Dragon Mage (The First Dragon Rider Book 3)

by Ava Richardson

  “Neill?” Char was asking me worriedly as we flew closer, and I nodded that I saw the guards already rushing to the gates. Big, strong Torvald men and women with long spears and short bows, readied to fire on the offending dragon that dared to approach their heartland.

  I unfurled in my hand the purple and green banner that Rudie had brought with him, signaling to us that he was an emissary from my family. I held it out, letting it flutter and crack in the wind as Char directed Paxala to circle the great fort once, twice, before descending to a flapping, furious wing beats in the central space that made up our main training ground.

  “Dragon! The Dragon Rider has come!” people shouted, although it wasn’t in awe or joy, but in fear.

  “The Order! The Order is here!” Clansmen and women rushed to shutter their windows and doors, as guards ran to seize weapons and edge to the entrances of the central training ground. In front of us stood the strong wooden gatehouse of the Fort, usually kept open as every Torvald clan member was free to wander in and out of the central hall to seek audience with the Chief.

  Or so it had been, once. Now I saw that the gates were closed, and piles of purple-headed thistles with their dark green stems and spikes had been laid in front of the door.

  Oh yeah. The Fort is in mourning. Mourning for my father.

  “What is the meaning of this?” shouted one of the head guards there, a clan’s warrior that I recognized with his long wild brown hair and brown beard, limping towards us.

  “Captain Garf the Lame,” I recognized and called out to him, waving the flag of Torvald. “Do you not recognize me, Garf?” I asked. Garf had been the wall captain here for as long as I could remember, a close bond-warrior and blood brother to my father. Garf had fought at my father’s side on many campaigns, and now had been given the ‘reward’ of maintaining the gatehouse, the walls, and the front gates of the Fort. He had never had much time for me, but he had taught me and my brothers in wall defenses on several bruising occasions.

  “Neill? Is that you?” Garf said, a look of suspicion and surprise mingling on his scarred and ruddy features. “I had heard the stories that it was you who had become the Dragon Rider of the Order, but I never believed it…” Garf thumped his chest, a sign of honor. “Now look at you – little Neill, riding a dragon!”

  “Thank you, Garf,” I said, not really knowing what I was thanking him for, as our roles felt strange now. He was always the grumpy, older soldier to me, and now he was looking at me as if I were a captain in my own right, and not the bastard half-Gypsy child of his liege lord.

  Char coughed beside me.

  “Oh yes, this is the Princess Char Nefrette of the North, and this,” I inclined my head to where the Crimson Red beneath us was looking at Garf inquisitively, delicately sniffing the air in his direction. “Is the red dragon, our friend,” I said.

  “Ski-rip!” Paxala chirruped her assent at me, blowing a small puff of sooty smoke, causing a ripple of exclamations from the watching Torvald Clan.

  “We have come to pay our respects to the passing of my father, captain,” I announced as I rolled up the Torvald flag, set it in my pack and eased myself out of the saddle. “When is the ceremony? Where are my brothers?”

  “Your brothers…?” Garf said awkwardly, looking worriedly from me to the dragon.

  “Yes, Garf – where are they?” I asked again, a tremor of agitation rising in me. The last time that I had met with my brothers, the whole exchange had ended with them declaring me a traitor to Torvald, and then putting a bag over my head and knocking me unconscious. It was not the sort of thing that I would forget in a hurry, but I reminded myself that I did not come here for them. I came here for my father.

  Too little too late, a dark, cynical part of me reminded myself, and once again my heart lurched into darkness.

  “Easy, Neill.” Char laid a hand on my shoulder, and I turned to her. Could she read me so well, as to know even when I was upset?

  “It’s okay,” I said under my breath, turning back to Garf, who was looking at the dragon warily.

  “All she needs is some fish and an undisturbed space,” Char advised, before stopping suddenly and inclining her head towards where Paxala was looking at her. “Anyway, she says that she will be happy in the valley, by the river. As long as none of your warriors seek to approach her…” Char suddenly smirked as I felt that buzzing sound between her and the dragon again. “And, if they do,” she repeated Paxala’s threat, “she’ll have to consider her lunch to be some of those fat little sheep you have around here.”

