by Tyler Wild
Dragon Lord
Tyler Wild
Copyright © 2019 by Tyler Wild
All rights reserved. Worldwide.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents, except for incidental references to public figures, products, or services, are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental, and not intended to refer to any living person or to disparage any company’s products or services. All characters engaging in sexual activity are above the age of consent.
No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, uploaded, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter devised, without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Welcome
Reader Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
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Author’s Note
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Reader Note
This book contains action, violence, fantasy, fun, sarcasm, and a tasteful harem of beautiful ladies. The sexy times are not too graphic—more like Fade-to-Grey (as opposed to Fade-to-Black).
If that kind of thing ruffles your feathers, you might want to take flight now.
1
Kron
Long after the Great Doom, before the Rangon Dynasty, when worlds collided and the Earth fell into shadow…
My head was about to get chopped off—with my own sword, no less. I wasn’t too thrilled about the prospect.
The razor-sharp blade would slice through my skin, sever my spine, cut through muscles, nerves, and fascia with ease. Blood would spurt from my carotid arteries, and my head would flop to the wooden platform. I’d live for a few moments until my brain ran out of oxygen, feeling all the phantom pain of my separated body.
My last vision would be the boots of my executioner.
Perhaps he would grab me by the hair and raise me in triumph above the enthralled crowd?
And the kicker?
My sword would probably enjoy it.
I was going to die on my knees like a dog. My wrists bound with rope behind my back. Atop a wooden platform in the center of the citadel, I was the entertainment for the morning.
The riser was usually home to public announcements and executions, most often performed with the guillotine. That would have been a much preferable way to die.
A blade in the hands of an unintelligent oaf could wreak all sorts of havoc. He could hit too high on the neck and crack my skull, or too low on the shoulders and not detach my head.
I preferred a clean death.
Quick.
Painless.
But then again, don’t we all?
The last thing I wanted was some mindless ogre hacking away, leaving my head dangling from my torso via a few shredded strands of ligaments and tendons. The end result would be the same, but I imagined it would increase the suffering.
Besides, I deserved a better death than that.
The executioner towered over me, ready to strike down. An ocean of people surrounded the platform, staring with a mix of horror and excitement.
The mob was hungry for justice.
But I’m not sure if this passed for justice?
My heart punched against my chest. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, tingling my nerve endings.
I had never felt so alive as I did at the brink of death.
Sweat covered my body. Salty streams rolled down my cheek, dripping from the tip of my nose, splattering against the wooden platform. The brilliant sun hung high in the sky, beaming its fury down on my back.
Perhaps this was a preview of hell?
A place I would soon visit.
The crowd stared with wide eyes, lusting for blood. It didn’t matter if I was guilty or innocent at this point. They wanted to see my severed head tossed around the crowd. Proof that no one was above the law.
I swallowed hard—my mouth a desert.
I wasn’t ready to die.
Then again, I’m not sure anyone ever is.
Most people would be groveling for mercy or praying to the gods for forgiveness. But neither of those things were in my nature. The gods had never done anything for me, and I didn’t feel much like groveling before them.
Just a few days ago, I was on top of the world. But I was heading down a path that would lead to my undoing.
I wanted to go back and do things differently. Hindsight is always 20/20.
We had camped in the Lorewood Forest, just north of the GreyLake Castle. The forest was filled with the spicy scent of evergreens—spruces, furs, and pines. Moss hung from branches, and leaves covered the ground. The forest was pristine and immaculate. Birds chirped, fluttering from branch to branch. Fox, deer, and other wildlife roamed the Lorewood in abundance. It was a ceaseless, renewable resource.
We were fine as long as we stayed along the south edge. Traveling too far north would create problems.
I frequently dined on fish from the st
ream, or venison. Rabbit stew was always a favorite. Seasoned with a special blend of spices, it never failed to hit the spot on a cold night.
But tonight we didn’t have the luxury of indulging in culinary delights. Downwind of the GreyLake Castle, we were probably safe to cook. But the light from the fire might draw attention, and the wind could suddenly shift. The appetizing scent of rabbit stew would surely alert the castle guards to our presence.
Tonight we would let our bellies rumble—the thrill of combat would be our sustenance.
My body buzzed with anticipation. It didn’t matter how many times I had gone into battle before, I always felt a slight flutter in my gut. The time before a fight would crawl as I anticipated the action.
It wasn’t nerves or fear.
It was impatience.
I craved victory and the thrill of it. I was never quite as settled any other time apart from battle. A strange soothing calm would always come over me. Combat was the thing I was best at. It seemed so simple and pure. It wasn’t marred or muddied by ambiguity. The spoils of war went to the victor—no argument or debate about it.
I hovered on the edge of the forest, the GreyLake Castle in my view. It was a magnificent structure. Tall spires towered into the sky. Torch-fire from wall sconces illuminated the structure. High battlements surrounded the fortress. It butted against the Wolfhorn Mountains, making the north valley the only viable point of attack. Like a funnel, it drove enemies straight to the front gate of the castle. But with only Carvin and myself, I had no intention of making a frontal assault.
I stabbed the tip of my sword, Asgoth, into the ground and knelt before it. The broadsword had a blade that was meticulously crafted. Forged in the underworld, etched with intricate runes, the blade was scooped and flared and razor-sharp.
The edge never dulled.
The metal never scratched or chipped.
Perfectly balanced, it felt both heavy and light at the same time. When I wielded the blade, it was like an extension of my arm. It sliced through the air with precision. Carved through flesh and bone without hesitation. The blade knew my movements almost before I did. The grip seemed to conform to my hand.
