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Dragon Child
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Copyright © Elana A. Mugdan 2018
www.allentria.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Art by Jaka Prawira
Interior Art by Neiratina
ISBN: 978-1-5323-8798-2
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Table Of Contents
PROLOGUE
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
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
EPILOGUE
BOOK III AVAILABLE NOW!
GLOSSARY & PRONUNCIATIONS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
“There are things that are stronger than time and death.”
~ Charon, Guardian of Timemagic
PROLOGUE
Second Age, Year 942
THE LAST BREATH OF A DYING SUMMER whispered across the pallid ground. The desert was bleak and forbidding. It had been burnt by the sun and ravaged by the war.
Inside his tent, Valerion Nameless of the Unknown Lands packed his fur satchel with the provisions he needed for the night ahead. White hair spilled past his shoulders as he bent to sheath his sword.
“You’re leaving.”
He turned to find Arisse standing at the tent’s flap. Wispy silver tresses stirred by nonexistent winds fell around her face. Valerion could never quite describe that face—the rosebud lips, the delicate nose, the luminous eyes of smoky violet—for it always seemed to be changing. Words could only capture her beauty for a moment before they became obsolete.
“Do you trust me, Valerion?” she asked, floating toward him with the grace of a cloud crossing the heavens.
“Of course.”
“Then tell me what you’re planning.”
Part of him wanted to. But if he told her, she would try to stop him. What if she condemned his scheme and decided she wanted nothing more to do with him?
“I deserve to know,” she persisted. “I have been by your side for every step of your journey.”
“Arisse, I am doing this for us—”
“You are doing this because your obsession with Necrovar has escalated to the point of madness. Don’t deny it; I know you better than you know yourself. You’re planning something that will be more far-reaching than you know. While I cannot stop you or tell you what to do, I would be remiss if I didn’t caution you against it. The last battle you fought in, you nearly died.”
Valerion’s gut twisted. That memory was fresh in his nightmares, but he couldn’t let Arisse see any weakness in him. “I don’t intend to do battle tonight, but if I should die, I promise I would return. And if I couldn’t return, I would wait for you on the winds of time.”
A sad smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “As I would for you . . . though it would do neither of us any good.”
He bent and kissed her so she wouldn’t see the fear in his purple eyes.
“My love, my soul-star . . . I want something that binds you to me,” she whispered against his lips. She sank onto the threadbare pallet, pulling him with her. Again she asked, “Do you trust me?”
“With all my heart,” he replied.
It was night by the time Valerion left the tent. He forced himself to put Arisse out of his mind as he left the small rebel encampment; he could afford no distractions.
When he reached the edge of the ramshackle sylphskin tents, he reflected light-threads from his source. With a blinding flash he wielded, teleporting to a desolate mountaintop.
The air was thin and still. His only companions were the stars twinkling in the dark velvet sky. No one would find him here.
No one would try to stop him from what he was about to do.
He unsheathed Sethildras and tenderly laid it on a rock. The sword was his prized possession, a treasure beyond treasures—apart from the precious white metal blade and golden hilt, it had been blessed by an oracle and enchanted to stay forever sharp.
Next, he drew a small pebble from his pocket. Its surface was rough, its color a mottled purplish-brown. Though it appeared ordinary, it was worth more than the sword. In fact, it was the most valuable thing in the world.
Valerion wielded, channeling his magic through the valestone. It grew warm against his palm and he felt a tugging in his chest. The power dynamic shifted. He was no longer feeding energy into the pebble: the stone’s magic had awoken, and it was siphoning threads from him. Valerion focused his intent, concentrating on what he wanted the valestone to do. The tugging sensation became less uncomfortable.
He fished out his diary, another cherished keepsake, and ran his fingers over its worn edges. Arisse had given it to him, and his mentor, Beledine, had taught him to write. He flipped to the final vellum page of the book and stared at the glyphs he’d painstakingly etched there. The words were a spell of his own devising—the most dangerous spell he had ever undertaken to wield.
Through a throat that had gone dry, Valerion recited the spell in the language of the dragons, the language imbibed with the same raw energy stored in the tiny rock. Speaking spells had no value, except to clarify intent . . . and Valerion, who feared the v
ast power in the pebble, needed to make his intentions as clear as possible.
