Curse of the Dragon Kings
By Anne Spackman
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2010 by Anne Spackman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be redistributed or used in any form without permission from the author.
Curse of The Dragon Kings tells of the mythical origins of the noble Dragon Race, the Dragorians, of their magic and dealings with the Elves, and of their connection with the wizard Myrddin (Merlin was his name as he appeared in the Arthurian Saga) and his brother, Calatin. It tells of the love story between Dragoras the King and Grainnewyn of the Elves.
Arcaendria is the setting of Curse of the Dragon Kings. There, in the land of Daegoras, the noble race of Dragorians once dwelled, long before the coming of dwarves and even the Elves to their land. But the Dragorians were divided by the slow seduction of the light to the power of evil. A war broke out between the dark Dragorians and the ancient forces of light. It was then, as the Dragorians’ magic battle came to a climax that the dark Dragorians came to be transformed into their reptilian shape—the Dragons, cursed in a tale of the tragic betrayal of their noble King Dragoras.
Curse of the Dragon Kings is the story of the wizards' battle against the Dark Wizard and his minions, of the lost city of Dragoras and of the coming of the age of men and dwarves and Elves into the mythical birthplace of Dragon-magic.
Dramatis Personae of Curse of The Dragon Kings
Aiovel—a mysterious elf stranger
Gil—an orphaned youth in the city of Gyfen
Prince Dylan of Dunlaith—the hapless youngest son of the King of Dunlaith, a charming lady's-man with a heart of gold and an expert with the sword
Culan—Dylan's aged, loyal manservant and etiquette coach
Ronan / Rodruban—a half-elf living under a curse
Mygdewyn the Dwarf—Ronan's adopted brother, a dwarf
Galanor—a mysterious stranger
Lilia Silversmith—an incorrigible half-Sea Elf pickpocket and treasure-hunter who gets cranky on dry, sunny days
Niel—a carpenter
Marnat the Innkeeper—the cruel tyrant in charge of The Pegasus Inn
Moc—a retired warrior and card cheat
Deimad—a young, misguided brigand
Penelope—an amorous pixie
Scathaechir—King of the Black Dragons
Olierin—King of the Emerald Dragons
Wistid, Vertilio—quarrelsome Emerald Dragons
Lorne—a journeyman wizard
Bewbachod Shellycoat—a bogle, a wily water sprite
Charley—a leviathan with a man-grudge
Melesian—crafty King of the Wind Dragons
Nynnia—daughter of Alator, King of the Gold Dragons at Dragoras
Omierdin Brae—an agent of the Dark Wizard
Calatin—cantankerous wizard of Gyfen
Myrddin—High Priest of the Bressilen priests and druids on the Summer Isle and Ronan's grandfather
Galadon—an elf known as the "Dark Wizard"
Vaelcruithir—a young black dragon, son of Scathaechir
Alator—the second High King of Dragoras
Chapters
1. Wanderer
2. Elf?
3. Quest
4. Ronan's Calling
5. Brigands
6. Pixie
7. Ambush
8. Separation
9. Transformation
10. Aiovel
11. Reunion
12. Wraith
13. Wizard
14. King of the Wind
15. Gildorland
16. The Magic Gate
17. Battle
18. Rewards
I: Wanderer
Crash!!
The earthenware plates slipped from the boy’s fingertips in rapid succession, making a rat-tat-tat sound as they shattered against the age-worn stone.
Gil stopped three paces shy of the kitchen door, his mouth dropping open in horror. He stared blankly at the quiet aftermath of jagged pieces strewn across the floor.
Gil was a pleasant enough sort of youth. He was tall, thin, and sinewy, and the local grocer’s wife Mrs. Faraday was always stopping to pinch his cheeks when he was sent to the Gyfen market for fresh supplies.
“Why, Gil, you do need fattening up!” she would always remark, though she herself was in no position to do it. Gil lived at the Pegasus Inn where he worked for the Innkeeper.