We were a match made in hell.
The sword served me, and I served the sword. But I knew all too well that wouldn’t always be the case.
I didn’t pray to anything, but the sword was as close as I came. Despite its origins, the sword had never betrayed me. It had always swung true. I hoped that would continue, but it wasn’t guaranteed.
“Once more into the fray, old friend,” I said. “I will keep my end of the bargain, if you keep yours.”
2
Kron
Asgoth’s voice boomed in my head, “Have I ever failed you before?”
“No.”
“Of all the Masters I have served, you are by far my favorite. You keep me awash with fresh blood. I fear I would be disappointed in the hands of anyone else.”
I grinned. “Good.”
“Why are you so concerned?”
We had a mutually beneficial arrangement. But that could change on a whim. Demons aren’t known for their trustworthiness.
Asgoth had been cast out from the underworld and imprisoned within the blade. The number of souls that he needed in order to escape his imprisonment was known only to him. It was in his best interest to be wielded by a competent killer whose bloodlust rivaled his own.
He had the power to compel the wielder. Using the blade was not without its peril. How Asgoth came to be in my possession is another story entirely. But let’s just say some of his previous owners met with untimely fates at the urging of the demonic sword.
Notwithstanding the treacherous nature of our relationship, I considered Asgoth a friend—a twisted, demented friend who shared a penchant for war.
It’s not that I lusted for violence, but there were advantages to being ruthless and capable. All things considered, I would rather be feared than loved.
Weakness invites attack.
I pulled the sword from the ground and sheathed Asgoth in my scabbard. It was near midnight, and the stars above flickered. The sound of crickets filled my ears. The thin sliver of a moon kept the forest dark. It would cover our approach to the castle.
Soon, we would make our move.
I was more wound up than usual. Something about this adventure had me on edge. The outcome would determine the fate of my people for generations to come.
Perhaps it was the nature of the task that was so unsettling? Perhaps that’s why I needed reassurance from Asgoth?
Usually when I encountered an obstacle, I would apply force and the problem would go away. But in this instance, brute strength alone wasn’t going to win the day. It was going to take precision, skill, and craftiness. At 6’3“, 230 pounds, my preferred method of operation was blunt force trauma.
This was going to take finesse.
We weren’t here to storm the castle and lay waste to the inhabitants.
We were here to steal.
Get in and get out unnoticed.
Not my usual style.
Queen Nefria, the Lady of GreyLake, was cold and ruthless. She wanted one thing. This, above all, was her guiding focus in life. Some people want to learn a skill, others want to make the world a better place, and some just want to watch it burn. For reasons that I will explain later, Queen Nefria was determined to conquer our land and enslave our people.
Hatred burned in her soul.
Soon, she would have the ability to fulfill her tyrannical dreams. With any luck, I would crush those dreams tonight.
Few people believed the legend. Wrote it off as nothing more than myth. They said the girl held captive in the tallest tower of GreyLake Castle was just that—a girl.
A mere mortal.
Certainly not the last of her kind.
Definitely not a being that wielded such great power even the gods were envious.
But I knew better.
I had covered my face and arms with charcoal and mud in an attempt to camouflage myself. I made sure nothing on my body would jingle. No loose buckles. No coins in my pocket.
I left our horses tied up near the edge of the forest. We’d need them to make our escape.
I took a deep breath as I stood at the tree line, then darted down the slope.
My comrade followed as I dashed across the meadow, heading toward the castle.
Carvin was a trusted ally. We’d been friends since childhood, and he had been at my side during every battle and skirmish. His dedication was unwavering. His trust in me implicit. He never once hesitated or flinched. I couldn’t have asked for a better friend.
Carvin fought hard and played hard. And there was always a competitive rivalry between us—trying to see who could score the most kills, drink the most ale, bed the most women.
The ladies were quite fond of his sculpted features—his square jaw, piercing blue eyes, raven dark hair, and washboard abs. He had the smile and the charm to go with it.
But he wasn’t winning our little competition. I was no slouch either in the looks department.
We continued our stealthy advance, creeping down the valley slope like phantoms in the night.
Surrounded by a moat, with impossibly high battlements, the fortress was impenetrable. But I had an ace up my sleeve. Or, at least, I hoped I did.
I moved like a jungle cat stalking its prey—my feet felt soundless on the soft ground.
I flattened against the dirt, crawling on my belly as I approached the moat. My steely eyes glanced up to the battlements, looking for guards.
No one had seen us approach.
I took a leather pouch from my belt and held it in my hand. I slipped into the icy moat-water and kept the pouch dry above the surface. If the pouch got wet, it would foil my plan.
The moat was filled with snakes and other unfriendly creatures. Probably an alligator or two. I tried not to draw attention to myself, moving through the water without so much as a ripple. The moonlight
glimmered across the silky surface.
I felt something slither past my ankle, but I ignored it and it seemed to ignore me. My fists grabbed the wet grass on the shore, and I pulled myself from the murky water. I flattened my back against the castle wall and waited for Carvin.
My leathers were soaked, and I let myself drip dry. From the pouch I took a few seeds and tossed them onto the ground beside the wall. My fists grabbed my hair and wrung the last drops of water from my long brown locks, covering the seeds. I had purchased them a week before from a would-be sorcerer.
More like a two-bit charlatan.
I had tested one of the seeds earlier, and it worked. But the others could be duds.
