by Dean Cadman
LUSAM
THE DRAGON MAGE WARS
BOOK FIVE
by
DEAN CADMAN ©2017
www.deancadman.com
First published 2017
This edition published 2017 by Dean Cadman
Copyright © Dean Cadman 2017
The right of Dean Cadman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any persons who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
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Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
The dark God, Aamon, fed voraciously on the pitifully small amount of magic that trickled through The Rift from the world beyond. What had recently been a torrent, was now barely enough for him to maintain control of his recently enhanced Netherworld army. The creatures resisted Aamon’s control constantly, and it took every ounce of his strength to maintain his continued dominance over them. The Netherworld by its very nature weakened him, but he had learned to survive its incredibly harsh environment during his long incarceration. But now he found himself in a weakened and vulnerable position once again, just as he had done countless centuries before when he’d first been imprisoned by his younger siblings, Aysha, and Driden.
In the beginning, when Aamon had finally resigned himself to the new reality of being trapped in the Netherworld, he had reluctantly found a quiet corner of the vast dark realm to call his own. During that time he was forced to survive purely off his own vast reserves of power. He spent centuries planning his escape, and the subsequent revenge that he would take on his siblings for imprisoning him. But those thoughts were ultimately replaced by ones for his own survival when he finally realised that the only way to reopen The Rift, was from the other side, and that his own power reserves were slowly ebbing away.
In an act of desperation, Aamon tried to utilise the magic contained within the Netherworld creatures to bolster his own dwindling reserves, but no matter what he tried, he found their strange magic to be incompatible with his own. That was until he eventually discovered the almost imperceptible trickle of magic flowing through the remnants of The Rift, and realised that it was coming from the few Netherworld creatures still stranded on the other side. He soon found that, although far from palatable, the magic that the Netherworld creatures were absorbing from the outside world was at least usable.
Aamon spent many centuries feeding on that small trickle of magic, slowly rebuilding his own vast reserves. During that long period, he tried several times to increase the size of The Rift’s opening, to allow more magic to flow through, and ultimately allow himself to escape his imprisonment. But each attempt was met with abject failure and a vastly depleted magic reserve for his efforts. No matter how much magic he absorbed, he could not overcome the weakening effects of being trapped within the Netherworld. His power was but a fraction of what it was outside, and he knew that no matter what he tried, he would be unable to reopen The Rift from within.
Although the flow of magic into the Netherworld was governed by the infinitesimally small aperture of The Rift’s tear, Aamon could still sense its strength continue to dwindle year-on-year. He had no doubt that it was due to the ever decreasing number of Netherworld creatures which remained in the outside world. Nor did he have any illusions that his sister, Aysha, was responsible for their demise. Or at least her verminous creations were.
Aamon soon realised that he needed another, more reliable source of power if he was to survive his imprisonment within the Netherworld, and set about creating just that. Over the next few centuries he altered several of the Netherworld creatures, making it possible for him to absorb small amounts of their magic as they fed upon others of their kind. It wasn’t exactly a boundless supply of power, but it was enough for him to survive. And it was also enough to continue his slow and methodical work of changing many more of the Netherworld creatures’ appearances and abilities to better suit his own needs.
Even before the two incompetent magi that Lord Zelroth had sent to reopen The Rift had failed, Aamon had created a vast army of new Netherworld creatures. Creatures with strengths and abilities never seen before. Creatures that would be far harder to kill. And more importantly, be far more efficient at gathering magic for him. But now many of those creatures were dead, and the tear in The Rift had all but been sealed again by his sister’s new pet mage.
Almost… but not quite.
Aamon had been caught completely off guard by his sister’s devious intervention, and had not expected such a sudden and powerful assault on The Rift, after thwarting the boy-mage’s earlier attempts at closing it. But even though the boy-mage had succeeded in thwarting his plans, this time it was different. This time The Rift had not been sealed by the sacrifice of a Guardian and their dragon, therefore no resulting magical implosion had caused the bridge between the two worlds to collapse. And that, he knew, would make it far easier for him to reopen later.
It was only a matter of time—and power.
Time he had plenty of. But power he did not. Almost none of his new Netherworld creatures had survived beyond The Rift, and very few of the original creatures had either, judging by the weak trickle of magic which now flowed into the Netherworld.
Aamon knew that Aysha didn’t have the time required to create a new generation of Guardians. And after secretly communicating with his brother, Driden, he felt certain that even if Aysha did eventually create a
new army of Guardians, Driden would never again allow them to bond with any of his dragons. But that still left Aamon with a dilemma: where did he get the power that he needed to reopen The Rift?