  “She won’t be disturbed!” Garf said quickly, still looking confused between me, Char, and the dragon behind us. “I’ll send word to all of the warriors now, and she’ll have free rein of the rivers…”

  You couldn’t stop her even if you wanted to, I thought, as Garf hurriedly gave the orders to the other guards as Char patted Paxala’s nose, shared some more thoughts, and stepped back to let her reptilian friend leap into the air, and dart as fast as an arrow towards the river. Even though she was not at our side anymore, I did not feel threatened by being surrounded by the guards of my brother’s forces. The dragon could be here in a heartbeat if we were threatened, and I knew that Char would be in constant contact with her.

  “Now, Garf, as you were saying about my brothers?” I said with a smile that I did not feel. The old gate captain indicated for us to walk with him as he led the way around the front gatehouse to one of the side entrances into the main Fort. I could feel the people watching our backs as we walked, but they could not overhear our discussions.

  “Your brothers, sire,” Garf demurred, looking uncomfortable. I kept silent, waiting for him to fill in the blanks. “They are taking your father’s death very hard.”

  “Of course.” I nodded. They had been closer to him than me. They were the big and strong, true-born, fighting Sons of Torvald who had accompanied him on campaigns and trained with him when I had been too young to do anything but stay at home and look after the horses.

  “They… they blame the Draconis Order,” Garf said, with a look of skepticism and doubt.

  “As well they should,” I growled.

  “Oh.” Garf frowned. “But you… you are now the Dragon Rider of the Order, are you not, Neill?”

  Did he think that I had come to inflict the Draconis Order ‘justice’ on them for daring to attack the monastery last year? That I had come as a messenger? I sighed, feeling the weight of the wall I would have to cross to get my family and clan to ever see dragons in the same way that I did.

  “That Draconis Order is dead and gone, Garf,” I murmured. “The old Abbot has been exiled, and we have a new Order now…”

  “Yes, but…” Garf made to say, before shaking his head.

  “You think that we’re going to be just as bad as before?” I spoke what the old warrior must be thinking.

  “Of course not, sire,” Garf lied as we approached one of the side doors and he unhooked the heavy iron keys from his belt to unlock it.

  “We’re different, Garf. We ride dragons, as you yourself said. But we have excommunicated all of those monks who had anything to do with the ways of the old Abbot,” I explained, feeling tired.

  “I see, sire. But these are dark times…” Garf said as he swung open the door to the sound of lyre music and the smell of wood smoke and cooking meat. “Your brothers have declared themselves at war with everyone. With the Order that killed their father, with anyone who would seek to threaten their land…” Garf shook his head. “No clan warriors have been allowed to leave Fort on the patrols that we used to.”

  That is why Sheerlake fell, I thought, feeling a surge of anger. “What?”

  But before I could take out my astonishment and outrage on poor old Garf, my frustration was redirected by a rising shout from inside.

  “Just what is the meaning of this?” It was my brash and heavily built brother Rik – rising from the oaken Chief’s chair that dominated the hall, surrounded by lounging w
arriors and attendants, all of them clearly having drunk and feasted their way through the night. Rik was the middle Torvald son, and my most vociferous accuser all through my childhood.

  The main hall, however, looked different from how I remembered it. It was smaller, to start with, and it was messy. This place had never been messy in my father’s time, I thought with a rising sense of indignation. There were stools and benches upturned, there were tables still laden with the remains of last night’s feast, there were warriors lying on rugs in front of hearths, still snoring. Someone had taken down the banners and the display weapons that had hung at intervals along the ways and clearly used them in some mock tournament, leaving them on the floor or tables where they had discarded them.

  “What is the meaning of this?” I counter-demanded of Rik. I no longer feared of my larger, meaner, baleful big brother. Somewhere along the way I had lost all of that fear over what he might do to me or how he might look at me. “Look at yourself, Rik. Would Father be proud of the way that you use his hall?”

