Palom (World of Linaria Book 2)
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PALOM
By L. L. McNeil
WORLD OF LINARIA
Book One: Moroda
Book Two: Palom
PALOM
BOOK TWO
WORLD OF LINARIA
L. L. McNeil
First published in Great Britain in 2018.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Palom © 2018 L. L. McNeil
ISBN: 978-0-9957922-1-0
Cover by: Book Beaver
www.llmcneil.com
DEDICATION
For Pipkin, who has brought unending joy, happiness, and laughter to my life.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My writing group, Garage Fiction, has provided incredible support, critique, and encouragement since I shared my writing journey with them. In particular, I’d like to thank Olivia for her ceaseless patience and dedication in pushing me to complete this novel.
To anyone who purchases my book, I am eternally grateful. It would mean the world and more if you would be kind enough to review Palom.
Table of Contents
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
SUMMARY OF MORODA
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
SUMMARY OF MORODA
Moroda’s home town of Niversai, the capital city of Corhaven, is burned by a dragon in an unprovoked attack. She and her sister Eryn escape on a sky pirate’s airship, but the dragon follows, intent on burning them, too. They are saved by the unexpected arrival of a stranger who slays the dragon with little effort.
Moroda and Eryn find themselves thrown in with people from across the world of Linaria: Amarah—the sky pirate, Palom and Anahrik—two Ittallan trading partners, Morgen—an officer in the Imperial Guard, Kohl—the dragon hunter from an exiled race, and Sapora—the Varkain crown prince.
Aciel, an Arillian Lord, has the power of compulsion and can turn anyone to his cause with his voice and will. By slaying dragons and stealing their crystals—the very essence of their magic and power—he has boosted his strength enough to command a growing army and attempts to conquer Linaria.
The dragon which attacked Niversai was under a similar thrall to the rest of Aciel’s followers. On discovering this fact in Berel, home of the greatest university in the world and city of Samolen mages, Moroda and the others seek a powerful dragon known as a Sevastos to aid their cause and stop Aciel.
They encounter Aciel’s partner, Jato, and Amarah leads a heist to steal her ereven sphere—an ancient artefact that enables the user to scry for dragons—cutting off Aciel’s eyes and hoping to slow his dragon hunt.
After their successful theft, they flee across the Sea of Nami to Val Sharis, home country of the Ittallan shapeshifters, and neighbouring country to Sereth, home of the Varkain. On arriving at the capital city, Taban Yul, the group is greeted by Princess Isa, Sapora’s half-sister. She delights in her brother’s return as he is due to become king when he reaches Sereth.
The palace throws a ball to mark the beginning of winter, and Eryn is keen to relax after their encounter with Jato and Aciel. Despite Moroda’s wishes to use Jato’s er even sphere to find a Sevastos, the sisters and Morgen stay to enjoy the fine food and music.
When Sapora and Isa get up to dance, they transform in the middle of the song. Sapora’s true form is that of a thirty-foot tall cobra— and he immediately kills those in the ballroom who aren’t loyal to him. Terrified by the bloodbath, Eryn panics and flees into the snowy wilderness outside, pursued by Moroda, Morgen, and Kohl.
Jato and her elite Arillians ambush them, but before the fight begins, Kohl flees, abandoning the three to their deaths. In the ensuing battle, they are outnumbered and overwhelmed. Palom and Anahrik enter the fray at the last minute, wielding newly-forged, dragon-infused weapons: the Valta Forinja.
Despite driving off the Arillians, both Eryn and Anahrik lose their lives, and Palom swears revenge against Kohl for his betrayal.
The palace prepares itself against an all-out attack by Aciel and his army, so Amarah flies what remains of the group to the border between Val Sharis and Sereth in a hunt for any dragon who might be able to help. Sapora leaves the others at the border to claim his crown, leaving Moroda, Amarah, Palom, Morgen, and a scholar from Berel, Topeko, to follow the ereven sphere into a blizzard.
They reach a cave in the mountains and find an injured dragon inside—along with Kohl. He shows genuine remorse at the deaths of his old allies and reveals he cannot bring himself to harm Jato as she is his daughter.
Palom is angered, yet Moroda forgives him. With Topeko’s help, they manage to move the magical power from Aciel’s slain dragons to the wounded dragon, restoring her power and dealing their enemy a massive blow. In spite of their help, the dragon is not interested in aiding their cause and flies away, leaving Moroda and the others to face Aciel alone.
Meanwhile in Sereth, Sapora meets with his half-brother, Tacio, and their father Vasil, the reigning king. In Varkain tradition, he must prove his worth before he may take the crown and is subjected to several intense battles deep in the bowels of the earth against opponents of varying strength and numbers. Sapora is victorious, even killing a member of the Old Guard—one of the Varkain’s greatest warriors strengthened by blood magic.
