Dragons of the Dawn Bringer: The Goddess Prophecies Fantasy Series Book 5

by Araya Evermore

  Pressure filled his head making him groan in pain, then the walls of the sword’s chamber exploded outward. Black magical fire filled the room, torching and melting anything that was not the sword; the ropes, the reeds on the floor—even the chains surrounding the blade and the stone dais beneath it began to melt and wither. Fire hot enough to melt stone!

  But nothing could destroy the sword, it didn’t even buckle.

  The fire receded and diffuse light fell, whether daylight or from a torch, Asaph couldn’t see. Shadows crowded close, tall things in robes that only seemed half-real. Fear prickled his skin. Were they necromancers? The thought of them being close to the sword, his sword, made him furious.

  Thick blackness blanketed everything, shutting out the light. He couldn’t see the sword. He strained and pushed against the black but it was absolute. The feel of it made him queasy. Black magic. The Recollection began to dim as if being forced to close.

  ‘Find me.’ The whisper that scoured his ears was harsh and grating, not made by a human throat. Had it come from the sword? Urgent need filled Asaph, so intense he wanted to cry out, and then it was gone.

  He stood blinking beside the waterfall. The sword was gone. The black magic and necromancers—gone. He stood alone, apart from the squirrel rustling in the leaves. It looked up at him, made a squeak as if laughing, then scampered up a tree trunk.

  He rubbed his eyes. What had he witnessed? Was the vision a message from Feygriene or from the sword? Whichever it was, the message was clear; he had to get the sword and he had to get it now.

  Something in his pocket grew hot. He reached into it and grabbed the thing burning his leg. The three enchanted keys to the sword chamber flared into red fire. He yelped and dropped them. The keys turned white and the grass beneath them blackened. He cautiously bent to pick them up but the keys crumpled into white ash and the wind took the remains.

  Drawing a shaking breath, he stood. The chamber had been destroyed, and so too its protective magic. He didn’t need to be a magic wielder to understand the keys were void now the chamber itself had been obliterated. What use were enchanted keys and secret chambers now? There was nothing to protect the sword…

  He clenched his sore hand into a fist and rubbed his chin, thinking hard and trying not to panic. Necromancers had discovered the sword. Baelthrom would have been hunting for the sword that bound dragon and human together since he invaded and took Drax. If he were Baelthrom fearing an uprising, he would have done it too. The sword was the key to awakening the dragons. Without it, it could not be done. They would not awaken and he, Asaph, would not lead them. If the hottest magical fire couldn’t destroy the sword, then hopefully nothing could. But it could be lost and hidden, just as the black magic had hidden it.

  An awful dilemma struck him; he could not go north to find the sword and accompany Issa south in her campaign. The thought of leaving her now when she needed him by her side was gut wrenching, he couldn’t do it.

  …But not going north and not finding the sword; to risk losing the sword forever, was far worse.

  Asaph finished the rice on his plate, set down his fork and took a deep breath. ‘As much as I want to, I cannot go south with you.’ He clasped Issa’s hand firmly as she tried to pull away.

  ‘Your vision of the sword did not say you couldn’t come south,’ she said, her eyes wide.

  ‘I know it’s not what either of us want to hear but let me explain,’ he said. ‘That vision was a message so powerful I can’t ignore it. If I don’t find the sword, I may never find it again. Without it, I cannot awaken the dragons and they will sleep forever until their doom. If I find the sword, I will rouse them and bring them south. We can be there fast to join you.’

  ‘Then let me go with you. I’ll put the campaign on hold—’

  ‘No, you cannot come with me. I will be facing dragons. Dragons that might not like me, like Morhork. You are needed here much more than with me, you know this. You have gathered the armies—only you can lead them. Marakon looks to you, the wizards and seers look to you. Hell, even the demons look to you. This offensive is just too important. I have to find the sword alone and I’ve no idea where it might be now its chamber has been destroyed.

  She opened her mouth to protest but her words died upon her lips as she took in the logic of what he was saying.

