by JD Hart
Contents
Header
Copyrights
Acknowledgments
Books
Biographer's Note
Part I
Memorial to Tatem Creeg
Far Afield
Eastlander Spies
The Guildsman’s Apprentice
High Law
Karlana Landcraft
The Palaver Room
Untethered
Part II
Cravenrock
Marcantos’s Code
A Tenuous Affair
Bandit’s Opportunity
Seeking Balance
A Simple Explanation
The Bloodied Messenger
Part III
A Pact in the Dark
An Assassin’s Night
Escape
Thieves Guild
The Final Test
Pending News
Indictment
A Ranger’s Lesson
Bandit’s Choice
A Hasty Departure
Release of the Hounds
Part IV
Onto the Dragon’s Back
The Serf Who Would Be King
Cosmic Luck
Departure
Chamber of the Oracles
Night of the Necromancers
Anthem
Bonding
Part V
A Simple Misunderstanding
What Remains
Midsummer's Night Visitors
Festival of Midsummer’s Night
When Cold Logic Prevails
The Aradorm
Hope’s Surrender
Unwelcome News
Part VI
After the Storm
A New Direction
Pennington Point
Homage to Mountain and Sky
An Offer Too Good Often Is
Dorry’s Alehouse
In A Bind
The Ranger Apprentice
Entangled
Newfound Urgency
Epilogue - The Kindred
Feedback
Book 2
Call of the Dragonbonded™
Book of Fire
Book 1 of The Dragonbonded Return Series
A story by JD Hart
Copyright © 2017 by J.D. Hart
All rights reserved. The author has provided this e-book for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly accessible in any way. No part of this book may be copied, reproduced, or uploaded in any form or by any means without the expressed, written permission from the author, J.D. Hart.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are purely fictitious. Any resemblance to real people or events is coincidental.
Published in the United States of America
First Edition: November 2017
Second Edition: December 2017
Third Edition: January 2018
Fourth Edition: March 2018
“Dragonbonded” is a trademark of J.D. Hart
All Book Art by J.D. Hart
Acknowledgments
This work, along with the entire Dragonbonded Return series, would not be possible without the support, encouragement, and suggestions of many people who have participated in making this work what it is. First, special appreciation goes to my awesome editor, Maya Myers. Also, special thanks go out to the members of our small, local writers group: Matt Myers, Andrea Reimers, and Amy Kuney, and to the many reviewers for providing valuable feedback on this work, including Pablo Corea, Carol Klingler, Bill Loggins, Carol Raedy, Loren Zenker, Craig Schiller, Karyn Williamson-Corea, Vicki Watchorn, and those in the Arlington Writers Group.
Current and future works by J.D. Hart
RETURN OF THE DRAGONBONDED™ Series
Book 1: Call of the Dragonbonded - In publication November 2017
Book 2: Order of the Dragonbonded - In publication March 2018
Book 3: Army of the Dragonbonded - In publication late 2018
Book 4: Omen of the Dragonbonded (draft title)
NEW CRONOAN CHRONICLES Series
Chronicles of Nartesis Shazarack: Father of Necromancy - In publication mid-2018, prior to Army of the Dragonbonded
Chronicles of Alicia Farclave - In publication 2019, prior to Omen of the Dragonbonded
DRAGONBONDED (The Originals) Series
Writing of the story of the first Dragonbonded will begin in 2019
Visit www.thedragonbonded.com to get the latest information on these books and other works by JD Hart, to leave feedback, or to contact the author.
Biographer’s Note
As some are aware, there are many varied—and to my mind quite inaccurate—accounts of those who lived during the Second and Third Ages of the New Cronoan era. This is especially true concerning the lives put to words in the chronicles that follow. But my mission is neither to inflate nor exalt the myths behind those names. Those who have come before me, bards and poets brazen enough to perpetrate such fables for personal gain, have done so already with regrettable success.
