The Blade Heir (Book 1) (18 page)

"Naomi!" Lucius called loudly. A few seconds later, the woman stepped out of her room wearing a silk gown with her headscarf still on.

She said nothing and immediately followed them out of the cottage. The clouds outside had hidden the moon and left a veil of darkness impenetrable to Lucius' eyes. He heard the sound of hooves walking on the grass a few feet away from the cottage. Lucius peered along the tree line of the Burning Woods for any signs of movement. He waited for his sight to adjust to the darkness, but his brother's eyes did not need such an adjustment.

"There!" Siegfried cried, pointing toward the northern edge of the forest.

Lucius saw nothing at first, but after a few seconds, the approaching silhouette of a horse and a rider became visible. He also noticed a second silhouette walking directly in front.

"It's Violet," Naomi said. She ran barefoot on the damp grass toward her friend like a child running to meet her parents.

"I'll fetch an oil lantern inside." Siegfried raced back to the cottage.

Lucius ran after Naomi in the darkness, hoping Violet wasn't in any trouble. When he reached Violet, Lucius realized she was leading the horse and its rider. His attention quickly turned to the rider on the horse—a man wearing armor who looked to be on the verge of death.

"Naomi!" Violet caught the other woman in a tight embrace then held her at arm's length. "This man has been poisoned and could die at any moment."

"What?" Naomi glanced at the man. "What's happened—"

"There's no time," she cried. "Go boil some water and prepare a place for him to lie down. I need to make an antidote for Draknoir poison."

Naomi nodded and ran back to the cottage.

"You," Violet said, turning to Lucius, "do you have any knowledge of shrubbery or weeds?"

"He does not." Siegfried surprised them as he walked up with a lantern illuminating his face. "But I am familiar with the plants in the area."

"Please find a Potma weed. It is the only thing that will help counteract his illness."

Siegfried nodded and ran off into night toward the glade.

"Will you help me steer Homer to the cottage?" she asked.

"Yes, of course." He grabbed the reins, and they both trotted to the cottage.

Lucius helped her carry the man down from the saddle once they were near the open doorway. The man was drenched in sweat and trembled viciously in their hands. They carried him inside by hands and feet, making sure not to drag him on the ground. Naomi placed some wool blankets on the hardwood floor where they laid him down. A black pot filled with water hung over the hearth, and when the water came to a boil, Naomi grabbed it and poured the hot water into a basin next to the man's head.

Siegfried returned to the cottage carrying the Potma weed by its stem. The weed's dirty roots dangled like long, scraggly fingers. Siegfried handed the plant to Violet, who frantically searched the small pantry for something. She finally pulled out a jar filled with a dark liquid and ran back to the hearth to set it down next to the basin. She pulled the jagged leaves off the head of the Potma weed and tore them into small pieces. Lucius watched carefully as she mixed the leaves into the hot water along with a few drops of the dark liquid. They all watched her on their knees beside the man as she let the contents of the mixture dissolve in the boiling water. A pungent aroma filled the room, which smelled like cooked broccoli to Lucius.

"Can you please lift his head?" Violet asked Lucius, who was nearest to her.

"Yes," he replied, lifting the back of the man's head and holding it up.

Violet poured some of the mixture into a small cup that Naomi held out for her. Violet then grabbed the man's chin, opened his mouth, and poured the liquid inside. After half of it entered his mouth, she set the cup down and used her free hand to pinch his nostrils, forcing the ailing man to swallow. He coughed and sputtered some of the liquid from his mouth, but Violet gave him more until he drank without issue.

Lucius gently put the man's head back on the ground and stood back, waiting for some amazing recovery to take place before his eyes. But it never came. Violet grabbed a rag hanging from one of the benches and dipped it in the bowl to soak up the rest of the mixture. She asked both Lucius and Siegfried to take off the man's plate mail from his chest. When the man was bare-chested and his bandages were removed, she swabbed the festering wound on the man's shoulder. The wound looked horrid to Lucius—blackened and completely swelled around the edges. Violet was careful to dab the rag on the wound while Naomi fetched some pieces of linen to wrap around the shoulder. When the man was fully clothed again, they placed a wool blanket over him and let him rest by the fire, hoping their efforts had not been in vain.