  ‘I don’t like it either. The thought of leaving you, after so much. After my father…’ he blinked back the tears that suddenly welled. ‘It’s like you always said; our calling in this life is far more than just what you and I want. Even if I never win back Drax again, to awaken the dragons for one last battle is what I was born to do.’

  He’d expected Issa to fight and rail against him, but she must have seen the determined passion in his eyes, understood the logic in his words. Silently she nodded with a joyless expression.

  ‘There’s a chance you will make it back to us before the offensive?’ she asked.

  ‘Possibly. I pray that I will,’ he nodded and lifted her hand to his lips. In her other hand, she toyed with a green grape, rolling it between her fingers.

  ‘When will you go?’ She didn’t look at him. ‘And where?’

  ‘Tonight,’ he whispered, a lump in his throat. ‘And I don’t know where but as a dragon I hope to find the answers within. Perhaps Morhork can help me. I wish to all the world that I didn’t have to go.’

  ‘Why so soon? No, wait. I know you have to go. We’ve stayed here too long already but we had to help the elves. I just don’t want you to go,’ she admitted.

  He pushed his chair back and pulled her onto his lap. ‘I don’t want to go without you either,’ he said softly, hugging her. ‘If I succeed or if I fail, it will be over quickly and I will soon be with you.’

  ‘Or I’ll never see you again,’ she said.

  ‘I worry that it’s you who will disappear leaving me alone here…’ said Asaph. ‘But you know we both have to do what we’ve got to do.’

  Asaph waited until Issa was asleep before he left. He stared at her black hair spilling over the pillow, at her pale flawless skin catching the light of the moon as it came through the skylight. He wanted to kiss her but didn’t want to wake her. His heart was heavy. It always seemed that as soon as they’d come together after something terrible, they had to part again. He knew he was doing the right thing but he didn’t feel good about it. He’d be leaving Issa with Domenon and that thought worried him more than it should.

  Quietly, he slipped on his boots, buckled on his sword and wrapped his cloak around him. Silently, he slipped into the night. A cold wind blew from the Everridge Mountains far to the west making him shiver but the sky was clear and the light of the half-moon Doon lit his way. In the distance, he could hear ropes slapping the masts of the boats in the harbour.

  He’d hoped for a strong, warm wind coming south from Atalanph, but at least the cold wind from the west wouldn’t be blowing against him, slowing his flight north. He took the path that led straight into the forest, wishing for all the world that Coronos was with him.

  He swallowed a lump in his throat. I do this for you, Father. I do it for Mother and my blood-father also.

  His resolve steeled, he opened himself to his dragon form. It came easily but with a twinge of pain, as if he’d kept it bottled up for too long and it was bursting to get out. He filled his great lungs with cool air and let it out smokily. With a yawn and a stretch of his wings, he beat powerfully down, lifting himself easily into the air. He circled higher and higher, looking down at the shrinking patch of land that was Myrn below him, lit only by a couple of street lamps at the harbour.

  He turned his attention to the Flow and saw the silvery protective shield covering all the islands against Baelthrom. He turned north, setting his gaze into the darkness and angling his wings against the western wind, his mind filling with thoughts of Drax and the sword that called to him

  Hours later, the west wind gave in to a frigid north wind as he left the north shores of Lans Himay
, and his cold reptilian blood longed for the warmth of Feygriene. His wings ached and his body felt heavy and slow. As he left the safety of the Frayonesse continent and neared enemy-held lands, he cloaked himself in shielding magic. This would surely be his most dangerous mission.

  All the sword had told him was it needed to be saved, not how it could be saved or even where it might be located. It wasn’t going to be easy to find.

  A vague plan rattled in his brain, find Morhork, then find the sword. The dragon might know where it had gone, or at least be able to help him find it.

  The dragon had saved him by taking him to Faelsun, hadn’t he? He can’t hate him that much. What if he didn’t know where the sword was? If the sword had called to him, surely he would feel where it was. But what if it was cloaked in black magic? Asaph didn’t like these questions, they filled him with doubt. He had nothing to go on but faith. The sword will lead me on.