“Flesh into sword, bone into blade,” he intoned, drawing his dagger and using it to split the pale skin on his left wrist, “magic and blood and legend are made.”
He held his bleeding arm above the sword. Crimson drops splattered onto its shining surface. Where his blood hit, the metal hissed and the liquid boiled. The valestone drew more power from him. He sensed it directing his threads into the weapon.
“Eternity binds only those who are dead,” he continued as his blood sank into the blade, “but thence from this spell shall I rise once again.”
A wave of dizziness hit him and he blinked to clear his head. When he opened his eyes, he found himself looking not at the mountaintop, but a battlefield. A volcano loomed in the distance, black clouds shrouding its burning peak.
“The Shadow will rule,” he heard himself saying, “and I will have been lost . . .”
A foresight was taking hold of him. The timemagic was nothing to fear, but the words were portentous when paired with this bleak vision of the future. Plus, he didn’t know how this would affect his prepared spell. Would the delicate weave of threads connecting him to stone and sword be tangled? Or worse, broken?
“. . . but the metal remains where the mortal will rot.”
The foresight released him, and suddenly he knew not everything would go according to plan. But he was far past the point of stopping. His spell was incomplete, and he would unravel if he didn’t finish what he’d started. The valestone hummed and shuddered on his palm.
“My soul shall be sundered for no one to own, my reward is the sin for which I must atone,” he said, returning to his incantation. “So passes the life and the power in me, I surrender myself to my Destiny.”
Pain seared Valerion’s chest. It was as if someone had cut out his heart. Coldness enveloped him. The only warmth left in the world seemed to come from the valestone, and he clung to it as a shimmering essence seeped from his body. He felt broken, hollow, lifeless as he gazed upon the spectral reflection of himself, the portion of his soul he had willingly exorcised.
Horror flooded into him, filling the place where his light energy had been. For a moment he wished to snatch his soul back. He wanted to be whole again, to abandon his foolish plan. Then the misty essence flickered, and he remembered what he was fighting for. Hefting his sword, he slashed at his magic. The weapon glowed like a nova as it absorbed the loose half of his soul.
The spell was complete.
Valerion sank to his knees, dropping his blade and the valestone. The pebble bounced away into the darkness. It didn’t matter—now it was no different from any other rock on the mountain. All the magic had been leached from it.
With shaking hands and labored breaths, he tore a strip from the hem of his tunic to bind the cut on his wrist. He retrieved his canteen from his satchel and drank deeply. The water quenched his thirst and the powdered alderevas he’d mixed in took effect at once. Alderevas was a dangerous stimulant . . . but with any luck, he would be dead by the time the negative side effects took hold.
His heart raced and the remainder of his source swelled. Triumph flickered through him—his magic receptive to his mental touch. If a soul was not complete, it couldn’t be wielded, but he’d done plenty of covert research on the subject, keeping his dark discoveries from Arisse. His findings had left him in no doubt: splitting his soul would render it useless to Necrovar, but through some manner of quantum-magical entanglement he could still wield it himself.
Not all of it, but enough.
He sheathed his sword and stood. After a few calming breaths, he wielded the teleportation spell again. Teleporting was no simple feat. It cost its wielder a substantial amount of energy. Thus, when he arrived at his destination—a modest cave—he fell to his knees, drained and disoriented.
“Well met, Valerion.” A voice like glacier water flowing over smooth stone reached his ears. He swayed to his feet and raised his head to greet the owner of the cave.
“Well met, Exandrya.”
Exandrya nodded. The large gray dragon had once been beautiful, but now her face was scarred from battles past and drawn with an un-erasable sorrow. She had lost her bondmate in the war, which meant she had lost part of her soul. Valerion had never understood the extent of her pain before. His hand strayed to the hilt of his sword as he bowed to her.
“You’ve left us no time for small talk,” she said. “The moon is rising. The gods will be waiting . . .” She paused, examining him. Her purple eyes narrowed. “Something has happened. You are changed.”
Valerion suppressed a sigh; he’d been stupid to think he could hide this from her. “My friend, I should have warned you. I fear death and I fear losing Arisse, so I have taken steps to ensure my resurrection.”
“The gods cannot resurrect dead souls,” Exandrya growled.
