Draconis' Bane

by David Temrick

  Draconis’ Bane

  David Temrick

  Smashwords Edition

  First Edition - August 2011

  Copyright © 2011 by David Temrick

  Disclaimer: This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between the characters, places or events and any other work of fiction or fact are purely coincidental and in no way reflect real people, places or events.

  Note from the Author

  This novel has been long in the making. I began jotting down short stories in the world of Amesdia after reading a novel my father bought me for my sixth birthday; Treasure Island. It’s amazing what you can remember when you think back to the parts of your life that led you down a new path.

  I’d like to thank everyone who had the patience and forbearance to read this novel as it was developed and in its draft form. You all have no idea how valuable your input and suggestions were. There are too many of you to mention, though there are two who were with me from the start of this epic journey.

  Thanks go to my wife who had to listen to my ideas flow without the benefit of narrative. Love you Ashly!

  Secondly, thanks go to a true friend for receiving hundreds of emails and fielding thousands of my questions, ideas, wandering thoughts and grumpiness. Thanks Robb! I really appreciate your help and friendship.

  Finally, thanks to all of you who purchased or downloaded this book. My stories had always been for my own personal enjoyment and I hope you find them as fun to read as they were to write.

  Be sure to check out my personal website at www.davidtemrick.com

  Thanks again to you all.

  Cheers.

  Silver Spoon

  “That’s enough!” Swordmaster Fallon shouted.

  Tristan had barely broken a sweat by all appearances, though his sparring partner could scarcely claim the same small boon. Mixed in with the sweat that was pouring down his face was his own blood, which was also pouring freely from several wounds the Prince had inflicted on him. The combination was soaking his white tunic, making the wounds look that much more horrible to the untrained eye.

  “If Jason can’t keep up Swordmaster, that’s hardly my fault.” Tristan goaded, casting his opponent a baleful look.

  Jason Yunis was a cousin of the Princes’, being the third son of one of his uncles, Samuel. His uncle had sent the lad here to learn swordplay from the masters the King employed. However, from the moment the young man had arrived, he’d been bullied about by the Prince. It wasn’t that Jason was a poor swordsman mind you, he was quite gifted in fact. The Prince though, had been training under several masters since he’d been old enough to hold a blade.

  The King had hoped that learning a skill would funnel the young Prince’s more questionable behavior and give him focus. Before, he was merely the King’s middle child. He was an impetuous and spoiled brat of a monarch. Now though, he was a spoiled brat who could best most of the soldiers and masters in the country. There were only three people he couldn’t regularly beat in a sword fight; his older brother, the Swordmaster and his little sister.

  Eurydice Vallious was one of the very few people in the palace the Prince didn’t bully around. In fact, he was very fond of his little sister and doted on her, as did most everyone who met her. The little one’s love for life and bright heart lifted even the most jaded people to joviality. Even so, Tristan’s pride wouldn’t let him give less than his all in a swordfight, even with Eurydice. Her speed bordered on the supernatural and while she wasn’t as gifted with the blade as her brother…she was fast enough that it didn’t matter on most occasions. There were times however when the Swordmaster was hard pressed to distinguish between the two of them. Tristan’s own natural ability with the sword and his own speed often created contests between the two of them that most found difficult to keep track of.

  The main reason the Prince was in such a foul mood today was that word had obviously reached him that Jason Yunis had been paying an exorbitant amount of time with the young Princess. The Swordmaster could clearly see that the spoiled Prince didn’t approve; an understatement that could become fatal if they weren’t separated. The instructor called the two young men back to the center circle to begin again.

  “Bow.” The instructor ordered sharply.

  Both young men barely moved their heads in each other’s direction, causing the instructor to sigh and shake his head in disgust. Things were coming to a head with these two, Swordmaster Fallon decided. It was probably time to send young Jason back to his father, he mused, before the lad was sent back in a brier.

  “Engarde!” The instructor shouted and then quickly stepped back to his appointed place.

