Firebound Books presents
The Sundered Crown Saga: Book Three
fireboundbooks.com
Matthew Olney lives in Bristol with his wife, Chloe. By day he works as a copywriter for a healthcare company, but at night he writes novels.
Matt graduated from University College Falmouth with a degree in journalism, and has had news stories published in a number of regional newspapers.
msolneyauthor.com
Books by M.S. Olney:
THE SUNDERED CROWN SAGA
Heir to the Sundered Crown
War for the Sundered Crown
Quest for the Sundered Crown
TALES OF DELFINNIA
Danon
The Nightblade
UNCONQUERED
Blood of Kings
TERRAN DEFENDERS
Terran Defenders
Terran Defenders: Genesis
“The Sundered Crown is not a sign of our fragmentation, but of what can be achieved through our unity. Its name is a warning of the darkness that will arise should that unity ever be broken”
– King Riis, the First King of Delfinnia,
upon the forging of the Sundered Crown
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Prologue
The fisherman was nervous. The seasons were turning, and soon it would be impossible for him to take his little boat so far out to sea. This latest trip had lasted longer than he had anticipated; already the waves were growing.
“We should have turned back weeks ago, Oaki,” the fisherman’s wife said.
Her name was Ruti, and she always accompanied her husband on his trips out on the Boundless Sea, which lay to the west of Delfinnia and their homeport of BlackMoor. The cod season was nearly over, as the cold of winter began to affect the temperature of the water. Oaki hoped that by sailing so far out to sea that they would be able to make one last catch that would provide them with enough coin to sit out the winter in comfort. Now, as the clouds grew darker, he was beginning to regret his decision. The gravitational pull of the two moons that orbited Esperia would soon be at its strongest; and when that happened, the seas would become too dangerous to sail until the spring.
“I know, woman, I know,” Oaki muttered under his breath.
His wife was always right.
He pulled in the nets that he’d put over the side the previous night. The wind-up winch that he had built into the aft of the boat began to whir as he turned the wheel. The net began to rise from the Boundless Sea’s murky depths with little resistance. Another empty net. Oaki swore loudly and kicked the deck in frustration.
At this rate, they would be forced to work the land for that bastard landlord Edgar if they were to earn enough. The fat landlord was the bane of Oaki’s life; the man worked his people like slaves, often making them toil in horrid conditions. Oaki had lost two of the fingers on his left hand from frostbite after Edgar had made him labour outside at the height of winter.
As her husband began to rant and rave at their ill luck, Ruti was watching the horizon.
“Where are we, Oaki?” she asked, confusion in her voice.
“How the bugger should I know?” Oaki wailed. “We’re in the middle of the ocean according to the charts. Ah, sod it, not a single fish!”
Ruti scowled at her oaf of a husband.
“There’s land over there,” she said.
Oaki looked up from the nets, and was about to tell his wife off for being so stupid when he, too, spotted the landmass in the distance. A sense of panic filled him upon seeing it. Throwing the net down, he hurried over to the rudder and yelled at Ruti to set the sail.
“What’s the matter? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost?” Ruti cried.
“We’ve drifted well off course, you daft bat. That land is Vucrar. It’s the land of the dragons!”
Oaki had been told tales of the mysterious island ever since the dragons had returned to the world, and none of them tended to end well for the fishermen. He set the boat on a course away from the island before hurrying to help his wife with the sails. But as they pulled on the ropes to set the mainsail, a roar pierced the air.
In the sky, amongst the clouds, a massive black shape moved. Oaki and Ruti held their breaths. The sound of huge leathery wings flapping carried clearly above the noise of the lapping sea and rattling of the rigging.
They watched, cowering in fright, as more and more dark shapes flew through the clouds. The sound of flapping wings grew deafening. Oaki looked at his wife wide-eyed.
“There must be hundreds of them,” he whispered.
“Where are they all going?” Ruti asked as she clung to her husband.
“East. By Niveren, they’re heading east to Delfinnia. An army of dragons!”
A roar came from overhead. A dragon had broken through the clouds; it was diving towards them.
“We’ve been spotted!” Oaki shouted in panic. “Hurry, Ruti, we have to move!”
The mighty beast had tucked its wings flat against its flanks as it dropped like a stone from the sky. As it got closer, the dragon opened its massive mouth. Fire spewed down towards the little boat.
Ruti screamed.
1.
The city of Bison
Smoke and the sound of clashing of steel carried on the breeze. The fields outside the walled city of Bison had once been the place where farmers had created life; now their fields were the host of a massacre.
War horns blared, and the pounding of artillery smashing into the already burnt and ravaged earth boomed across the once serene plains. The full might of the King’s Legion had rallied to defend Delfinnia’s third largest city. Fifty thousand warriors fought not just for their lives, but for the lives of the hundreds of thousands of people still trapped inside the burning city. The Watchers had fallen, and like a great plague of locusts, the forces of Danon had poured forth from the Great Plains.