“They cannot,” Valerion agreed.
Realization flashed in her eyes, and his heart pumped madly once more, filling with panic.
“You are a traitor,” she hissed. “You would offer yourself to him? To the Shadow?! What are you thinking, Valerion? What have you done?”
“Nothing yet,” he assured her quickly. “I plan to ask Necrovar to give me life after death, the way he does for his demons, and I will offer my soul as payment. However,” he added before she could get a word in edgewise, “I have hidden half my magic where he cannot reach it.”
Exandrya’s anger faded. Her brow ridges relaxed and her eyes clouded with confusion.
“Necrovar will not have my full soul, so he will not control my magic or me,” Valerion explained. “But if he accepts my offer, I can return to Arisse after I die.”
He held his breath, waiting for her response. Exandrya’s cooperation was pivotal to his plan, and if she refused to help him . . .
“The truth comes out. This is the real reason you needed me tonight. I am not escorting you to the gods, I am taking you to the devil himself,” she said, her scaly lips curling in a snarl.
“I will not force you to do anything against your will,” he murmured.
Exandrya barked a mirthless laugh. “I will help you, because I know what you fear. I will bring you to Necrovar if that gives you the courage to do what must be done. I will play the part you have written for me in the tale of your demise.”
Valerion winced. He thought of the foresight again and his resolve weakened. What if he went straight to the gods from here? He would die, but he would save the world.
No. He couldn’t. He wasn’t strong enough.
He wasn’t selfless enough.
“I must warn you,” she cautioned, as she knelt and allowed him to climb onto her back, “that you cannot cheat the Shadow. Many have tried. All have failed.”
“They tried to cheat the Shadow for power or magic,” he said, settling between her muscular wing joints. “I am cheating the Shadow in the name of love.”
“I wonder if that’s as true as you’d like it to be.” Exandrya padded to the mouth of the cave and leapt into the night, spreading her wings to catch the air. Valerion wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he remained silent as they soared west.
They rose on thermals, hiding in low-hanging clouds over the vast open plains of the Fironem tribelands. Through the haze and smog, the twisted spires of Necrovar’s citadel slowly grew visible, silhouetted against the red glow of Mount Arax’s volcanic rim.
No sooner was her spell in place than an air patrol unit passed. Valerion eyed them warily. The shadowbeasts, as his human friends called them, might catch Exandrya’s scent. The demon riders might hear the rush of wind beneath her leathery wings.
Without warning, Exandrya opened her jaws and spat a beam of ligh
t at the group. The riders didn’t have time to cry out before they disintegrated to dust, as demons do when they die.
“What are you doing?” Valerion hissed aloud.
Valerion was in no place to caution her against her actions, considering what he was about to do. He let Exandrya work. She destroyed four more air units before she angled around to the front of the citadel, swooping low.
she thought.
Along with her mindvoice, Valerion sensed the consciousness of another entity. He stifled a curse; he should have had the sense to use a mindcloak. Now it was too late—Necrovar knew he was here.
She dropped and leveled, her wide wings bending around irregular pockets of hot air. Valerion leapt from her back to the pumice walkway that led to the gated entrance of Indrath Necros.
He landed with a thud. The threads of Exandrya’s illusion clung to him, concealing him from the guard on duty, who sprang up at the noise. The lone demon soldier was half Valerion’s height, with a squat feline body and a barbed tail. It had black horns, tufted ears, and a vaguely humanoid face that bore an expression of bewilderment. A manticore—lucky. Manticores were vicious fighters, but they weren’t too bright.
Valerion approached the hapless creature, treading silently on the pads of his leather boots. He took a breath and shed the spell that made him invisible, unsheathing Sethildras.
Here goes everything, he thought.
CHAPTER ONE
“Complacency is the enemy of progress.”
~ Sabaeran Tolnae, Eighth Age
Twelfth Age, Year 607
Thorion crouched between drifts of snow, keeping low to the ground. His bronze scales shone in stark contrast to the white world, and he didn’t want to be seen.
He snuffled at the wet flakes and crept forward, following the scent of his unsuspecting quarry. His bat-like wings stayed tightly folded at his sides as he snaked through the rainforest, passing trees that had shed their leaves and bamboo that weathered the winter in full greenery.
Dragon Child