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

by Araya Evermore

  Issa sighed heavily as Marakon’s face faded in the talisman. She toyed with the flame ring on her hand: Asaph’s mother’s ring. She had been a Dragon Lord and had carried his father into battle many times. Would she, too, fly on Asaph’s back like the Dragon Riders of old? She smiled at the thought and lay back on the bed. Holding the talisman up, she closed her eyes and reached out to Asaph with her mind as far as she could.

  She called for him three times before, suddenly, he was there, a fiery glimmer far away in the Flow. His mind was faint but she could still feel it. He was alive, and that knowledge alone brought unexpected tears to her eyes. She had been worrying deeply about his safety but had been too caught up in her own survival to realise just how much she missed him.

  ‘Asaph,’ she whispered, willing his image to form on the talisman, feeling her raven mark tingle as the surface moved. Then she spotted him lying prone with his reddish-blonde hair spread beneath his head and his eyes closed. Immediately she worried but then saw the faint smile upon his face and the colour in his cheeks.

  He sleeps. Thank the goddess, he’s not dead! But what is he holding? She stared at the huge sword he grasped tightly against his chest; its blood red pommel and bluish blade igniting memory.

  ‘It’s the same one,’ she said aloud, awestruck. The same blade she had been gifted in the sacred pool by the Guardians of the Portals. It felt like an age ago—so much had happened since. She had held it and lifted it high, though barely survived its rage at being wielded by any other than its rightful owner. Her hand burned now just at the memory.

  ‘You did it,’ she whispered in wonder. ‘You got the sword and now the dragons will awaken.’ She laughed out loud and was certain his smile deepened as he slept. They had already scored a great victory before the battle had even begun. ‘Thank you, Zanufey,’ she said, feeling faith renewed in her heart.

  ‘Come to me, my love,’ she whispered. ‘Let us ride into battle as Dragon Lord and Dragon Rider and rekindle the glory days of old.’

  For two days Asaph watched the skies, waiting for the dragons to return. He slept in an empty room using his cloak as a mattress and only left the golden castle to find food, mostly in the form of fish caught from a hole he had dug in the ice on the frozen sea to the north. These he brought back, roasted with dragon fire, and ate in the castle.

  On the third day, he was fed up with fish and worried sick for Issa. He stared up at the sky where the clouds were turning pink with the setting sun. There was not a glimmer of dragon in it and when he cast his mind out there, he could feel nothing. Had the dragons abandoned him? Had they fallen asleep again? Worse, had they been captured and killed by Baelthrom? No. He’d know if something had happened to them. He’d promised Issa and he’d promised the dragons, so what did he do now? All were relying on him, but if he didn’t go to Issa, she could be killed.

  It was the thought of her going into battle without him that made up his mind—the dragons were powerful, especially a whole brood of them—and they were late. It was not his fault if they returned and he wasn’t here. But if they found him gone would they go their separate ways? He groaned. Why did he know so woefully little about his own kind?

  That evening, Asaph sat for hours on a craggy jut of the mountain that overlooked the castle and lake below, deep in thought. Finally, he came to a radical conclusion—one that excited him as much as it chilled him to the bone. Wherever Issa was on her journey to Venosia, he could assist her from afar, effectively, and very soon.

  He pulled himself to his feet and turned towards the south where the Blaze of Eight trailed.

  Drax lay there, waiting for him. He would approach it at night, cloaked in magic, do as much damage as he could and then flee using Morhork’s magic trick to speed him fast away. Such a daring attack would divert Baelthrom’s attention away from everywhere else, including what Issa was up to.

  Issa was right; they had cowered before Baelthrom for too long, never attacking, always defending. The Dark Rift loomed so close now, they had to risk all or fall forever. They had no other option but to fight. Nothing mattered anymore. The time for battle had come.

  32

  Finding the Navadin

  MARAKON watched as the blurry image of Issa faded from his water bowl.

  The spear in the corner of his tent dimmed and he stood from his crouched position with a sigh. Now the time had come to do something he had been dreading; open a demon tunnel. It was strange knowing he had spent one lifetime desperately trying to close them and now he had to do the opposite in this one.