  The boy’s sabers crossed, each of their forearms flexed with effort as they each sought to push the other blade aside. An act of defiance and anger as they both glared at each other with open rage.

  “Duel.” The instructor called.

  Jason feigned high. Tristan brought his blade up and the pair met for the briefest moment. Jason snapped his wrist and brought his blade across the Prince’s stomach. Tristan leapt backwards, barely avoiding the blow. Jason closed in on his off-balance cousin with a clumsy thrust which caught Tristan in the right shoulder.

  The young Prince gasped as he backed away, bringing his blade up to defend. He needn’t have bothered though, as Jason had stopped his advance with a self-satisfied grin on his face. Tristan reached up to his shoulder, feeling inside his tunic. He drew his hand out and rubbed his fingers together as his face went red with rage.

  The wound was a superficial one at best, perhaps merely breaking skin. The damage to Tristan’s ego was palpable in the room. Other combatants stopped their sparing and turned to watch the enraged Princes’ bout closely.

  Fallon was sure that all of them had wished at some point for at least this small wound. However, the Swordmaster was already worried about the backlash from the clumsy and misplaced strike. The instructor called for both young men to come back to the center. Tristan’s breathing was deep and deliberate and he balanced his weight on the balls of his feet. Fallon thought about intervening to stop further bloodshed, but thought better of it. These lads were going to work their frustration out eventually and it might as well be where he could keep them from killing one another.

  “Engarde!” The instructor shouted again and quickly stepped back.

  The stain on the shoulder of Tristan’s shirt began to move down the sleeve. Again the sweat mixed in with the blood and made the wound appear to be quite serious. It was easy to tell that the Prince wasn’t in the least bit injured as he flexed his shoulder and forearm, pushing Jason’s blade to the side as their dangerous and childish by-play continued unabated.

  “Duel!” The instructor’s voice cracked ever so slightly, betraying his fears.

  Fallon knew the instructor was loath to call an end to the contest. Tristan had seen more than one instructor of the blade fired from the palace staff. This appointment, despite its charge, was what most masters of the blade aspired to after all; the King’s Palace.

  Jason came in high, attempting to feel out any stiffness on Tristan’s part. Fallon chuckled in spite of himself thinking that even if the Prince was injured enough to become stiff, his ego wouldn’t allow him to show it. Tristan’s sword was quick as lightning; batting Jason’s aside and followed by a left cross punch, sending his cousin to the mat.

  “Hold!” The instructor shouted, shaking the fear of keeping his job with the total lack of swordsmanship from the Prince.

  Neither young man heard him of course; both had now been shamed in the eyes of their peers and each other. This would need to be settled here and now, or at least so their young code of honor told them. Fallon leaned back on a pillar behind him and sighed theatrically as Jason wiped
away the blood from his split lip. His eyes took on intensity that Fallon had never seen the young man exhibit before.

  Showing false shaking in the knees, he used his sword to support his weight as he got back to his feet. Tristan, being too wrapped up in his own emotions, snarled as he closed in on his opponent. The Prince used a backhanded swipe designed to decapitate his opponent. Jason was ready and raised his sword, taking the blow near the pommel. He used his leverage to draw Tristan’s sword around in an arc to the opposite side, effectively trapping the blade and forcing the Prince forward and off balance. The Prince grunted as the tip of his sword made contact with the mat. Jason used this perfect opportunity to drive his right elbow back into Tristan’s face with an audible crack.

  Fallon flinched, knowing that he’d likely broken the Prince’s nose. Tristan stumbled backwards, bringing his sword instinctually up to defend as another blow rang on his blade. Some small sense of survival must have sprung up in the Prince as the ball of Tristan’s right foot connected with the mat and he pushed forward, regaining his balance. He grabbed his cousin’s right forearm and drove his head straight into Jason’s face. Another audible crack echoed off of the chamber walls as several onlookers groaned in sympathy. Jason stumbled backwards shaking his head in an attempt to clear his mottled thoughts.