Gil was now more a man than a boy. At age seventeen, he still appeared deplorably underfed, but he was growing up, and he had reached his full height. A little fleshing out of his bones would have to wait for later. Gil was strong enough for the work he had to do at the inn. He was, however, remarkably agile and quick for his size. Gil had unruly, dark brown hair that never stayed tidy for long. His eyes were green as dandelion leaves.
Gil had been trying hard to get all of the lunch plates cleared from the tables of the tavern quickly. Only a few moments ago, Marnat the Innkeeper had been busy haggling with the butcher's boy over meat prices in the kitchen. Folk seldom spoke well of Marnat, for all that they kept coming to the Pegasus in honor of the place and of Marnat’s father, Darnat, the jolly old Innkeeper who had passed on well nigh on ten years before. Marnat ran the Inn well, but he was a greedy, brutish sort of man with a short temper. Gil’s heart thumped in his chest. Several moments of ominous silence had passed since he had dropped the lunch plates.
Gil heard a scuffling sound in the kitchen. He dropped to his knees and began scrambling on all fours to pick up the broken plates. He started to heap them onto the giant tray he had been carrying.
Gil felt a hole wearing through his thinning hose as his knees scraped over the hard floor. Sharp shards of crockery began to rub his skin raw on both kneecaps, but he kept working. He was just finishing when the heavy kitchen door abruptly swung back.
Marnat caught Gil by the scruff of the neck and yanked him upright. The pieces Gil had been gathering were scattered about the floor.
"Curse you, you careless boy!" Marnat spat.
Marnat’s ice-blue eyes blazed angrily. Gil bobbed about in the giant man's grip. His body threatened to fall through his thin, dirty, linen shirt.
Marnat squinted hard at Gil and tightened his grip. Then he raised a meaty hand. Gil felt a jarring blow on the back of his head. His ears were ringing for a while.
His feet returned to solid ground.
“You better learn to be more careful, boy," Marnat raged. He could be a fair man to his patrons, but he was not so to Gil.
Gil wanted to cry, to scream, to deliver a blow in return for the indignity bringing an angry flush to his cheeks.
He nodded, clenching his teeth and swallowing his pride.
Marnat released Gil and left him to his work. Gil began his task anew, his shoulders slouched, not looking up. He gave no outward indication that Marnat had not broken him. He would bide his time.
The noise in the Pegasus Inn returned.
Marnat headed back to the kitchen. Gil brushed off the dust and grit from his raw knees, then moved to the bar to retrieve a bucket and a broom. The lunchtime traffic was waning, but there were still men and elves drinking together in the cool tavern to escape the bright, mid-afternoon sun. They took little notice of Gil.
One stranger caught Gil’s eye as he moved back to his work. A man, or a woman, sat at a table, with a cloud-grey traveler's cloak wrapped tightly around him against the chill in the air. Gil could not see his face. It was hidden by the shadows. His grey, mud-caked boots were crossed at the ankles and propped
on a threadbare, scarlet silk footstool. The stranger seemed to be sleeping. His lunch remained untouched.
Gil returned to his work. He had learned never to tarry when Marnat was watching him.
The Pegasus Inn had already been Gil's home for nine years, nine hard years. He seldom chanced a moment to let his mind wander. But it was there that his imagination freed him from the immediate drudgery of his work.
The Pegasus Inn was the most popular inn in the city of Gyfen.
The interior was crafted of dense, rich reddish wood, with thick, low beams now chipped in patches and age-worn. The kitchen fires kept the place warm. At times it grew stifling and close. The dark carpets were stained from spilled wine and the steady traffic of dirty travelers.
The inn may not have been what it once was in its glory, but it was comfortable, and the spacious rooms above were reasonably clean. The bedding was kept free of lice. Each room had a great wooden basin for bathing. Gil and the scullery maids shared the job of upkeep. It was a never-ending task, and there was still dust and cobwebs in the corners. Marnat had no money for expensive cleaning spells.