  The dark expanse of ocean below him became dotted with darker patches of islands. After a time, a larger chunk of land loomed on the horizon, spreading east to west as far as the eye could see.

  Drax.

  He could smell its snow-capped peaks even from here. A mix of awe and anger settled in his heart. Awe that his homeland was before him, anger that it was his no longer.

  Double checking his cloaking magic, he slowed and dropped lower in the sky, hunting the islands for a suitable resting spot. He deliberately avoided the larger ones for fear they might be inhabited by Maphraxies.

  As he banked around a small island with a single high cliff, he spied a black spot at its base where the sea didn’t crash white against the rocks. A sea cave, though cold and wet, would be perfect to rest in if it were deep enough.

  He circled lower, scanning the island for enemies, but there was nothing to be seen, not even a tree, just a barren rock against which the ocean pounded. A swoop past the cave entrance revealed it to be deep enough to not be able to see the end. There was a tight edge along its side which he might be able to land on.

  Careful not to get himself wet in the freezing water and stiffen his already aching muscles, he dipped into the cave and scrabbled onto the tight ledge. Pausing for a moment to get his balance, he peered into the cave, his dragon eyes adjusting to the dark.

  The ledge widened further into the cave and led far back out of the waves. He blasted fire from his nostrils, illuminating and heating the cave and destroying anything that might be lurking there. There was nothing. Enjoying the warmth of his fire on his scales, he blasted the cave again sending a shoal of fish darting this way and that in the sudden light.

  Seeing the fish made his stomach rumble. They wouldn’t be enough to feed a dragon, he thought. But enough for a man.

  Setting his snout close to the surface he breathed fire, almost instantly making the water boil. Most of the fish got away but three unlucky ones bobbed to the surface, steaming. He fished them out and moved to the back of the cave.

  With a sigh, he let go of his dragon form and set about eating the fish, grateful that feeding a man was far more economical than feeding a dragon. He didn’t dare rest in his human form, however, and changed back before settling down, wrapping his tail around his body.

  As dawn began to turn the sky pink, he fell asleep.

  When dusk came, Asaph roused. The cave was frigid and he blasted it with fire again until the walls were dry and warm. As the sky outside the cave darkened, he caught and ate more fish, then moved to the entrance in dragon form.

  Why couldn’t he feel the sword? It must be hidden in black magic. Morhork was no Dragon Lord, maybe he wouldn’t have felt the sword’s desperate calling. And given how the dragon felt about “half-breeds” he was unlikely to care, let alone help him. Finding the old dragon seemed pointless. Asaph sighed. He was well and truly on his own.

  He clambered out of the cave and up the rock to the level surface. In the grey twilight, the dark hunkering land that was Drax loomed close and menacing. He recalled Coronos’ maps. The capital city, Draxa, lay on the west coast beyond the Grey Lords. If he took a wide berth and kept out to sea, he would have less chance of being detected.

  He stretched his wings and beat them to get airborne. It was dark tonight, clouds covered the sky and would further hide his presence. That was good, he thought, as he lifted up through them, shivering as their icy wetness engulfed his body. Turning north-west, he kept the dark bulk of southern Drax to his right.

  The land rose higher and higher from the coast until the enormous sheer peaks of the Grey Lords spiked up into the sky like dragon teeth. Beyond them, the land flattened into a plateau. It was still relatively free from snow this time of year.

  He felt Draxa long before he saw it. The memory of it was in his blood. From a distance the city and immense fortress loomed, bringing strong emotions with it as it matched the memory in his mind. It looked majestic, belying the fact that only enemies inhabited the place now, the original inhabitants having been brutally murdered or fled. He tried to imagine it was his home and inside its vast grey walls were his people; working, feasting, laughing…

  A shadow moved on a turret. Giant Dread Dragon wings spread wide into the air then settled back. A Dromoorai was stationed on his home. His dream shattered. He shuddered with repulsion.