The small amount of magic now coming from the world beyond The Rift was barely enough for him to maintain control of his new creatures. And he was sure that would diminish even further, especially now that the forest was crawling with Aysha’s filthy paladins. He thought about killing all of his new creations and claiming back their power, then using that magic to force open The Rift again. But then what? Without his new Netherworld creatures to gather more power for him, he would still be unable to safely emerge from The Rift. Of course, there would be the hordes of regular Netherworld creatures which escaped through The Rift, but most of those would be swiftly dealt with by his sister’s meddlesome paladins. And then there was the boy-mage. Although he could no longer sense his presence on the other side of The Rift, that didn’t mean he was no longer there. He could simply be hidden from view within his sister’s temple ruins.
It wasn’t the boy-mage, however, which concerned him—although he vowed never to underestimate him again. It was his own sister, Aysha, who posed the greatest threat. He was the older, and as such the more powerful of the two siblings. But in his current weakened condition, he knew that he wouldn’t stand a chance against her. If he emerged from within the Netherworld anything less than fully prepared, she would no doubt kill him almost immediately. But there again, if he remained where he was until he was strong enough to emerge and defeat her, using only the pitiful amount of magic currently entering the Netherworld, it would give her far too long to prepare for his escape. And so Aamon’s infuriating dilemma remained, with only one other option available to him. One which vexed him even more than his current situation: Lord Zelroth.
After recently being continually bombarded by requests for an audience with him, Lord Zelroth had suddenly gone quiet. No doubt due to the fact that he had failed him so miserably in reopening The Rift. But now it pained Aamon to have to admit that he needed the miserable slug-of-a-man. Or more to the point, he needed his Aznavor, the Netherworld creature that he used to communicate with him.
***
Lord Zelroth walked calmly down the long corridor, flanked on both sides by four of his Darkseed Elite guards, each clad in the long black robes of their station. He had just received a report from one of his Inquisitors that his pet Aznavor had begun acting strangely, and was on his way to see the problem for himself. No doubt it was because he had failed to feed the beast lately, he thought to himself, as he arrived outside the chamber doors.
Lord Zelroth had recently sacrificed a large number of prisoners whilst attempting to communicate with his God, Aamon, and was still in the process of replenishing his greatly diminished prison population. When he did finally make contact with Aamon, he had not only been berated and humiliated for his failure to reopen The Rift, but also regarding Zedd, who had somehow managed to survive reading the Guardian book at Coldmont. Since then he’d had no desire to contact Aamon again. At least not until he had some good news to deliver regarding the death of Zedd.
“Zedd,” he thought, scowling. That name now angered him like no other. He had already issued orders for every spy in Afaraon to track Zedd and Cole down, kill them if they could, but at all costs report their location back to Thule first. He had also sent an assassin to kill Zedd’s entire family, along with everyone known to associate with them. Shaking the thoughts from his head, he took a deep calming breath, and pushed open the doors to the Aznavor chamber.
What greeted him inside made him stop dead in his tracks. To say the creature was acting strangely was certainly an understatement. It strained at its bonds with such ferocity that even he thought it might break the enchanted chains which bound it. Never before, not even when he had first imprisoned the creature, had it acted so violently. Before stepping into the room Lord Zelroth spoke a few words of power, and erected a powerful magical barrier between himself and the agitated creature.
“Report!” Lord Zelroth commanded as he entered the room, keeping a wary eye on the Aznavor.
The red-robed Inquisitor snapped to attention. “Sire… it started to show small signs of aggression about an hour ago, but it has become far more violent in the last fifteen minutes. Occasionally it makes a sound… a strange sound that I haven’t heard before. It almost sounds like—” Before the Inquisitor could finish speaking the creature howled so loudly that everyone, including Lord Zelroth, physically startled. There was no mistaking the sound, however. The creature was in pain. “Just like that, sire,” the Inquisitor said, nodding towards the cowering creature. A split second later the creature screamed with rage and began tearing at its bonds once again, desperate to escape whatever was causing it so much pain.
Lord Zelroth cautiously approached the creature, but it paid him little attention. He couldn’t see any physical reason why it would be in such pain, and as far as he knew, Netherworld creatures didn’t suffer illnesses or diseases like humans or other animals. He also doubted that its discomfort was being caused by a lack of food, as it had consumed countless prisoners only a few days earlier, and he knew that the creature could survive without sustenance for many months, if need be. When the Aznavor screamed in pain for the second time, he was close enough to witness the muscles under its shiny black skin spasm and contort, as the fresh wave of agony passed through it. Lord Zelroth stepped back involuntarily as the creature once again thrashed out violently against its bonds. Enchanted or not, he knew the chains and their anchors could not survive much more of this.