THIRTEEN

 Machinations

Lord Memnon watched the sunrise from the west tower of the citadel inside Nasgothar. He had no need for sleep, though nocturnal in nature, his hunger for war kept him awake in the daylight hours, and there were important matters at hand requiring his attention. The dragons of Ghadarya had finally agreed to a gathering at his behest. A day prior, an envoy from the Kroshen Wasteland had returned with tidings from Albekanar, the appointed leader of the six dragon clans and the younger cousin of the Black Dragon, Kraegyn. According to the envoy—a smaller female dragon named Seeth—the dragons had been in hibernation for the past decade underneath the Maguna Mountains in the northeast. They intended to sleep until Nergoth awakened them from the abyss and their hellish leader rose from the ashes once more. Something had awakened them earlier than expected. Memnon believed their awakening to be a gracious omen from Nergoth himself. Memnon's summoning rituals and pagan sacrifices on Nergoth's altar had awakened the dragons' slumber and perhaps won him favor in the eyes of the dark god. The dragons are awake and ready to retake the western lands at last; he relished the thought. An alliance between dragons and Draknoir would greatly aid his campaign to annihilate mankind and conquer the peoples of Azuleah. The army at Nasgothar was a hundred thousand strong—enough to trample Aldron, but not obliterate it. The dragons are the key. It is time.

Once the sunlight had penetrated the dark sky, he climbed down the circular steps from the citadel's tower to a short hallway leading into the Chamber of Deliberation. Nasgothar standards and grotesque statues adorned the walls of the dim room. On a daily basis, Lord Memnon, General Genghis, and the highest ranking Draknoir commanders met in the Chamber to plan the war against Joppa. The priests of Nasgothar also visited regularly for advice from their lord on how to better serve Nergoth and hasten the campaign. 

A single table carved from onyx sat at the center of the chamber where Genghis and six Draknoir commanders hovered over it examining a large map of Azuleah as they awaited their lord's presence. Memnon approached the table with his head held high, running the claws of his right hand across his left breast in a mock slash signifying the Draknoir salute. His subordinates mimicked the motion, but with their heads bowed to him.

"What news from the outpost at Feilon, Gramme?" Memnon hissed as he addressed the shorter Draknoir with multiple spikes protruding from his jawline.

"The Aldronian prince has not been captured yet, my lord," Gramme replied, fidgeting with his hands. "But one of our spies saw a woman crossing the Dulan River a few days past traveling with a man on horseback."

"And where is the woman now?" Memnon asked incredulously.

 "We are not yet certain, your Eminence. I have sent warriors to trail her and find out if she is harboring the Dragon Slayer."

"Keep me posted, Gramme," Memnon said. He drew close to Gramme and glared into his eyes. "You know what failure will cost you."

"Yes, my lord. The woman will be found, and the prince shall be captured." Gramme bowed his head and slammed his claws into his chest, allowing droplets of blood to ooze out. "By Nergoth's blood!"

"By Nergoth's blood, indeed." Memnon shifted his attention to the other Draknoir, who met his gaze. He saw faces conveying both fear and reverence. It pleased him. "Many of you are well aware the dragons of Ghadarya have agreed to a gathering near Lake Ein. In centuries past, our ancestors aligned themselves with the Black Dragon and ruled their lands with an iron claw. The elves—those insipid followers of D'arya—exiled themselves to the West from the terror brought forth by Ghadarya and Nasgothar. We were mighty and prosperous in those days."

Genghis and the commanders all shook their heads in agreement. Memnon knew how much they all longed for the glory days. A new era for the Draknoir was on the horizon; he felt sure of it.