No, the daunting task that stretches before me, one I vigorously embrace with heart and mind, will be abhorrent to some. For this reason, I hereby give the reader fair warning—for my goal in the words that follow is to lay justice to the inexorable truths about these people, as well as others who played a role in bringing about the final transformation. As a historian, I assert my right to correct the inaccuracies of those before. And as a scholar, I do so swear to the authenticity of these chronicles, pieced together from years of painstaking research. It is now with good conscience that I lay pen and ink to parchment.
And as to whether these tales are believable? This I leave for the reader to decide.
- J.D. Hart
Part I
From the Void that was everything and nothing, the Cosmos unfolded and oneness was given form. And in the unfolding, the Astral plane was created, and the Astral Beings became aware of their oneness with the Cosmos. Again, the Cosmos unfolded and the Psychic planes were born. And many Beings became self-conscious and lamented at their loss of being one. Again, the Cosmos unfolded, creating the Mental planes, where many were driven and wailed at the limitations of the minds they had been given. And again, the Cosmos unfolded. And the planet Gaia, amid all the other planets and stars, was spun into the elemental rift that split the planes asunder and held them firmly apart. And into this Physical plane many were driven and given bodies so that they could feel, and still they cried at their loss until their prior selves had been forgotten. And the Psychic Beings beheld in envy what they could not possess. Thus it was in the beginning.
—The Modei Book of Fire (First Book)
New Cronoan era—1278th year
Memorial to Tatem Creeg
Conner Stonefield kicked the granite base of the fountain, his patience quickly waning. Dust from long hours in the dry fields rose in a chalky haze and was carried by the bustling swarm of shoppers about him. Few paid the sixteen-year-old much heed as they haggled with local farmers in brightly painted carts over their midsummer produce, metal and leather works, jewelry, clothing, and sundry crafts. Musicians, jugglers, and other performers, with their bonds aloft and afoot, strolled about merrily, hoping to please the patrons enough to receive a few spare coins. Children played and wove through the crowd unabashed, adding a mix of chaos to the otherwise Harmonic afternoon and forcing the merchants to remain vigilant of small hands near their wares.
If there was only one certainty in life, it was that Conner could count on his best friend to leave him hanging. Already, the shadow of the iron weathervane atop the Creeg’s Point town hall darkened the
bright pool at Conner’s feet. Town folk with arms full of goods and heads full of plans for the evening darted up the broad cobblestone streets. Conner tipped his wide-brimmed hat to Anders Whiterock as the farmer shuffled past, the rattle of his empty cart masking the heavy footfalls approaching from behind.
Without warning, a thick, muscled arm wheeled at Conner’s head. He ducked and threw a hard jab back, and was rewarded with a gratifying, though unexpected, grunt from his would-be assailant.
“Hey!” Pauli Cloverdale took a pained step back, dirty hands rubbing at his thick stomach. The solid punch had surprised them both.
Conner rose nimbly with a smile, his agile, slender form dwarfed by his brawny friend. “Glad you found your way to finishing your chores. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten where we were to meet.”
Pauli squinted up at the statue towering behind Conner. “How could I forget? I’ve never understood what you find so fascinating about that atrocity. You’d think they could’ve found a better place to stick that hideous figure than in the middle of town.”
Pushing back dark, wavy hair over his trim shoulders, Conner followed Pauli’s gaze to the larger-than-life effigy of Tatem Creeg, paragon of the Paladins Order. Of course, Conner had never met a Paladin. The lives and affairs of Eastlanders seldom drew the attention of those from any of the six orders. Once a town elder said the Paladins’ dress had changed little in the millennium since Creeg lived. But it was the enigma of Creeg’s likeness that held Conner’s hazel gaze and spirited his fancy beyond their closed community. Creeg’s benevolent, solemn stare seemed an odd contrast to the shaven head, long surcoat draped over full armor, and longsword held expertly in his bronze hand. But whatever words had been engraved on the statue’s granite epitaph had been lost to weather and time. “The legend of Tatem Creeg is a curious tale,” Conner mused.