Not seeing any obvious reason for the Aznavor’s discomfort on the outside, Lord Zelroth decided to use his mage-sight to see if that would reveal anything, and was stunned by what he saw. As he watched, he saw a pulse of magic appear through the wall and travel along the thin magical conduit towards the Aznavor. When it made contact with the creature, it howled in agony, making everyone in the room visibly startle again. Lord Zelroth had seen magic travel through the conduit many times before, but always away from the creature, towards the Netherworld, and never in the opposite direction like it was doing now. His eyes went wide when he realised the implications of what he had just seen. If the magic was coming from the Netherworld, it could only mean one thing: Aamon was trying to contact him. Maybe he had found another dragon heart, and now he would be able to atone for his earlier failures. A mixture of excitement and dread washed over him, as he thought about the possible reasons as to why Aamon wished to speak with him.
He turned to face one of his Inquisitors, noting the look of muted concern on his face over the creature’s behaviour. “Bring me, two prisoners—quickly.”
“Yes, sire,” the Inquisitor replied, bowing his head and hurrying from the chamber. Lord Zelroth wasn’t sure if the new batch of prisoners had arrived from The Badlands yet, but regardless, he was confident that his Inquisitor would find someone to fill the role, even if they hadn’t.
Sure enough a few minutes later the Inquisitor returned with two men firmly under his mind control. Lord Zelroth noted that they didn’t look much like prisoners, and were more likely servants from within Azmarin instead—not that he cared. Servants could be replaced just as easily as prisoners, and at least they worked for their keep. Whoever they were, it was immediately apparent that they’d been magically silenced by the Inquisitor. Their mouths worked to form terrified screams, but no sound escaped their lips as they were marched unwillingly into the Aznavor chamber. If they were indeed servants as he suspected, they would already know exactly what was about to happen to them. Lord Zelroth smiled openly at the look of horror on both men’s faces, but was dragged away from his moment of pleasure by another otherworldly scream of agony from the Aznavor.
Uncharacteristically, the Aznavor showed no signs of eagerness to feed upon the awaiting prisoners. Normally it would become restless even at the merest inclination that it was about to be fed—but not this time. Now, all it see
med to want to do was either cower in the corner immediately after its jolt of pain, or tear violently at its bonds to escape before the next wave of agony assaulted it.
Lord Zelroth began his preparations regardless, ignoring both the Aznavor and the helpless prisoners awaiting their deaths. He began to chant the complex incantation which would open a communication conduit to his God, Aamon. At first nothing much happened, but after less than a minute, a small swirling silver disc appeared in the air directly in front of him. As he continued the incantation, the swirling silver disc grew in size, until it was at least six feet in diameter. Its silver surface rippled like a pool of quicksilver, as if being disturbed by some invisible force. Lord Zelroth gave a silent command to his Inquisitor that he was ready, and the first of the two men was slowly marched towards the waiting Aznavor.
Lord Zelroth was encouraged to see the interest of the creature piqued as the first of the condemned prisoners were forced to walk towards it. It was short-lived, however, as another wave of pain enveloped the creature, causing it to howl in agony once more and cower away from the approaching man. The Inquisitor paused the advance of his mind-controlled prisoner, but a slight nod from Lord Zelroth had him resume his progress. The Aznavor suddenly seemed to forget about its pain, and became almost mesmerised by the approaching man. It reached towards him with its six long tentacles, hissing loudly in anticipation of being able to seize control of the man’s mind for itself. The Inquisitor knew precisely the extent of the Aznavor’s mental range, and just before the prisoner reached that point, he relinquished control of his mind and physically shoved him forward.
The Aznavor instantly seized control of the man’s mind, hissing loudly as it forced him to unwillingly walk towards its gaping jaws. Now free of the Inquisitor’s control, the man screamed in sheer terror, pleading for his life—but it was already far too late for him. As he drew closer to the creature, its huge jaws opened wide to reveal its wickedly curved black fangs, each one at least seven inches long, and as sharp as any blade. Utter blackness filled its gaping maw, as if all light from the outside world feared to enter. The Aznavor reared up slowly above the quivering condemned man, and with the speed of a striking serpent, swallowed him whole to his waist. The man screamed in agony as the creatures long thin fangs pierced his flesh, but it did not kill him. Instead, it began to drain the magic from him and send it back to the Netherworld. The floating silver disc rippled with energy as the Aznavor fed voraciously on the man’s magic, and almost immediately an image began to form in its centre. Lord Zelroth recognised the familiar image, and prostrated himself before his God, Aamon.