  If only his knights were with him…how he missed them. At least he had Bokaard. The few new recruits to the Knights of the Raven would become friends, in time, but he needed more knights, hundreds more. There just hadn’t been enough time to find and train them.

  He stepped outside the tent. The heavy darkness was kept back only by a flaming brazier lighting the narrow paths between the soldier’s tents.

  Avil stood to attention. ‘Sir.’

  It was comforting to know his loyal soldier stood watch outside his tent again, as if some sense of the old life remained from before the fatal excursion to Haralan that had cost him his whole crew and, very nearly, his sanity.

  ‘Morning, Avil. Please inform my officers that the time has come. I will leave with my unit of one hundred soldiers and knights, as has been decided. Please ready them and tell them to meet me at the southern edge of our camp in half an hour.’

  They weren’t just any old soldiers and knights; these were the ones he had personally trained. They were the best this current unit had to offer and he’d had to argue at length against the other officers for them to be released. In the end, it took King Navarr’s order—a royal decree delivered by courier—for them to finally allow him to take the men he had trained. He couldn’t blame the officers though; the soldiers were superb on the battlefield.

  ‘Yes, Sir. You’ll be missed. I will await your swift and safe return,’ Avil nodded his head respectfully.

  ‘Thank you, Avil. I, also, will miss your impeccable service.’

  The man bowed dutifully and disappeared silently amongst the tents of sleeping soldiers.

  Marakon went back inside, slipped on his cuirass, strapped on his sword, and tucked knives all about his body. The demon tunnels had not been used in millennia, but he wasn’t taking any chances; Issa had made the pact with them, not he. He slung a small sack of food and a water canister over his back, put on his helmet and reached for the spear.

  As his hand touched Velistor’s cold white surface an ancient memory formed in his mind: a grey slab of rock loomed in a dark forest, its surface illuminated by moonlight; one hundred knights gathered close around him as he stepped forwards gripping the reins of his horse. All was still, no night animals rustled in the bushes, no owl hooted, not even the wind blew as he approached the rock. Pensive fear was a solid thing and the sweat on his palms dampened his gloves, making grasping his sword difficult.

  He threw his reins to the nearest knight and took the spear from its holder on his horse’s saddle. He held it before him then as he did now—and it looked the same, unaged after thousands of years. He touched the tip of it to the rock. A grey stone door appeared, its magical disguise removed by the power of the spear. Upon it was carved the roaring face of a demon, eyes slitted, fangs bared.

  Marakon struck the door with the spear. A great boom and shimmer of magic vibrated outwards, raising every hair on his body. The stone door swung inwards with a great grinding sound and the pitch black entrance yawned before him.

  A horse neighed from beyond the tents, breaking the memory. He blinked down at the spear, shaking the vision from his head. Cold sweat clammed his brow and he wiped it away.

  ‘It is different now,’ he muttered. Those demons are gone. Many of them are now our allies, or so they would say. But no matter how he tried, he couldn’t bring himself to trust them fully—but he could bring himself to fight alongside them, especially against th
ose Maphraxies who had murdered all his friends and family.

  Taking a deep breath, he followed the sparsely lit trail through the mass of tents and came to the edge of the dark forest. During his scouting missions and breaks, he had already discovered two demon tunnels in a one hundred square mile radius. The spear vibrated and hummed whenever he was near, but he had not dared to open them. The closest was a mile away, in a rock much like the one in his memory. They all seemed to need rocks to create the gateway.

  ‘Marakon!’ someone called under their breath.

  Marakon turned to see Bokaard, in full armour, striding towards him, a smile cracking across his face to reveal white teeth. They slapped each other’s shoulders. The big man looked fit and fresh and ready for battle. Thankfully, his confidence was infectious.

  ‘Hail, Marakon,’ another voice spoke. They turned to see Justenin, helmet under one arm, with the dwarf, Eiretonne, beside him, leading a marching line of soldiers, pack horses and a handful of war horses—not everyone was a trained knight yet. They moved incredibly silently for one hundred fully armed soldiers, just as he had trained them.