  “My father,” Rik spat, stumbling down the dais that held the Chief’s chair and pointing at me as the other groggy warriors started to scramble for their weapons. “My father would want me to run a sword through the heart of the treacherous little worm who killed him!” he shouted. “Someone! Give me a sword! Now!”

  “So that’s how it is, is it?” I growled.

  “Neill didn’t kill your father,” Char called urgently, and a bolt of annoyance zagged through me that she sought to stop the bloodshed I was more than ready for. The months and years of riding dragons and training to be a dragon protector had readied me for this, and my hand slipped to the scabbard at my waist, while a warrior fumbled, unbuckling his own sword to give to my brother. He was still drunk. This would be an easy kill.

  “Skreyaarch!” A muffled, distant sound from Paxala came from far above the walls, making my brother blink in confusion.

  “Yes, sire,” Garf said from where he stood at my side. “They came on the back of a red dragon. The Crimson Red that drove away our soldiers before…”

  “Ach!” That only infuriated Rik the more. “You see? He’s come to finish the job, clearly…” He snatched the scabbard and belt from the inebriated warrior, before himself dropping it onto the floor and cursing at his own irate clumsiness.

  “We haven’t come to attack Torvald land!” Char tried again. “And no one here is responsible for your father’s death! We threw out those who were! The Draconis Order is no more…”

  “I’d shut her up, if I were you, Neill…” Rik slurred his words.

  That was it. I took a step forward and punched Rik as hard as I could across the jaw. I had been in a lot of fights with my brothers before – but my relative size compared to them had always meant that it ended up being little more than an effort to stop them from beating me to a bloody pulp. Now, my rage and anger and training combined to deliver my indignation and hurt in one blow.

  “Ooof!” my brother exclaimed, though he still stood, swaying slightly on his feet. He looked at me thoughtfully as his tongue moved against his cheek, until he finally spat out a bloodied tooth, and then sat down in a thump on his rump, looking confused. “You learned a thing or two, then…” he said groggily.

  “You’ll apologize to the lady and my friend,” I demanded of him.

  “Neill… It’s all right. The guy is drunk,” Char was saying.

  “No. It’s not all right,” I said, a hot, black rage descending over me. Is this what it had come to? Did I have to teach my brothers some manners now? The knuckles on my fist hurt, but my hand itched to move to the pommel of my short sword. All those years of beatings. Of pinches, of slaps, of sly remarks and curses.

  “Rik?” Another shape appeared behind my brother, and my rage-filled senses revealed that it was Rubin, the biggest and oldest brother of all of us. He was no better than Rik in many ways, but at least he had performed the ‘punishments’ with a practical emotionlessness. He didn’t revel in the cruelty and power that he could have over his weaker victims like Rik did. Instead, my eldest brother Rubin just believed fully, and totally, in the Torvald way. That you only learned by getting the facts beaten into you, and the mistakes beaten out. Courage was born through strife and struggle, and the fact that I was the smallest and weaker brother – taking after my thin-limbed Gypsy family rather than my stocky Middle Kingdom Torvald one – was a sign of my unwillingness to try harder.

  Rubin was a brute, whereas Rik was a shark.

  “Brother,” I greeted him, still in my warrior’s crouch.

  “Come on, Rik.” Rubin seized my brother under the arms and hauled him to his feet, before setting him down on one of the nearest benches with a heavy thud. “He’s sorry. We’re sorry for any offence caused,” Rubin said. He wasn’t drunk like my other brother was, but his eyes still glared at me in suspicion. “I heard that there was a battle up there at your monastery,” he said stiffly. “So, I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, at least for now.”

  Oh thank you, most-gracious Rubin, I thought sarcastically, before biting down on that criticism. He was trying to be like Father. Strategic. Tactical. Intelligent, I saw.

  “But what’s more important, Neill…. Is that, despite your treachery to us, despite the fact that you worked for the Order, that you rode that dragon against us, your own clan…” Rubin’s voice grew heavy with accusation and hurt. “Despite all of that, Father still spoke highly of you, right up until the end.”

