Treacherous Brethren E-Book

B.R. Stateham

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The war between dragon and man rages on.

Roland swore to protect and raise the small dragon princess as his own. Feared by humanity and dragonkind alike, the warrior monk is a renowned swordsman, and his skill in Netherworld Magic is legendary.

However, it is the child who fuels the fear burning in the hearts of both dragon and man. For the child is more than a child: she is a weapon, designed by the dark gods to unite all dragonkind under one banner and wage the final war against humanity, wiping them out forever.

Roland has made an allegiance with the dragon child, threatening both dragon and man. Their enemies want them found and destroyed before it's too late. Soon, the warrior monk's resolve and strength will be put to the ultimate test.

A riveting epic fantasy adventure, Treacherous Brethren is the second book in B.R. Stateham's 'Roland Of The High Crags' series.

Leseprobe

TREACHEROUS BRETHREN

ROLAND OF THE HIGH CRAGS BOOK 2

B. R. STATEHAM

CONTENTS

Prologue

In The Beginning…

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Epilogue

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2022 B.R. Stateham

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Graham (Fading Street Services)

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

PROLOGUE

I sit at a small table of roughly hewn wood, on a plain wooden stool, with a long black feather of a Great Wing quill in my hand. The quill hoovers over brown-stained paper, brittle with age so old I fear it will disintegrate into powder before I have told my tale. Behind my right shoulder a rectangular shaft of bright moonlight splashes across my back and spills onto the cold stone floor of the dungeon cell, illuminating portions of the old paper and much of my desk. A thick candle, half consumed, with a dim flame, assists the moonlight in my endeavors to record the events of my past.

Know you, Pilgrim, I am an old man. Not long to remain in this confinement of silence and solitude. But once, a long time ago, I was a warrior-monk and great wizard of the Bretan Order. Of the four religious orders on my world, the followers of the Bretan Way were the most hated—and the most feared—of all. We were hunted. We were rooted out of our homes and our castles, even our cities, because we believed in the heresy—the belief—that Human and Grand Dragons were somehow distantly related to each other.

And worse, perhaps even the key to the hundreds of pogroms assailing Bretan followers with bloody reprisals and near extinction, was the belief that Dragon Prophecy wasalie. A deliberate lie created by Dark Dragon gods and fed to their dragon children in an attempt to assuage their merciless souls and justify their hatreds for all of Humankind.

Why the gods of the Great Dragons so hated and so feared their distant human kin still remains unknown. What the seeds planted were for this vile belief were planted so far back in our distant past not even the greatest of wizards or mages could ascertain.

Except perhaps myself, Pilgrim.

Once, I was a great wizard.

Once I was a great warrior.

And once, so brash and so confident in my abilities, I and a dragon princess named Ursala—the last of the Pearl Princesses—challenged the Dark Dragon gods themselves and fought against them for years as we tried to tear down the Old Ways and create a New World free from prejudice and religious chaos.

And, as you read this memoir—if you read this memoir penned by my shaking hand—you see I failed, we failed, to tear down the old terrors and build a new world filled with light.

Forgive my shaking hand and rambling words, Child. I am old. My mind is sometimes not as clear as it once was. My wizardry powers no longer at my command. Somehow the stones in the four walls of this prison cell drain me of my magic. If you find these manuscripts after I am gone, I hope you read them and take in what I am trying to say. A Great Evil Unseen controls the Middle World we currently live in and the Netherworld from wince all Life originates and returns to, and from where all Magic comes.

Read my words, Child. Heed my warnings. Know the enemy you face. For even now it resides in the deepest corners of your mind and in the darkest corners of your soul.

IN THE BEGINNING…

Know your enemy, my son.

Respect his skill; admire his cunning.

For the Dragon was built

For War.

-FROM THE BOOK OF ST. ALBANS-

They hung in the clear blue winter’s sky like two glistening jewels. Two Dragons. One a Winged Beastie, her giant batwings stretched out to the fullest, riding the thermal drafts of the rugged forest hills like some dreaded Dark Lord. Her wingspan was a good fifty feet. Her body, a charcoal gray color, with its long serpentine neck and equally long horned tail delicately balancing her in her flight, sat in the sky as if she were a natural part of it. She was a fire-breather. An old warrior. Supremely confident and master of the skies.

Know you, Child, two forms of dragons reside in this world along with humans. One, called Great Dragons, are distant kin to humans—but not human. They are their own species. They stride their world on two legs like humans. They make war like we humans. They have their own culture so similar, yet so different, as we do. They build grand structures and powerful castles as humans do. They are so similar to us in every way—except in their physical presence.