Pauli snickered at the other boy’s naivety. “The fables of Creeg rank up there with my grandma’s tales of Assassins and Necromancers. For sure, a man would have to be half-touched to believe such fantasies. I’d bet my next meal Creeg was some nobleman who won an ancient queen’s favor and was granted the town’s name in reward. And a coin can buy a bard’s bad fable. Nobles work like that, you know.” He gave the statue a second glance, beaming at some idea fancying a visit between his ears. “How much do you think that bronze is worth, anyway?”
“Not a tenth the price you’d pay in flayed skin for taking the thought one step further,” Conner admonished with a scowl.
Ego bruised and attention fading, Pauli changed the topic. “I’m glad you’re wearing dark clothes.”
Conner’s eyes narrowed. It was always best to take three measures of caution for each measure of Pauli—and there was a lot of Pauli to measure! Guardedly, Conner asked, “Why is that?”
Still rubbing his forgotten stomach, Pauli winked with his usual mischievous grin. “We need to cross Noman’s Field in the next hour.”
Conner had seen that look too often to let it go unchallenged. “Okay, Pauli, what’s up?” A hint of suspicion hung on his words.
Pauli’s smile broadened and his eyes sparkled like the surface of the fountain’s pool behind him. Through perfect teeth too small for his brawny face, Pauli replied, “I’ll tell you on the way.”
Far Afield
“My stomach hurts,” Pauli puffed, breaking the long silence halfway across Noman’s Field.
“Good. Better your stomach than my neck.” The boys had been wrestling almost since they could walk, but Conner had not enjoyed Pauli’s continued attempts at the sport since they were twelve, when Pauli had put on three stones of weight to Conner’s one. Four years was a long time to be outmatched in size and mass. But complaining never helped, so Conner was resigned to match Pauli’s friendly challenges with agility and speed. It felt good when the field was leveled.
“So when are you going to tell me where we’re heading?”
It took a moment for Pauli to gather enough air to answer. “Owen heard it from his cousin’s best friend, a farmer, who overheard another farmer talking—”
Conner groaned loud enough to interrupt Pauli. “Owen?” he barked incredulously. “Since when did you start believing anything that swindling thief said? The last time you listened to him, you lost your dad’s best hunting knife. Or did you forget?”
Sweat gleamed from Pauli’s forehead in Hemera’s late afternoon light. “Of course not.” He attempted his best sorrowful pout. Pauli had complained for days about the punishment his father had given him; how cold it had been sleeping in the barn until every last tool, piece of farm gear, and leather strap had been cleaned, polished, and stowed. “Dad reminds me every time I forget to put the plow harness away.”
Conner’s deerskin shoes slipped rhythmically over the short grass in his natural stride, lulling him into a relaxed state. He could have easily outpaced his friend, but he held back. Not everything needed to be a contest. Besides, he wanted to get the conversation back on the path. “What news did you get from Owen?”
Instantly, Pauli’s smile was back, all pains of stomach and churning tree trunks for legs forgotten. “He said there’s a legion of Queen’s Defenders on Brighom Road, heading for the Borderlands. I thought we could take a peek.”
Lifelong best friends, Pauli and Conner had crawled and leaped their way into every kind of trouble. Conner knew well that nothing excited Pauli more than the thought of someday being in the queen’s service, fighting for the Harmonic cause along the Borderlands. But Queen’s Defenders were no ordinary militia. They were unquestionably the best-equipped and best-skilled fighting force the Harmonic Realms could muster, made up of the fighting guilds and trained by those in the six orders. News of such a military force on its way through this nearly forgotten corner of the Realm, even from such an unreliable source as Owen, was too much for the large soldier-at-heart to let go to seed. Conner smiled despite his annoyance at his gullible friend.