  Surrounding Draxa Castle and the city were several giant turrets—at least six that he could count—and each one was topped by a Dromoorai guard. Asaph swallowed and put greater distance between them, banking higher into the clouds. He couldn’t get any closer and risk his cloaking magic being detected. He still couldn’t feel the sword either. His plan suddenly seemed stupid and reckless. Perhaps if he looked into the Recollection, he would see where the sword had been.

  A memory came to him, one of his own: Coronos carried him down dark and winding steps. The cold, damp, stone walls dripped with water and only a little wizard’s light lit the way. The smell of the sea and human panic was heavy in the air. They emerged onto a shingle beach at the base of towering cliffs far below the castle.

  Asaph blinked and dipped out of the clouds, glancing behind him to see Draxa now far away in the distance. Turning back, he dropped very low and glided only a few yards above the ocean’s surface until Draxa was close again. With the memory of it clear in his mind, he hunted for that shingle beach at the base of the cliffs. There were several. He reached the first but it didn’t match his memory; too many overhanging rocks making it difficult to land. The second was too wide, the third too small.

  The cliffs curved away and as he lifted to try again, he spied another beach, virtually hidden by a spit of rock jutting out of the ocean. Glancing upwards to check there were no Dromoorai scouts, he glided towards the shingle beach.

  He timed his landing as a wave crashed against it to hide the noise of his claws upon the pebbles. The surf receded, dragging stones with it, paused, then pushed the stones back again. The deafening noise was welcome.

  Asaph stood there for a long time, all senses alert, waiting for imminent attack.

  None came.

  He snaked his head up. The sheer cliff rose so high it disappeared into the night sky above, the rocks slick and wet and treacherous. From this angle, he spied the narrow stairs cut into the cliff face. They vanished behind a jutting rock.

  He stared at the steps, seeing in his mind’s eye Coronos rushing down them with him, a tiny baby, in his arms. For a moment he was mesmerised, trapped in the past. This was where he had left Drax over twenty-five years ago. Now he had returned but Coronos was no longer with him. It was not how he wanted it to be.

  He walked towards the base of the stairs. They wound up and disappeared somewhere above. Would the wooden doorway still be there? Would the secret tunnels leading all the way up into the castle still be whole? Did he dare go up them and find out? And to what end? He couldn’t sneak around Baelthrom’s castle, it would be crawling with necromancers and Maphraxies.

  He let go of a long-held sigh. His mission here had been stupid and futile.
He laid his great head against the rock. If the sword was near and able to, it would have spoken to him. Now it was stolen, he would never find it. Perhaps it was already far away deep in the fire chambers of Maphrax.

  He rested against the cliff face wondering what to do. When pink brushed the sky, he was surprised by how long he had been loitering.

  The sword blazed in his mind so blindingly bright he fought not to cry out. The red pommel swirled, the blade hummed and a flaming aura surrounded it. Whatever dark magic had been shielding it had gone. It was near, somewhere in Draxa, he had to get it!

  In his need, he almost forgot about his magical shield as he began the change into a human. He regained himself. I cannot use magic in my human form, but neither can I climb these steps and enter the castle as a dragon!

  A cackle came from above. His eyes darted upwards and spied something flying above the cliff tops. It was joined by many more, perhaps even twenty.

  Harpies. He could feel their magic and smell their stink even from here. A raucous cackling came from the brood. He could flame the lot of them before they detected his presence—and almost leapt into the air to do just that when the huge dark shape of a Dread Dragon loomed into view.

  Asaph wedged himself against the cliff face, praying his cloaking magic wouldn’t be detected. The harpies and the Dromoorai circled lazily in the dawn light as if waiting for something. Waiting for orders.

  Whispering filled his head, low and indistinct but urgent. He tried to focus on what was being said but couldn’t make out the words. It seemed to be coming from the Dromoorai. He squinted upwards and his jaw dropped open. A glimmering sword was attached to the Dromoorai’s belt—a sword with a blood red pommel.

  ‘It cannot be…’ Asaph breathed. Only a Dragon Lord could hold the blade. The Dromoorai was once a Dragon Lord, he reminded himself, feeling sick. Perhaps that was enough.