Following his victory, Sapora supersedes Vasil as king of the Varkain and—through Vasil’s conquest of Taban Yul some twenty years prior—king of the Ittallan.
Even after proving his strength and ability, Tacio is reluctant to accept his brother as king. The rivalry between the two brews as Sapora takes his crown and sets into motion his plans for the Varkain.
Aciel attacks Taban Yul with an army of Arillians and warships, and a vicious battle ensues. Terrified she’ll lose more friends, and with nothing to lose, Moroda steals Amarah’s airship and flies back to the mountains alone to beg the dragon for help.
While the dragon again refuses to get involved, Moroda is able to reverse engineer the ereven sphere and summon the Sevastos to her. She wishes prevent any more of her friends from dying. Moved by her pleas, the Sevastos agrees to help and sacrifices himself. Armed with a crystal bursting with the Sevastos’ power, the dragon flies her back to the battlefield.
Moroda wishes above all else to stop the fighting—not kill Aciel—and she uses the Sevastos’ power to do just that, sealing Aciel and herself in crystal, breaking all compulsion and freeing thousands from Aciel’s grasp, thus ending the war.
In Sereth, Topeko challenges the newly crowned Sapora for his inaction against Aciel and questions the Sevastos rumoured to be hidden in Sereth. Sapora exiles him in r
etaliation, saying he has bigger plans for the Varkain than getting caught up in Aciel’s war.
Topeko returns to the surface to celebrations, but with Sapora and his plans, he fears it is the beginning of the end for Linaria.
‘From dragon-flame begun. From dragon-flame undone.’
Chapter One
The dual bladed great-sword glowed blue in the firelight. Flames jumped from the roaring hearth opposite, sucked in by the enchanted metal.
Palom’s bulk dwarfed the low stool he sat on. He rested his chin in his hands and leant on his thighs as he watched the flickering fire mix with the sword’s light. His mug of black ale sat untouched on the table beside him, already forgotten.
Though he had forged the new Valta Forinja, he still didn’t fully understand the weapon’s power. Not this sword, not the twin dirks he’d crafted for his business partner, not the scythe for the sky pirate, nor the short-sword for the officer of the Guard. It had been a boyhood dream he’d fulfilled as the threat of imminent death spurred him on, and he’d ploughed through to forge the weapons without thought of consequence.
The original Valta Forinja had been used only once before, in the Great War some two thousand years ago. Those were little more than relics, locked in a University half a world away for study by the scholars of Berel. And now, Palom, hero of the Ittallan, had recreated them to devastating effect.
Around him, the tavern heaved with throngs of revellers dancing and singing in celebration of their victory over Aciel. The Arillian conqueror would have taken Linaria for himself, had it not been for the Valta Forinja. Palom had turned the tide of battle and stopped the Arillians in their tracks.
But he hadn’t stopped Aciel—at least, not by himself. He was not the sole hero half the city claimed him to be. There’d been others with him, allies who’d stood firm together. In the end, Moroda had been the true victor, and she was gone.
Despite the elation that had coursed through the city for days, Palom couldn’t bring himself to enjoy their hollow victory.
Sickness flared in his stomach as a woman smiled at him as she passed, her heady perfume lingering long after she’d moved out of sight. How could they be so happy when they’d suffered such losses? The palace had only just set up a guard around the crystal pillar on the edge of the battlefield beyond the city’s walls, and all the violence of war had been forgotten.
Something crashed to his right, and Palom glanced up in time to see a trio of drunken Ittallan youths collapse on the floor, arms entwined. Their glass tankards smashed on the flagstones, and beer seeped into the rug in front of the hearth.
Palom growled at their lack of respect, but the three of them laughed as though they’d enjoyed a good joke. A handful of others stumbled to their aid, but with so much intoxication in the air, they all fell to the floor in a heap.
One managed to grab onto the mantle and pull himself to his feet. He had a freckled nose above a small chin coloured with day-old stubble, dark hair, and blue eyes that couldn’t quite focus when Palom looked at him. He recognised him as a young soldier in the Imperial Guard, but wasn’t sure of his name or rank.
‘A toast to the hero of the battle!’ The youth roared, picked up his cracked, empty tankard and lifted it to Palom. ‘The great tiger who saved Linaria!’ Cheers erupted around him as other Ittallan took up the cry, their voices bright with glee.
Already, tales of the battle had exploded out of control, as was so often the way with heroic stories. Palom had allegedly saved Taban Yul alongside a group of dedicated fighters with Valta Forinja at their control. Then it had escalated to saving all of Val Sharis. Now, it seemed, he’d saved the world alone.