  Marakon grasped Justenin’s arm. ‘Ready to go to hell?’

  ‘As long as you go first, I’ll go anywhere,’ the blond man grinned, the scar on his cheek becoming even more prominent. Eiretonne simply nodded, a fierce look in his eyes. The dwarf’s thick black beard was braided and knotted with runic silver war rings.

  Without ceremony, Marakon marched them into the forest.

  The Feylint Halanoi had already made many tracks through the forest around the camp. All Marakon had to do was lead his soldiers due south for a mile. They moved as silently as possible, wary of foltoy, Maphraxies and anything else tracking the Feylint Halanoi. Beneath the trees it was very dark, even their torches didn’t seem to be able to push back the night.

  After half an hour of walking, the spear trembled and gave the faintest glow. Marakon held it up, feeling where it was leading. There, past the ferns, under the bent tree and to the left. He signalled to leave the trail and headed into the undergrowth. The spear glowed brighter and he held it higher for light. The forest became darker and darker; the thorns, vines and canopy were so thick above that he felt like he’d led them into a cave. It was cold too; his breath was visible in the air. He suppressed a shiver.

  Always the shadows drew around them, and the warmth of the world fled. He pushed through the gnarly thorns faster, anxious. The others tried to keep up but he didn’t care to wait for them. Thorns scraped his breastplate and snagged at his trousers. Abruptly, they gave way and he fell into a clearing where the spear thrummed loudly and vibrated in his hand. He regained his balance and peered into the gloom.

  He appeared to be in a bowl in the forest; a sunken patch of earth several yards wide and surrounded by ancient oaks, yews and a tangle of thorn bushes. There, where the light of the spear bathed one edge, was a peculiarly smooth lump of rock, taller than two men and wider than a carriage. It lay in the embrace of thick roots and entwined in ivy. Slowly, he walked towards it. He talked to himself sternly, trying to convince himself to lay his hand upon it, and when he did, all he felt was simply smooth, cold, rock.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the soldiers filling the bowl, torches held high to drive back the dark. Their eyes were wide and faces pensive, and the pack horses jittered and stomped. Bokaard nodded at him, followed by Justenin then Eiretonne.

  He turned back to the rock, licked his lips, and touched the spear to its surface. A hundred memories came to him of similar moments, yet still, the anxiety never lessened. Undiminished by time or weather, a grey stone door appeared, and upon it, the roaring face of a demon. Marakon let go of his breath and found himself smiling.

  ‘After all this time, can you believe it?’ he said to Bokaard who had come to stand beside him. The man shook his head, pursing his lips.

  ‘Well, we’ve come all this way, I guess I’d better open it,’ said Marakon. He thwacked the door with Velistor. A deep boom assaulted their ears and was gone in a moment. Unseen magic, felt as tingling energy, vibrated out from the door, and the demon face flared green then darkened. The stone door groaned inwards.

  Marakon stared into the entrance. The blackness within was so deep it looked solid.

  Bokaard unsheathed his sword. From behind them, Marakon heard the others do the same. Holding Velistor high, he walked forwards.

  Jarlain blinked open her eyes. She was wide-awake and felt as if she hadn’t been sleeping at all. The boat rocked gently. Fenn was alert beside her, his ears pricked forwards as they approached a dark shore. Murlonius and Yisufalni sat to attention, their eyes darting left and right. Everything and everyone was silent. The air was pensive though the sea was calm.

  Her eyes travelled over the familiar tallen and palm trees, and the humid warmth of her homeland engulfed her. She smiled and hugged her shoulders, an immense feeling of arriving home overcoming her as she blinked back tears. How she’d missed the heat, the smell of the sea and the jungle and, most of all, her people.

  She touched the staff by her thigh. Hai was gone, but she carried him with her in the staff of her people. Now she had to gather those who remained and lead them to fight against that which would destroy them all.