The recent drought in Gyfen had also raised the cost of everything. Magicians were hard at work trying to divine the weather, but even they couldn’t explain why there had been no rain for months, and no one could bring an end to the drought.
Gil headed into the kitchen to wash some dishes. He set the metal basin on the fire to reheat the soap-water from the morning; there was no more water to be had until dinner.
Gil’s stomach rumbled.
He hoped that the stranger would leave his bread on the table.
* * * * *
"Master Dylan, I must advise you against this—" A cultivated voice cracked and broke off. The owner was a lanky, reed-thin old man named Culan. He hovered protectively over the young man sitting at a game of cards.
Dylan waved Culan away with a sharp gesture. He did not turn from his opponent. The short, stocky man across from Dylan kept his ruddy face unreadable.
Dylan’s opponent took a drink of ale and cleaned his rotten teeth with the back of his tongue. His dark hair glistened from months without water. His dirty linen tunic and body gave off the pungent smell of the unwashed.
Dylan leaned back in his wooden chair and rubbed his nose.
"Give up, son. No one beats old Moc," one of the onlookers in the small ale-house advised.
Dylan ignored him.
"You in or out?" Moc said, surveying his opponent. The youth’s angular face was clean-shaven, and his dark eyes were expressionless. His skin was pale, his cheeks ruddy and lips full red, and his hair was raven black. Moc’s gaze came to rest upon the figure of a gold griffin in the center of Dylan's burgundy-colored tunic.
“In.”
"But, Master Dylan, you can’t—” Culan interrupted.
Dylan whirled upon him in a tight, quick movement like a fierce animal, and bestowed him a silencing glare. Then he stopped himself abruptly, seeming to realize that this was not the appropriate behavior. He turned back around, and laid his hands on the table with deliberate calm.
Meanwhile, Moc was laying down his hand. His quick brown eyes squinted in triumph, beads of sweat trickling down his round, florid face. The patrons in the ale-house gave a low, ominous murmur.
Dylan looked at the cards and compressed his lips tightly. In his mind’s eye, he saw his chestnut stallion Seacoast Wind, corralled outside the tavern.
"Treat him well." Dylan said stonily. “He is a fair bit stubborn, like his master. But of superior breeding, and used to good hay and a good brushing every evening. If you can’t afford to maintain him, he would fetch an outstanding price in his current condition.”
"What about another game—at double the stakes," Culan suggested quickly.
“I have nothing left to wager.” Dylan reminded him patiently. Meanwhile, the on-looking crowd began to disperse.
Still," Moc chuckled, his eyes narrowing in calculation. "I tell you what. For a couple of copper, I will tell you something useful.”
Dylan kept his face a blank, but he leaned one ear closer.
“It could save a treasure hunter such as yourself some time," Moc added persuasively, his callused hands clasped in a gesture suggestive of a dealer.
Dylan reluctantly fished out a copper coin from his dwindling purse and handed it to Moc.
"I'm listening."
"If you're thinking of heading to northern Gidrior I will spare you the effort of all that would entail. Save your time and your money. Avoid the city altogether.”
Dylan’s eyes flashed.
“May I ask why?”
“You want what you can’t get—not the way you’re planning." Moc pronounced after a pause, shaking his head sadly. "The Elves keep their treasures well hidden, and those who try to steal them never sleep without an eye open again. They are vengeful.”
Dylan was surprised.
“Yes, vengeful. Pray you never see their vengeance. Cross an elf, and his revenge will be swift and merciless. They are not as you know from the few fair folk who have come to make the city their home. I was followed for seven years by one who bore a grudge against me, and in that time I never slept a careless night, or kept my back turned. You have not heard of this, son, and I’ll warrant it is because few have understood their tactics of retribution.