Snow settled over Taban Yul as winter took the city in its grip, the tavern’s windows half-obscured by thick snow drifts.
He sighed, trying to peer through the frosted glass.
Lathri was late.
In all the years he’d known her, she’d never been late.
He chewed the inside of his cheek, checking around him in case he’d missed her, though he knew full well she wasn’t there.
His sword absorbed another tongue of flame, and he exhaled through his nose in irritation.
The main door to the tavern creaked open, snow blasted through the gap, and Palom spun round on his stool to see a new figure arrive. He was a lean man, bundled up in thick travelling furs and black leather boots. Men and women had been arriving and leaving all night, but this one drew Palom’s attention more than most. Something about the smoothness in the way he moved, a calculated confidence that made every motion a little too perfect.
Palom narrowed his eyes, his attention away from his Valta Forinja for the first time in days.
The stranger closed the door behind him and shrugged out of his furs, revealing pale grey skin on a fine featured, youthful-looking face. Underneath, he wore a well-tailored coat, which he cleared of melted snow, wiping away the moisture with the back of his hands. His dark, reddish-brown hair had been slicked back with oil, and he took his time in removing gloves from his hands, displaying a number of jewelled rings in silver and onyx.
Another Varkain. They’d been slipping into the city with increasing regularity since their new king came to power.
The Varkain rarely left their tunnels in Sereth, but it seemed Sapora’s ascension from prince to king had kick-started a mass exodus. What Sapora had said to undo millennia of cultural preference, Palom couldn’t say. Seeing so many snakes in his city unnerved him as it would any Ittallan, but with his new weapon to worry about, a funeral of his friends and allies on the coming dawn, and Lathri due any moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care why.
The new Varkain peered around, golden eyes darting from face to face as he took stock of his surroundings. His gaze lingered on Palom, who clamped down on his instinctive urge to flinch, and then he was gone—disappearing into the crowd.
Palom turned away from the rabble, his gaze drawn once again to his weapon as it flickered in the firelight. A pang of longing rippled through him, and he frowned.
As though listening to his thoughts, his sword flashed white and blue. The Valta Forinja mocked him. It didn’t have a single nick or scratch, and it pulsed with power as though eager to fight again.
Palom had not escaped the battle unscathed—a number of new scars littered his body—but he wanted peace. That was supposedly what they had won, so why wasn’t he allowed any of it? They’d lost too much to call it a victory.
He’d lost too much.
More than that, he’d sworn to protect his allies, and he’d failed. They’d fallen.
It was his fault.
It was always his fault.
He’d drank heavily the first night, losing himself in the numbness at the bottom of a barrel. When he’d regained consciousness, the pain of failure bit sharper than any of his healing wounds. Guilt smothered him, crushing his chest, while the Ittallan called him a hero.
He’d saved the palace. Saved the city.
But what did it matter if he’d been unable to save those most important to him?
Eryn.
Moroda.
Anahrik.
Imagining their faces brought overwhelming sorrow, and he’d moved from tavern to tavern, drinking them dry of ale, cider, even wine—though the headache and sickness it caused hardly seemed worth it—while around him the city celebrated.
No-one realised he drank deeply not in celebration, but to drown his guilt.
The Ittallan feasting and drinking had gone on for almost a week, but now the last of the battlefield had been cleared and the mass funeral loomed, things were reaching fever pitch. The palace was worse, with Princess Isa doing little to stem those wishing to honour him and his comrades. Though she meant well, he couldn’t stomach her blanket acceptance of gratitude.
Amarah had basked in it, of course, and even Morgen had enjoyed the swooning before he and the scholar Topeko had flown back to Corhaven to sort out the damage caused by Aciel. At least Kohl had respect
enough to avoid the crowds; but where Arillians had once been tolerated, they were now despised.
Kohl. Betrayer.
If it hadn’t been for him, they’d not have lost so many allies to the Arillian army.
Palom left the palace in the end, driven away by the sickening, undeserving praise. But he couldn’t return to the forge where he’d lived and worked before everything had started.
Anahrik wasn’t there anymore.
That was a step too painful to take just yet, so he’d asked to meet with the only person he had left in the city.
The only one who could help him, who wouldn’t judge…who would understand.
Now, waiting in the heaving tavern, desperate and hopeful, Palom couldn’t bring himself to even sip his drink. His thoughts and worries threatened to overwhelm him so completely, he didn’t notice anyone approach until a hand rested on his shoulder.
‘I thought you’d join the celebrations. You always enjoyed your ale.’ The voice was soft, yet somehow cut through the noise of the crowd as if she’d spoken directly in his ear.
‘Lathri.’ Palom choked. ‘You…have not seen me for past few days. I have had too much.’ His face darkened. ‘I did not think you would come.’