  She turned to the others and noted the concerned looks on Yisufalni and Murlonius’ faces. ‘What is it?’ she whispered.

  ‘The enemy is near,’ said Murlonius quietly. ‘The black ships are to the south so I brought us further north whilst you slept.’

  ‘I sense the presence of Life Seekers all around.’ Yisufalni shivered. ‘The forest could be filled with all manner of Baelthrom’s evil.’

  A black patch of burnt forest appeared. Many trees were snapped in half and whole areas were blackened.

  ‘Dread Dragons did that,’ said Murlonius. ‘Maybe this was a town. It’s gone now.’

  Jarlain swallowed, suddenly wishing she hadn’t come. How on earth could she find her people in an endless jungle, and one that was crawling with evil? The staff. Hai’s staff will lead me.

  They passed several blackened patches of land before Murlonius steered the boat towards a suitable beach. Without speaking, to avoid drawing attention, Jarlain jumped out of the boat. A mix of joy and fear spread over her as her feet splashed into warm waters and ground into the soft white sand of her homeland. What would she find here? She had to be strong. Everything that had happened in her life since Marakon had come into it had taught her to be strong. She found her half of the bear stone in her hand and raised it to her lips

  Fenn splashed out after her and waded to the shore. She followed him then paused to glance back at Murlonius and Yisufalni. They nodded at her then disappeared into the mist.

  Only bright starlight lit the skies, but it was enough to illuminate the white sands and to see by. Jarlain laid a hand on Fenn’s neck, very glad to not be here alone. Putting on her helmet and slotting her staff and spear into their hold on her back, she turned towards the forest. A smile spread across her face as she imagined Tarn seeing her dressed like Marakon; a knight in gleaming metal armour. He was going to be very jealous.

  A strangled call echoed through the forest, maybe a mile away but no more. Another sounded, but from further away—foltoy calling one to another. Fenn looked at her and with a nod of his great head, she swung her leg over his back. It was time to hunt the enemy.

  Fenn’s keen smell hunted down the first foltoy in minutes. She spied its black shape slinking through the forest, too big to be a panther. She aimed her spear as it wheeled towards them, fangs bared and drooling. It barely had time to leap before her spear had embedded itself through its throat and back out the base of its skull.

  Fenn grunted as if disappointed.

  Jarlain shrugged. ‘You’ll get the next one, I promise.’

  Fenn carried her into the dense jungle and she was soon sweating under her armour. It may save her life and look intimidating but it really wasn’t suited to this climate. She
paused to show him the fallen tallen fruit and, after she’d dismounted, he tucked into several appreciatively.

  The smell of undead caught her nose. It wasn’t foltoy. A yipping bark was answered by another, then another and two death hounds exploded out of the forest straight at her. Fenn moved so fast he caught one by the throat as the other smacked into his side. From behind, two more pelted through the bushes towards them, howling in glee, fangs bared.

  She spread her feet and hunkered down low. Thrusting her spear, she mortally wounded the first in the chest but couldn’t pull her weapon free in time as the other hound knocked her to the ground, forcing her to release the spear. It jumped on her back, crushing her with its weight. She had her knife free already and plunged it blindly behind herself, hoping to find its face before it clamped its jaws on her. It howled deafeningly in her ear and black blood sprayed across her face, making her retch.

  Suddenly, it was lifted from her back. She heard a snapping sound and the howls stopped abruptly. Jarlain rolled to her feet, wiping the blood from her eyes. Resting her hands on her thighs she panted and stared at Fenn. He, too, was dripping in black blood, but completely unharmed. She laughed and then grinned at him. Five down. Revenge felt good.

  They paused at a stream to drink, then washed themselves and her spear, and carried on. There was no sign of the enemy and so she walked rather than ride Fenn. The sky was beginning to brighten and animals and birds were making their presence known. She had a gentle knowing of which way to go, and she knew it came from Hai’s staff on her back. Always, they moved at a sloping angle uphill and north.

  To The Centre, that’s where it led. That’s where her people had gone. If any still remained, they would be there.