  I felt my throat tighten suddenly.

  “Father never believed us and we told him that you were a traitor, but I suppose that isn’t important now,” Rubin muttered. “And in honor of our father’s memory, you will get one day of mourning, with us, as a Son of Torvald.” His voice turned to a growl. “And then we’re done. After today, I don’t ever want to see you on Torvald land again.”

  “But Rubin – he wasn’t responsible!” Char burst out, frustrated by my brothers’ clear truculence to believe anything but their own views. “How many times do we have to tell you…? It was the old Abbot who poisoned your father, who sought to undermine all of the clans in favor of his own power. We drove the old Abbot off. We drove the old monks out!”

  “Maybe so,” Rubin said. “But Neill should have flown that dragon out there straight to us, for the good of the clan. Not kept it up there for himself.”

  “You sound just like my father,” Char muttered, shaking her head. “The dragons cannot be commanded, not by you, by me, or by anyone. If you want to ally yourself with the dragons, you have to meet with them.”

  “Enough.” Rubin shook his head, a gesture that I knew meant that he was already tired of this talk. “One day, Neill. You have one day. Garf can take you to the tomb, but after that I want you and your dragon gone.”

  “I can’t believe that brother of yours!” Char said indignantly, as we strode through the halls of Fort, following the lurching limp of Captain Garf.

  “Rik?” I said wearily over my shoulder, my feelings having changed from pure rage to sad resignation. Why had I expected anything different from them?

  “Rubin,” Char said, shaking her head. “I mean, he knows that you weren’t responsible for Healer Garrett’s actions, he has even heard of the battle that we had in the monastery, but still he regards you as an enemy.”

  “You’re either with us or against us.” I quoted some oft-repeated choice lines of Torvald history. Of course, it had been because there had been no one ‘with us’ for so long out here in the Western Marches. The entire region was more or less abandoned by Prince Vincent, leaving just us to fight the armies of bandits and outlaws. That self-sufficiency had gradually turned to self-reliance, and eventually it seems, to paranoia.

  This is not what I would have wanted for my clan, I thought, not knowing quite how I would be able to change course. Not that Torvald was really my clan in the same way that it was for Rubin and Rik. They saw me as just a bastard, a by-blow of my father’s. No
t someone to uphold the family name.

  “They were probably glad for a reason to cast me out anyway,” I said with a wry smile, seeing Chars look of aghast hurt, but curiously not feeling that bad about it. “It’s okay, really – it’s okay,” I said with a hollow laugh. It was odd to finally admit it out loud. But as hard as I tried to always please my father, and as much as I looked up to him - it was always to my Gypsy Uncle Lett Anar that I looked forward to seeing. He regarded me with joy and pride every time. Unconditional acceptance, just for the sake of the blood of his sister and my mother that ran through my veins.

  Ahead of us, Garf’s footsteps slowed, stumbled, then halted.

  “Captain? Are you okay?” I asked him.

  “No, I’m not, young sir...” Garf replied sadly.

  We had stopped down one of the long halls that formed the ‘wings’ and adjoining annexes and segments of the Fort. On the wooden board walls hung the pelts of giant black bears and the ancient spears that killed them. All relics of our ancient clan past.

  “I’ve tried to do my duty, Neill, to keep silent and to not make trouble for the clan – but I also can’t help overhearing what it is you and the lady Nefrette there are saying…” Garf muttered into his beard. “And I think that you need to see something. Whatever it is that your brothers say – you’re still a son to your father, and his blood still runs through your veins,” Garf said slowly, clearly reasoning it out at the same time as he told us. I could almost sense him asking himself ‘is this treason?’ in the back of his mind.

  Garf nodded to himself, before looking at me with his brown, strong eyes. “As you know, sire – I knew your father well. I fought at his side more times that I can recall. We shared blood together. He saved my life, and I daresay that I saved his on more than one occasion. We spent a lot of time campaigning, far from the Fort, holed up in yurts or in muddy fields, and in those times a man learns to trust and talk to his comrades-in-arms,” Garf said.