“A curse it is they will lay upon you. Oh yes, son, they can curse you as well as bless you. Food that never gives pleasure or nourishment. Water that burns and leaves your throat dry and coarse. And worse—you might think me a foul beast, but I prefer the smell of my skin to bathing in waters that burn like fire or itch like plague. Can you imagine seven years of terror, of nights unending without sleep and an attack of paralysis in the midst of a battle? Can you conceive of such a powerful curse, son?
“I could tell you more, and yet I won’t. No. Such things are too terrible to speak of out loud. But heed my warning. Do not make my mistake. There are too many rumors you have heard of riches in lands beyond the western divide, and few who have made the journey and returned. What that lad found that has the whole city wagging tongues is a dragon horde.”
“A dragon horde?” Dylan was so mesmerized by Moc’s description, that he did not know how to respond. “But—there are no… no dragons. The last was killed, I think it was—more than five hundred years ago.”
Moc gave a low, controlled laugh. “Was it?”
Moc paused and took a drink. He moved slowly, deliberately, as though doubt did not touch him.
“The token that boy found,” Moc continued, “was a golden helmet from a time when more Elves inhabited these lands—and more creatures such as you have never heard of. They hide in the open. They are few. And they watch us.”
This information completely confounded Dylan.
“You are saying that the lad found a dragon horde? Why did he not mention a dragon?”
“Because he did find a dragon horde. And he did find the dragon. The dragon is hunting him, to take back the token he stole.” Dylan laughed.
Moc shrugged and took another drink. “Never mind, son. I can spin a good tale when I’ve had plenty of ale. But you would do better to hunt a rich Sea Elf merchant in Windfall. Or get yourself an army and rid us of the pestilence of these horseback plunderers.”
“You’re referring to the brigands?”
“We call them the scourge. Pestilence they are upon this land. Riding around, rootless, homeless, stealing treasure from honest merchants along the Great Highway—a pack of disgusting highwaymen they are.”
“I had no idea they were so hated here in Gyfen.”
“Hated? Oh yes, well—you could never tell who is actually a rider. They come into the city dressed as you and me, and they can act like anyone. I might even have had a good blether with one, no telling. But y
es in Gyfen the people call them pestilence for untold generations of thievery.”
“I hear they have been living outside Gyfen for as long as there has been a city here. From perhaps before the founding of the city—“
“I do not know about that.” Moc said, his conversation at an end. “Take my advice or not, as you please. I've given up the treasure-hunting business. If you're looking for honest work, I hear there's a shortage of field hands in Dunlaith for this year's crop," Moc added with a light-hearted laugh.
Dylan bristled, his face flushing.
Moc had unknowingly found Dylan's weakness—his pride.
“Shall my serving-man or I show you to your prize, sir?” Dylan suggested with outward civility.
Sensing he had given offense in some way, Moc paused, then cleared his throat.
“I suppose we should take care of that as soon as possible. No hard feelings, my young fellow. I shall look after your mount.” Moc got up from the table and followed Culan toward the door. The afternoon sun poured into the room as he opened it; Dylan squinted a moment, watching them. Culan ducked his head under the awning and disappeared. For the first time, Dylan noticed a decided limp in the old, stout warrior’s gait as he followed after.
Dylan wasn’t handling the loss as well as he led them to believe.
For a while he sat brooding, combing his fingers through his short hair in a distracted way.
His mind wandered as he sat still, drawing his mood from the surrounding dark of the close tavern. The heat from the nearby firelight put him into a kind of trance. His hand woodenly clutched a heavy pint of ale suspended in mid-air.
His cloak, torn and threadbare, had fallen and drooped low on the dirty thoroughfare. In the center of his faded tunic blazed the embroidered figure of a golden griffin, a symbol of the Kingdom of Dunlaith. The burgundy coloring had the faded look of watered-down wine, and was little protection against the cold. It hung loose over his shoulders, as though there had once been more meat to his bones. His eyes held the look of a man inured to hardship and misfortune, but his mien was still proud.