  The instructor had long since given up trying to control the two lads and had run out of the room, presumably to fetch a pair of soldiers to help him break up the fight. Swordmaster Fallon was secretly enjoying the contest though. He still held to his belief that these two boys needed to iron out their differences here, rather than in some tawdry gambling hall down by the docks later. He had no delusions over the meaning behind this ridiculous charade. Both young men were fighting for the same girl. Tristan fought for the honor of the sister he doted on and Jason for the young woman he was beginning to fall in love with. The Swordmaster was just musing on which young man he sympathized with most; the one thinking with his crotch, or the one trying to protect his sisters, when the instructor burst back into the room with two men-at-arms flanking him.

  Each soldier looked at the fast young men unleashing a hell of a battle on one another and then looked at each other before settling back against the wall on either side of the door.

  The instructor was beside himself.

  “What are you waiting for!? Split them up!” He shouted anxiously.

  The older guard chuckled darkly.

  “And how would you like us to do that, sir?” He asked.

  The instructor turned and watched the lightning fast parries and strikes for a moment before looking back at the soldiers, even more disheveled than before.

  “I don’t know! Tackle them?!!” He shrieked.

  The younger soldier looked at his superior.

  “I don’t know about you Tom, but I’m not taking a saber to the head trying to get between those two.”

  Tom chuckled loudly.

  “Too right Jimmy. Too damn right.” He turned his head towards the instructor. “They’ll tucker out soon enough, sir.”

  Fallon Hawkings, Swordmaster of Metao and the Royal Family of Vallious for over thirty years, laughed in spite of himself as the instructor shakily wiped the sweat from his brow and looked nervously from one soldier to the other before turning around and forcing himself to watch the Prince and his cousin fight each other unhindered.

  Each of the young men bled quite freely from their noses and various other slices all over their bodies. They were a patchwork of cloth, leather, steal and blood. Fallon was deeply impressed at any rate. What had begun as a haphazard sparing match, where Tristan clearly had better form, had boiled down into game of survival. Each of them used their fists, elbows and at times feet to try and gain the advantage. Tristan’s tutelage had been purely based on form and tradition; he rarely let his anger show when he was dueling. Whilst Jason had clearly been taught a more mundane and infinitely more suitable form of sword craft where one used any means necessary to survive.

  Tristan blow came in high; Jason deflected his cousins’ blade and used his forward momentum to push the Prince off his feet and closed in. He flipped his blade in his hand and readied himself to strike down into the Princes chest. Tristan kicked Jason’s left knee out from under him and was rewarded with his cousin’s scream as he dislocated his knee.

  Tristan was back on his feet in seconds and closing in on his cousin. In desperation, Jason used the bell of his pommel to drive his thigh back into alignment with his lower leg. His face went white as a loud snap could be heard around the chamber. The knee was more or less back in place. Fallon grimaced in sympathy.

  Jason rolled backwards, using his right leg primarily to get back to a standing position as Tristan stalked his prey with a cold grin. The Prince slashed downwards at an angle and Jason caught the blade with an upward block. Tristan snapped his wrist around, going for a lateral strike across Jason’s chest. The lad was ready and ducked under the blow and delivered an uppercut to the Prince’s face with his free left hand.

  Tristan was lifted off the ground and landed hard on his back, knocking the wind out of him and sending his sword sliding across the mat. Jason tossed aside his blade and leapt on top his cousin. Primal rage had taken hold and he wrapped his hands around the Princes’ neck. The shock of the punch lasted only moments as Tristan gave Jason a right cross which knocked him backwards onto his backside.

  Fallon laughed and nodded in the direction of the two soldiers who rushed in and tackled each young man. Now that neither of them was armed, they were more than willing to break up the fight. The older soldier pulled Tristan back by the collar of his torn and tattered tunic as the Prince cursed loudly.

  “Get the hell off me! I’ll have you hung for this! Treason!” The spoiled young man shouted.