We humans are fair-skinned and come in colors of brown, black, yellow, red and white. One single color that decorates our skin in a single hue from head to foot.

Grand Dragons have the skin of a reptile. Scaled, yet soft. Pliable. Yet durable. Their scale-skinned exteriors are not abhorrent to the eye. They are—or at least can be—rather pleasing to look upon and even to touch. All dragons, regardless of clan or familial ties, have this musky aroma to them which is quite unique. Again, not an unpleasing aroma. But unique.

Yet the most unique of all of a Great Dragon’s traits is this; their scales come speckled in patterns of two different colors. And these patterns and colors designate the dragon’s particular clan they claim as their own. Red-and-black—blue-and-green—pale blue-and-chocolate-brown… all different clans. Hundreds of different shades of the same color. Hundreds of different pattern shapes of each speckled dot. Hundreds of different clans.

Fascinating.

The second dragon who dwells among us are called Winged Beasties. These are the flying nightmares told to us in hushed whispers by our elders while we were children. Tales of flying bat-winged monsters who exhale long streams of incredibly hot blue-white flames to their enemies. These are the creatures Grand Dragons mount and ride when they go to war. They are the masters of the sky. The terrors who stride the land on four massive talon-equipped paws. Their necks are long and sinuous like that of a giant snake. Their tails, horned at their tips, and equally sinuous and snakelike.

The Winged-Beasties’ rider, strapped in the heavy saddle just in front of the Beastie’s forward shoulders, had wrapped himself in a heavy cloak to keep the biting cold at bay. The air was frigid cold. Winter’s harsh grip had taken hold of the land and would not let go for another six months. Snuggled close to his body was the heavy looking crossbow so favored by Grand Dragons. A weapon of immense power and range and very deadly in the hands of a marksman. And something else was held close to him underneath the cloak. Something important.

So important it required him to keep his crossbow strung and nocked.

Two Dragons riding the empty winds in maleficent grandeur. Terrible to behold.

Harbingers of Destiny.

And I?

Once a Bretan warrior-monk and accomplished wizard, now condemned and hunted by my brothers and all humanity, I rode in the saddle of my fierce Cedrichigh above and behind the unsuspecting Dragons. Cedric was a Huygens-bred Great Wing. A beast much resembling the smaller, but equally dangerous, Ferril Hawks which populates the forests and mountains of the High Kanris. But bigger, much bigger, and far deadlier. A powerful bird. Capable of carrying me and my weapons of war high into the skies to hunt Winged Beasties and their masters.

Friend.

Confidant.

Ally.

This was my Cedric. One does not own a Great Wing. Neither bird nor man is the other’s master. To fight the ravages of the Dragon, man and bird must unite in a common cause. They must blend into a well-honed weapon with one partner knowing what the other will do in the heat of battle even before the other knows himself. Cedric and I had fought the dragon for decades. We knew each other’s soul as if it was our own.

Neither of us could believe a Winged Beastie and Grand Dragon rode the cold blue skies of the Northern Hill Country. Yet there they were. Both radiating from their souls a sense of boredom and being lost at the same time. I sensed their half-hearted attempts to search the forests below for something they expected to find. They were on a mission. They were lost yet they were near to where they should be. Given time they would find what they sought. They would deliver the dispatches the dragon clansman clutched beneath his cloak tightly to his chest.

It was not that we were surprised in finding dragons. Dragon clans possessed baronies in the North Country. The Malawei, the Bruinii, and not too far in the west, along with the Marouth. Malawei and Bruinii were nearby. Small clans hardly large enough to keep the lands they had carved out of the enclaves of human kingdoms surrounding them as their own. Yet they too would have been an oddity to have one of its fabled fire-breathers riding alone in the clear skies here and now.

But this clansman was neither Malawei nor Bruinii. This clansman who was dressed in red and trimmed in black was Hartooth. The First Clan. A warrior of the fabled clan who first rose out of the swamps of the Far South. A warrior far from home. Far from the skies and forests he would be familiar with. A creature who was decidedly out of his environment. Yet more importantly these dragons were enemies. The rider was a warrior of a legendary clan. Legendary in their intense hatred for all of things human. Wherever a Hartooth appeared, so too appeared death and destruction. He was, for me, even as an outcast Bretan warrior-monk, my sworn enemy.

There was but one option for my feathered comrade and I to take. We had to destroy the Hartooth courier and his fire-breathing companion. We had to find out why a warrior of his clan was so far north. It was imperative we snatch from his dead or dying body, the messages he held so close to him and ascertain the real threat he represented.