 "In their quest for power, our ancestors and the dragon clans built the fortress of Arkadeus," Memnon said, clasping his hands behind him. "But the stronghold of Scipio and Kraegyn could not withstand the rise of a lesser, insignificant race in this world. The combined power of Ghadarya and Nasgothar was usurped by men—by a defiler well known to us as Cervantes Nostra. He tore down the foundations our lords created and banished the Black Dragon from this world into the Abode of Shadows."

Memnon pulled a dagger from his cloak. The eyes of all the Draknoir in the room grew wide and some shifted uncomfortably on their feet. He often made object lessons of commanders and warriors in similar assemblies to motivate the Draknoir to victory and punish failure. Sadism and torture were effective tools in spurring his soldiers to such ends, but he resisted the urge to shed any of their blood. For now least.

"My loyal Draknoir, the time has come to rebuild the empire Scipio created for our kind," Memnon said, reopening the last cut on his palm with the dagger. He walked to the onyx table and slammed his bloody palm on the map over the region of Joppa. "Our time is now! We will forge a new alliance with the dragons, and by Nergoth's blood, I shall summon Kraegyn from the Abode into Azuleah again!"

"By Nergoth's blood!" his Draknoir underlings all screamed in unison, stabbing their chests with their claws.

Lord Memnon lifted his hand and licked the warm blood from his palm, smiling delightfully. "Tonight we march to meet the dragons. Make provisions for our journey and amass a great host of Draknoir. We have a campaign to finish."

The soft breeze and warm rays of sunshine entered the open window of the room where Silas slept, waking him from the disturbing images of Draknoir and clashing swords haunting his dreams. He felt a slight stiffness in his shoulder and his head ached terribly, but the pain was the last thing on his mind. He did not know whose bed he lay on or where in Azuleah he might be. He threw the bedsheets aside and struggled to stand on his feet. A stinging sensation emanated from his shoulder and caused him to grab the bedpost to steady himself. He noticed the bandages around the wound for the first time and he gently removed them, curious to see the condition of the wound. The swelling had reduced considerably and the color of the wound had turned light pink, no longer a disgusting dark purple hue. The sight of the wound reminded him of the last few days in the wilderness with Violet, which were a haze of pain and weariness in his mind. Soreness and minor aches plagued various parts of his body—probably unhealed bruises from his wild ride in the river. Nevertheless, his present condition felt immensely better than before. Death would have surely taken him if he spent one more day on that blasted horse. Violet had kept her promise to restore him, and he owed her a great debt for her kindness. Now if he only knew her whereabouts.

Silas searched the small room for any of his armor, but only found the mud-stained undershirt he wore beneath his chain mail and breastplate. He slipped on the shirt and stepped out of the bedroom into a central room where two benches sat beside a smoldering hearth. A tall elf with silver hair sat with his legs crossed on one of the benches. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be meditating. Silas could not remember the last time he had seen an elf, perhaps when he first visited Sylvania with his mother and sister many years past. He walked up slowly to the elf, unsure whether he was a friend or foe.

"I see that you have healed considerably since last night," the elf said placidly, his eyes still shut.

"Yes, most of my wounds have healed. But I do not know where I am," Silas responded "or who you are."

"You are in a cottage near the Burning Woods in Sylvania, the home of Naomi and Violet." The elf opened his eyes. "My name is Siegfried Silverhart, and I have journeyed here from the city of Evingrad."

"From the
Breninmaur
?" Silas asked.

"Yes, have you traveled there?" Siegfried asked, tilting his head to the side.

"No, but my father ventured there long ago," Silas replied.

Siegfried's eyes narrowed slightly. "I noticed your armor is a different design than the Aldronian standard. Are you a commander or something of the like?"

"Something of the like," Silas answered, unsure whether or not to reveal his royal position. "I am a member of the Drachengarde of Aldron. My company was slaughtered by a horde of Draknoir in the forests of Ithileo."