Ricard of Champia, the man who had imprisoned his nephew, the king, led the realm’s forces. Sitting astride his black warhorse and adorned in golden plate armour, he looked like a god of war. He had chosen his position well. From his vantage point on a low hill, he could overlook the whole battlefield. His men were doing well, but he winced when he thought of the casualties. Magic had taken a heavy toll on his army, but still his men battled bravely on. If they broke, then the city behind him would fall. He had already lost the Watchers and the barony of Balnor to the enemy. He could not afford to lose Bison.
When word had spread of what he had done to the king, there had been rioting across the kingdom, and the people had called for his head. Only intervention from Archbishop Trentian had calmed them. With a mastery that put Ricard’s political acumen to shame, the archbishop had told the people the truth. Ricard was the only one capable of defending them; the king was just a boy, he had said. Then news of Balnor had spread like wildfire, and soon the people had fallen into line. No one wanted to share the same grim fate that had befallen the City of Gold.
The right flank began to buckle as a Sarpi charge smashed into the legion’s ranks. Immediately Ricard pointed to one of the messengers sat on mounts beside him. The young lad kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks and placed his war horn to his lips. Galloping towards the front, he blew three sharp blasts that carried across the fields. Ricard licked his lips in expectation. The enemy had done what he had wanted them to do.
As soon as the war horns call died, a squadron of legionary cavalry burst from a copse of trees that stood along the right flank of the battle. Even from this distance, Ricard could hear the roar of the legionaries. With lances lowered and men c
rouched down in their saddles, the cavalry smashed into the Sarpi with devastating force. Dozens of the enemy fell to the lances or crushing hooves of the legion’s warhorses. The Sarpi, taken by surprise were quickly cut down and forced to flee in disarray.
At seeing them flee, the infantry on the right flank cheered. For a heartbeat, Ricard feared that the men would charge blindly after the Sarpi and leave the right flank dangerously exposed to a counterattack, a move that would have cost them the battle. He need not have worried – the discipline of the legion shone through and the men reformed into their battle lines.
Ricard’s relief quickly turned to concern as one of his messengers shouted a warning. Swarming towards the centre of the battle line were thousands of armoured ghouls, and following close behind were the black-cloaked figures of the N’gist. The centre was already under immense strain from an assault of the dreaded Fell Beasts of the Void. Seeing those horrors being controlled by the enemy had filled the legion with fear. For millennia, the beasts had plagued the world, but never before had anyone had the power to wield them like a weapon. Seeing them just confirmed that Danon, the scourge of man, had never been more powerful. Luckily, the legion had plenty of experience in fighting the beasts, as they often prowled the countryside of the realm.
Ricard narrowed his eyes, satisfied that his men were fending off the beasts, their silver swords glinting in the dimming sunlight as they cut them down. Ricard glanced at the sky. The sun was making the downward part of its daily journey through the heavens; soon night would fall, and the battle would enter a new terrible phase. With magic on their side, Danon’s forces were capable of fighting in the darkness. If anything, they seemed to fight with a renewed strength whenever the sunlight faded. The legion’s best chance was to hold the line and fall back to the safety of the hastily built fortifications that they had constructed around the city. Ricard clenched his hand into a fist; he would use Bison to check Danon’s advance, no matter the cost.
“My lord, look!” one of the messengers cried.
Ricard looked at the young man and saw that he was pointing not at the battle, but at the sky. He narrowed his eyes and stood in his stirrups to get a better view. A dozen black dots were moving fast against the wind. Ricard’s eyes widened, and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Fell Beasts and the N’gist were one thing, but dragons were something else entirely. A terrible roar boomed across the battlefield as the lead dragon dove down towards the massed ranks of soldiers. Ricard watched in stunned awe as the mighty beast swooped low, its huge talons trailing beneath it. He winced as the talons smashed into his men like a battering ram. Legionaries were pulverised or sent flying by the impact, and great chunks of earth were ripped from the ground. The dragon roared again as it was forced to climb skyward by a barrage of arrows and ballistae bolts. The beast had left a bloody trail through the broken unit of legionaries. Now in disarray, the enemy swarmed into the breach. Ricard glanced to his left. The messenger was terrified.
“Signal the retreat,” Ricard commanded. It took all of his willpower to stop his voice from shaking with fear.
The petrified lad brought his horn to his lips and blew a low, mournful tone. More dragons began to fall from the sky. Some repeated the first’s attack; others unleashed devastating fire. Hundreds of legionaries were vaporised by the infernos. The legion buckled under the assault, and the retreat had now become a full-on rout from the battlefield. Panic filled Ricard; if he didn’t act soon, then all would be lost. He closed his eyes to draw on all of his experience of war. He had first known battle when he was just a boy; he had slain his first foe at thirteen. That enemy had been the Yundol hordes, and they, too, had sought to conquer his homeland. They had failed. Danon would fail. A resolve hardened in his heart. Bison would not fall; he would not allow it.
He kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks and galloped towards his fleeing army. He bellowed to one of his stewards to hold the banner of Delfinnia high so that all could see it billowing in the air. The golden symbol of the king shone in the fading sunlight. He drew his sword and held it above his head.