Reaching for my bow, I quickly pulled it from its leather pouch strapped to my saddle and strung it. Nocking arrow to the string I said nothing, made no movement to signal my comrade, nor had to. We were a team. A well-oiled machine. The moment his sharp sense of hearing heard me string the bow, he waited long enough for me to nock arrow to bowstring. And then, in the blinking of an eye, he folded his wide but powerful wings and threw his beaked head down. We, like a massive stone, dropped from out of the skies in a steep dive. The cold winter air flew past my face at an incredible speed. I felt my face grow numb and the sense of touch in my hands begin to disappear. But this did not matter. Our enemies were rapidly approaching, and our goals were simple. Destroy both Dragons and allow neither to escape.

When it appeared we were about to crash into Dragon and fire-breather, I sat up in my saddle, lifted the bow, and pulled the string back to my ear before releasing the arrow. It was a swift, sure, and practiced move. One I had done a thousand times or more in my life. The arrow flew from the bow straight and true. It hit in the middle of the unsuspecting warrior’s back with such force it threw the warrior forward and actually pinned the creature into the neck of his comrade. The fire-breather lifted its head and screeched in pain as it started to turn and look behind and above him.

Too late! The Winged Beastie had no chance to dart away. With talons extended, my giant comrade and I slammed into the fire-breather’s neck with a horrendous jolt. The collision almost ripped me out of the stout leather straps holding me into my saddle. Cedric’s talons gripped the Beastie’s neck into a death grip and we, Dragons and all, began plummeting to earth in a spiraling Dance of Death.

The fire-breather tried to twist out of my Great Wing’s grip. A stream of blue-white flame roared from the Beastie’s mouth as it tried to turn its head and engulf us in his fiery fury. The roar of the flame, the heat of the fire, and the smell of burning sulfur almost saved him. Close came his final blow to I and my faithful comrade. But Cedric’s grip was too strong. The Beastie could not turn his head far enough to dislodge his tormentors.

Onward we plummeted to the ground below. I felt the life draining from the fire-breather and from the Hartooth. And then, only a few hundred feet above the snow-covered forest below us, the fire-breather expired, and Cedric released his grip and twisted away at the same time. Hartooth rider and his Beastie crashed into a small clearing with a thunderous finality. A dark cloud of snow and soil was thrown up into the air and momentarily hid our enemies from view. But we circled and waited, bow nocked again with arrow, and both of us anticipating anything from below. But there was no need. The cloud of snow gently blew away. Below us our prey lay in a jumbled heap of broken bones and splayed limbs.

Cedric landed in the clearing some distance away from our fallen quarry and in a position which, if the fire-breather were still alive and wished to again use his hot breath against us, would be difficult for him to do so. I leapt from my saddle after unstringing my bow and replaced it in its quiver. From my side I withdrew the curved blade of a Dragon scimitar and gripped it firmly as I approached the mass of flesh before me. No life force could be felt within the stilled heart of the fire-breather. But the Hartooth clansman was, for the moment, alive. His life force was draining from his soul rapidly. He had only moments left in this world before journeying over into the Netherworld. He, still strapped to his saddle, had been ripped away from his companion and lay to one side of the dead Beastie. As I stepped around the dying creature to face him, I heard the clansman snort out of rattling chuckle of amusement as our eyes met for the first time.

“Ah! I travel to the Dark World thanks to the deadly aim of a Bretan priest. So be it. I go honorably. As it should be. We were destined to meet, human. Our destinies were set long ago. My life ends and yours continues on for a little time more.”

He coughed, blood trickling from his lips. From out of his chest the shaft of my arrow was visible. He held one hand to his chest and coughed again. And again, chuckled in amusement.

“Destiny, our destinies, human, are set in stone. It is the destiny of the Hartooth to rid this planet of all your kind. It is the destiny of all of your kind to accept your extinction.”

I nodded, frowning.

“What if I do not believe in destiny, warrior? What then?”

“Ha! Believe or not. It does not matter.”

He tried to laugh but had no strength as his life force deserted his physical form.

Using the tip of my sword I reached forward and slid part of his red cloak to one side. Lifting the heavy leather courier’s satchel from his body I cut the straps holding it to him. Picking the satchel up with the tip of my blade I stepped away from the dead and moved back to a position close to my comrade. A quick perusal of the dispatches made me frown even more. The Hartooth were coming. They were coming in force.

Destiny. Our destinies sat long ago. Set in stone forever and incapable of changing.

Did I believe that? Was it true? Was it the destiny of mankind to be eradicated from this world by the Hartooth? Was it meaningless to resist?

