Abyss
For the better part of two centuries, the sprawling metropolis of Highwind had been the largest settlement in northwestern Torsia. The city harbored more people than the rest of the Northern Reaches combined, and the population was significantly larger than the throne cities of Silver Falls in Darenthi, Ashenfell in Galvia, or even Drakendaar in the Crell Sovereignty. Yet today, Highwind looked like nothing more than an insignificant speck on the horizon.
Or at least, it did to a dragon.
“Oh my fucking…ahhhhh!” Valuri screamed as she clutched onto Kaseya’s waist for dear life. Jorem kept his mighty wings tucked and continued diving almost straight down, still amazed at how strange it felt to smile when his mouth was the size of a barn. The cold winter air broke over his thick red scales, but he could barely even notice the chill. The girls on his back didn’t have that luxury, of course; if it weren’t for the Aetheric barrier he was projecting over them, they probably would have frozen into blocks of ice by now.
“Zor kalah!” Kaseya cried out in exultation while Valuri struggled to keep her lunch down.
Jorem angled his wings and slowly pulled up until they were soaring a few hundred feet above the ground. The farming village of Riverbend stretched out beneath them, and the outline of Highwind’s southern wall was growing larger and larger on the far bank of the Reachwend. He wasn’t certain how long they had been flying this morning, but if Val weren’t about to retch, he would have happily flown all the way north to the White Ridge just to see the majestic beauty of the Shattered Peaks from a thousand feet above them.
This is even more glorious than I ever could have imagined. It’s no wonder that the Avetharri Wyrm Lords were so infamously arrogant. Throwing fireballs and lightning bolts is nothing compared to looking down upon the world like a winged god…
“If we don’t land soon,” Val shouted from his back, her voice so ragged and weary it was barely recognizable, “I am going to crawl around to your underbelly and stab you in your giant dragon cock.”
Her threat was completely idle, naturally, both because she was far too weak to actually crawl anywhere and because she had been relying on his cock for precious sustenance ever since they had first met. But as much as he normally enjoyed tormenting the otherwise unflappable Huntress, he decided to play nice for once and do as she asked. It was probably dangerous to stay outside the confines of the city much longer anyway, given that the Vorsalosian fleet and its scores of wyverns were just a few miles west down the river. Stretching his wings and flying may have made him feel invincible, but even a dragon couldn’t take on an entire armada of warships by himself.
But gods, there is a part of me that really wants to try.
Jorem chuckled as he surged over Riverbend, though in his current form, the laughter sounded more like an angry growl. His mirth evaporated when he saw the villagers beneath them fleeing in terror, and for about the fiftieth time that day, he reminded himself that he needed to be a lot more careful. He still hadn’t completely mastered his draconic blood—every day since the siege, he felt like he had learned a dozen new tricks—but in the long run, his actual power was going to be far less important than how he did or didn’t use it. The Wyrm Lords were quite literally the stuff of legend, and even if he survived the coming battle with the Inquisitrix, the people of the Northern Reaches weren’t just going to embrace the idea of a dragon suddenly living among them. There were going to be so many questions and so few answers…
But at least the girls will be there to help me. They’re the one and only thing I can ever truly count on.
Jorem flapped his wings again as he soared north toward the river. A journey that had once taken hours on foot took mere minutes in the sky, and he slowly pitched upward as he finally crossed over the Reachwend and approached Highwind’s southern wall. The soldiers on the battlements were far happier to see him than the villagers had been, and some even let out an audible cheer. The “Dragon of Highwind” had just destroyed the enemy war galleon blockading the harbor, after all, and rumors about his power and magic had been spreading through the city like the flames of his fiery breath.
Ranger-General Serrane thought it was important to do a flyover at least once per day just to let people get used to seeing a dragon—and because it helped them feel like they had a chance in the battle ahead. Very few people had seen Jorem in his human form, however, and he intended to keep it that way as long as possible.
Sooner or later, I’ll have to figure out what this power means—for me, the girls, and the Reaches. But right now, I just want to figure out what I’m capable of…and how to survive the coming reckoning.
Jorem banked to his right and took them over the city’s Artisan District toward the makeshift landing area Serrane’s rangers had cleared out for her wyvern. Garadros was only a third Jorem’s size, of course, but there was still technically enough space as long as he was careful.
“Hold onto me,” Kaseya said to Val from his back. “He
has not mastered the art of landing.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Valuri grumbled. “Why did I ever let you convince me to—ah!”
She squealed when Jorem abruptly pulled up and hovered over the wide circle of dirt and stone beneath them, his wings churning up a whirlwind of dirt and debris.
The Duskwatch stables were only a few yards away, and he waited for the rangers and laborers to flee the area before he started to descend. His talons struck the cobblestones with a thunderous crunch when he finally set his weight down upon them. Valuri vaulted off his back the moment he lowered his neck for her, though she only made it a few yards before she collapsed onto her hands and knees and tried to avoid getting sick.
“Unbelievable,” Kaseya gasped, still happily seated atop him. “Even reading the stories…I am not certain I ever believed such a thing was possible!”
Jorem understood exactly how she felt. Even after his partial transformation in the Underworld, he had never truly believed that he would ever turn into a real dragon until it had actually happened. The entire process defied all sense and reason, and he didn’t claim to understand any of it.
But here he was, a Wyrm Lord from legend in all his glory. He could practically feel the world trembling in anticipation of his next move.
How disappointed will the hand of fate be when it finds out that all I want to do is carry the girls back to bed and fuck the living hell out of them for the rest of the afternoon?
Closing his enormous gold-orange eyes, Jorem allowed the barrier he had woven over Kaseya and Valuri to fade. The Aether’s currents still flowed through him like a cool, soothing river, and he hadn’t felt a single twinge of backlash since he had unleashed the fully fury of his dragon blood. Selvhara had told him that the Wyrm Lords were virtually immune to the Flensing, and so far, her theory had been proven right.