  Fallon stepped forward and backhanded his King’s son, rendering the lad unconscious. Behind him, Jason was breathing heavily and when the Swordmaster turned around he saw the young man smiling. Blood was running down his chin from the corner of his mouth and it completely covered some of his teeth. Otherwise he looked remarkably unharmed. Fallon sighed before taking a step forward and backhanded him as well.

  He sighed again and titled his head sharply to one side, cracking his neck. Fallon loathed explaining his actions to people. The King would understand the boys had a bout of the usual male posturing present in the young, so he wouldn’t likely expect any explanations. His wife and daughter though; would. Entertainment or not, these two were going to cost him hours of interrogation by Queen Annadora and Princess Eurydice. Fallon sighed yet again and motioned for the soldiers to carry the boys back to their respective rooms. He absentmindedly patted the instructor on the shoulder as he walked through the doorway behind the soldiers.

  “Damn kids.” Fallon cursed.

  His only hope was to get the Prince back to his rooms without running into any of the ruling women of the castle all the while hoping to run into the King on the way. The older soldier had Tristan’s limp body over his shoulder as the pair of them hurried through the castle, taking the long way to avoid many of the Queen’s favorite rooms. Quietly they crept through the halls until they came upon the Princes’ apartments. The Swordmaster motioned for the soldier to deposit the young Lord inside his room. He then breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Fallon?” A clear female voice called.

  Prematurely.

  Swordmaster Fallon swore under his breath and pushed the soldier into the room and slammed the door. He spun around and greeted the Queen with a low bow.

  “Your Majesty?” He greeted her.

  When she didn’t answer him, Fallon looked up to find the Queen fixing him with a look reminiscent of his mother catching him taking cookies from the jar. He ventured a wolfish grin.

  “You know.” She began in a tone also reminiscent of his mother. “When my husband informed me that our son would take sword training in an effort to direct his more aggressive tendencies, that wasn’t exactly what I’d e
nvisioned.”

  The color appropriately drained from Swordmaster Fallon’s face as he realized the Queen must have been observing everything from the stands above the training floor. He cursed himself for being so narrow-minded.

  “Your Highness, I thought it better the lads work out their differences on the training floor rather than the courtyard in front of everyone.” He stammered a little too quickly.

  “That was quite good Mr. Hawkings, do remember that load of rubbish for my husband.” She instructed humorlessly as she nodded towards the Prince’s chamber. “Open the door.”

  The Swordmaster pushed the door open and bowed low before his Queen and followed her into the room. As he passed the soldier he whispered run before proceeding into the Princes’ rooms.

  Fallon stayed an appropriate, respectful distance behind the Queen as she approached her son’s bed. It was uncharacteristic of Fallon of course, though his usual cheek wouldn’t earn him any bonuses at the moment, so he tried his best to look compliant.

  “Don’t do that Fallon; you know how irritating I find all that pomp.” She said calmly and slightly bemused at his act. “Is he harmed?”

  The Swordmaster chuckled darkly. “Only his pride.” He said with a shake of his head.

  “Humph.” She replied. “He could use a little less of that anyway I suppose.”

  “Indeed Ma’am.” He replied.

  The Queen looked her son up and down, and finally sighed. “Wake him.”

  Fallon smiled sadistically and walked over to the washroom. He used the pump to fill a small bucket of cold water. The iron rings and grommets groaned slightly as he filled it to nearly overflowing, intending to enjoy his duty. The Queen laughed in spite of her mood as the Swordmaster walked back into the bedroom making a show of the bucket being heavy.

  Fallon wasn’t as typical servant of the Crown. He’d once been a slave and the King had purchased and freed him. King Dion had long held slavery as the worst invention mankind had ever orchestrated. When he’d offered the Swordmaster a post in his army, Fallon had quickly agreed. At the time, it had been the best opportunity for a slave turned freeman. Looking back, Fallon had wanted to earn Dion’s respect. Still, old habits die hard and the old Swordmaster had never been the placating servant some of his peers had been.