“With me! With me!” he roared. “Fall back to the city. We will make our stand there. We will stop this evil — we will stop Danon!”
Galloping down the line of fleeing warriors, he repeated his rallying cry until he was hoarse. His words had the desired effect. Instead of a panicked rout, the legion rallied until it was able to fall back in an orderly manner. There was no mass panic. Instead, there was cold efficiency combined with roars of defiance. As the infantry fell back, the cavalry made charge after charge against the enemy in a valiant attempt to buy the men some time to reach the comparative safety of the city walls. Ricard joined one of the charges; the battle lust was upon him as he ploughed into the ranks of Sarpi warriors. His sword lashed out and cut down scores of foes until the steel dripped red with blood.
A horn sounded from behind, indicating that the bulk of the army had made it within range of the city’s defences. The dragons continued to harry them, but were forced to shy away as ballistae mounted on the high walls began to fire.
A great cheer went up from the retreating legionaries as one of the dragons was struck by a ballistae bolt. The six-foot-long bolt pierced the great beast’s hide and punched deep into its heart. With a strangled roar, the beast was sent tumbling out of the sky, crashing into the ground with an impact that shook the very earth. Mud and earth sprayed high into the air as it writhed in agony. Undaunted, a band of legionaries rushed forward to finish it off with their spears.
Ricard galloped towards the city and glanced over his shoulder. The enemy had halted their pursuit, and the dragons were now circling just out of range of Bison’s formidable defences. He turned his horse and glared at the ranks of evil before him. Undead, werewolves, Fell Beasts, N’gist, and Sarpi – all would come. He tightened his grip on the reins.
“Let them come!” he shouted. “This city will be their doom!”
“And if it is not,” he muttered to himself, “then it shall be mine and all the world’s.”
He could sense the eyes of his men on him. They had to see that their commander wasn’t afraid. He trotted his horse forward. The populace of Bison who had not fled east was watching from the walls. A strange expectant silence fell over the ravaged battlefield. Here the fate of thousands would be decided; he could not fail them.
Raising his sword, he pointed it at the enemy, and with a roar he shouted, “For Delfinnia!”
It was a roar that the legion echoed. It was a roar that the people of Bison bellowed. It was a roar that would echo down the ages.
2.
The Sundial Inn
The patrons of the Sundial Inn sat in silence and awe as they watched the young woman sing. Strumming upon the ornately decorated lute with a skill that bedazzled the inn’s patrons, her voice pierced their very souls. The melody was filled with sadness, and the mournful tones reduced grown men to tears with its beauty and passion.
“The end of times approaches, where are our heroes? Where is our strength?” she sang. “One by one we shall fall into darkness and our love will scatter like leaves on the wind.”
Normally the Sundial Inn was a rowdy place in the evenings, but this night no one was in the mood for joviality. A messenger had arrived just before dusk with news that had sent shock and dread through all who had heard it. The Watchers had fallen, and the stuff of nightmares was coming for them all. The kingdom was at war.
Other news had come in throughout the night as more and more travellers passed through the inn’s oak doors. To the east, the city of Balnor had been conquered by the armies of the hated Accadus, the Baron of Retbit, and murmurs had come from the capital that the king had been deposed by his uncle, Ricard.
As was the Delfin way, the patrons of the inn did not wail, but instead carried on about their business of eating, drinking and watching the bards. Despite that stoic attitude, the news had left its mark, and now the famous bard Eripa was singing he
r mournful ballad.
Men gazed into their tankards, women wiped the tears from their eyes, and what children were allowed to stay up at such a late hour sat in silence and clung to their mothers. Each of them knew darkness was approaching, that their lives would soon change, but for now they savoured the company of their fellow country folk.
Outside, and coming up the King’s Road, was a ragtag bunch of tired travellers. A cart pulled by two horses led the rabble of tired people. Another horse was tied to the wagon, and was following obediently. They had been on the road for days, desperate to escape the fighting that was spreading from the south-west. The road had not treated them kindly: bandits had attacked them more than once, and the nights had been filled with dread as Fell Beasts had stalked their campsites. Six people had been snatched in the night by the monstrosities of the Void.
Driving the wagon was Grig, an elderly man whose powers of healing had proven invaluable in the group’s flight north-eastwards. Sat next to him was his younger companion, Huin. The two of them had endured much over the years, but the flight north from the Great Plains had taken its toll.
“Let’s hope there’s some space here so that we can all finally lay our heads down to rest,” Grig muttered tiredly.
The Sundial Inn was more of a town than an inn, and was the largest establishment of its kind in the whole realm. Situated on the Twelve Star Crossroads, the Sundial was the spot where road traffic from every corner of the kingdom converged. Merchants from the lands of Robinta mingled with the rugged mountain folk from Eclin, and wealthy traders from Kingsford rubbed shoulders with fishermen from Plock. In short, all roads led to the Sundial Inn.
Quest for the Sundered Crown (The Sundered Crown Saga Book 3) Page 1