Pauli labored with quick, winded breaths. “Greston Woods offers the best opportunity to get a close look without being spotted.” Conner waited through a long pause. “I’ve heard of people who disappeared when they got too close to Queen’s Defenders.”
Conner snorted his disbelief. According to rumors, Defenders could be especially secretive about their movements and numbers. In regions near the Borderlands, where spies were thick as crows on a freshly sown field, it was commonly believed that Defenders could be a jittery lot, as willing to kill someone they thought a spy as eat breakfast in the morning. The common tale was obviously used to keep the movement of the queen’s forces a secret. The Borderlands a mere day’s hard ride to the east, spies were a certainty. How better to quell wagging tongues than by spreading such fables?
“Scoff if you want, but there’s no need to take any risks,” Pauli said.
The thought of them doing anything not involving risk set Conner into a guffaw. Pauli, for once, caught the source of Conner’s amusement, and was immediately infected. It was another mile before they recovered.
Eastlander Spies
Conner settled back, finding a more comfortable position on the high branch near the side of Brighom Road. It had taken half an hour to find a tree with adequate foliage to hide Pauli’s large frame. That had been nearly an hour ago. Conner’s muscles still ached from the exertion of pulling his big friend onto the thick branch. He scanned for life in the treetops overhead to fight off boredom. Hemera was sinking below the tree line, casting long shadows across the summer green carpet of Greston Woods. It would be dark soon. “How long are we going to wait?”
“Not long now for sure,” Pauli stated for the third time.
Conner stared maliciously at Pauli. His friend’s eyes, glistening with unblinking anticipation, returned to the rutted road below. Conner started to comment about how much cooler it was here than in town when Pauli gestured to the west with his stubby nose. “There,” he whispered.
Conner rolled to his stomach and surveyed the narrow, shady r
oad in the direction Pauli pointed. For the first time, he noted the patchy summer grass that split the double dirt trenches worn deep by heavy merchant wagons and farming carts traveling to Linkenton Point. An encroaching line of trees partially obscured the winding road. He was about to punch Pauli’s shoulder for distracting him when movement caught his eye. At the far bend, a gray fox crouched, its tail twitching nervously, black nose testing the air. It trotted closer, but after a dozen quick steps, stopped to scan the road ahead. It repeated this sequence, darting from one trench to the other as it proceeded up the path.
As the fox drew near, two riders came into view. One was a tall woman with salt-and-pepper hair that draped loosely over her shoulders, riding a well-built dapple-gray. The finely polished surface of her breastplate reflected Hemera’s rays. She held the red-plumed helmet of a high-ranking member of the Warriors Order under the chainmail sleeve of her left arm while gripping thick reins in her gauntleted right. Hawkish eyes darted often to her gray fox bond ahead. Horse and rider moved effortlessly.
The other rider, a man, was shorter, stockier in frame, comfortably straddling a dark bay sporting no saddle, bridle, or reins. His sky-blue robes rippled with each prancing step of his horse bond, with their mysterious gold symbols glimmering in the breaking light. Older than his Warrior companion, the Sorcerer’s gray hair was pulled back in a ponytail, accentuating a protruding snout on a thin, frowning face. Chainmail trousers were pulled over polished black leather boots. A gnarled wooden battlestaff balanced easily across the horse’s withers.
Behind the two ordermen rode a procession of Queen’s Defenders. Four abreast, these fighters wore dull steel armor under loosely fitted surcoats that dangled past their hips. Upon each chest was the queen’s emblem of a bright red griffin, rearing on lion’s legs, wings spread wide on a field as blue as the Sorcerer’s robes. Mirroring the Warrior before them, each cuffed a steel helmet and wore a lavish assortment of deadly battle weapons about the saddle. Around them, a myriad of creatures hopped, ran, and flew with the sound of a strong wind through autumn trees. Several squirrels scampered past the boys, intent on keeping ahead of their human bonds.