Destiny.

And to think the Great Jihad, the Final War, began eight years ago with the birth of a Dragon child.

The worlds of the Dragon and of Man shook and shuddered from the terrible conflict. This maleficent conflagration consumed the innocent and the valiant like some uncontrolled forest fire. There was no way for anyone to escape it unscathed. There was no place to hide. Like a disease this war grew ever larger, absorbed more riches and natural resources, while conversely increasing the grim migration of souls into the farther reaches of the Netherworld.

Even the heavens and the Netherworld roared with the cacophony of battle. The gods of Man and the grim Dark Lords of the Dragon, ancestral and immortal enemies since the beginning of time, chose now to come down from the heavens or rise out of the nebulous veils of the Netherworld and partake in the bloodletting.

I, a simple warrior-monk of the Bretan, knew my duty.

Warrior. Monk. Wizard.

Trained since childhood to fight the battles for when the weak, the innocent, the hapless could not. Trained to seek out Evil in all its forms and confront it; to make war on it and to drive it back into the abyss. We in the Bretan worship one God. It is our belief that Shin’zin is everywhere. He is everything. Both the animate and the inanimate contain a part of Shin’zin. But more importantly, we believed Shin’zin comes in the disguise of a thousand different gods. He is called his name in a thousand different ways. He shapes his visage so he will be recognized by those who plead for his help. He is the Giver of Light and Life. He is the Healer of All Wounds. Beneficent. Humble. But ever vigilant. Evil comes in many shapes and forms. Evil comes with the murderous roar of the Lion or with the tender caress of an apparent loving mother. Evil relishes its disguises and gloats on its accomplishments in deceiving those who plead for mercy.

Evil must be confronted. A warrior-monk-wizard of the Bretan does not hesitate.

Nor did I.

It all began a year and a half earlier. In the monastery of St. Rolla, I felt a great stirring of Evil. I felt it stirring like a deadly snow-viper does just underneath a fresh blanket of snow and moments before it strikes. An Evil of immense proportions which dwelt only in the twilight between the conscious and the unconscious. An Evil powerful enough to reach out and control the destinies of Man and Dragon. And possibly even the Currents of Time found in the Netherworld.

This feeling came to me in the early hours before dawn while a blizzard with howling winds and blinding snows made the walls of the monastery grown and creak. The last throes of Winter were screaming in their rage and Spring was about to return and thaw the earth. Spring. A time of hope. Renewal. Rebirth. But on that night, and in my Mind’s Eye, I felt as if death itself was stalking the land.

Wizards have an ability called the Inner Eye. It is an added sense which makes us ‘see’ the auras of living things around us. All living forms have both a generic and specific aura. A generic aura would be describing what Evil looks like. It is a dimly glowing mass of blues and blacks. The colors move and change shape, they either brighten or dim, depending on the mood of the Evil and whether it moves or whether it has found a prey and stalks it silently. On this night I felt a great stirring of Evil. It washed over my soul like a sudden onslaught of frigid arctic air. And it came from the East.

Rising at sunrise to begin my training anew, word came to St. Rolla that the Clan Anktooth, and their lands, were being overrun by an ancient and deadly foe. The Anktooth, an old and honored Dragon clan we of the Bretan were long familiar with, both as a friend and as a foe, were facing a foe many times their size in numbers and far wealthier—and far more proficient in making war. We of the faith sent spies toward the Anktooth’s lands to seek additional information. On their return the news cemented our fears a terrible event was taking place.

The First Clan was again waging war on a grand scale. They were swallowing up lands and baronies in a wide swath and were now trying to devour the Anktooth. The Hartooth, in Dragon legends one of the first four Dragon clans to rise out of the swamps and stand on two legs, carried with it the Dragon prophecy of being humanity’s nemesis. They again blew the horns of war and brought fire and sword down upon their enemies. Slowly and methodically in their terrible martial splendor they were marching toward the High Kanris.

Toward humanity.

A year ago, I decided to mount my magnificent Huygens bred Great Wing and ride the winds toward the lands of the Anktooth. Normally Dragon and Man warred against each other. Yet, of late, there had been instances where individuals have come to the aid of their once ancestral enemies. I knew the Anktooth. I knew them to be honorable. I knew they wished to forge some kind of cessation of hostilities with Mankind and to begin a lucrative, and mutual, series of trade agreements with the kingdoms close to their borders.

I knew they would accept my offer of assistance.

To my surprise others came as well. Niscian riders, Hurlian bowmen, and an assortment of mercenary warriors. All humans. All united in their desire to confront the Hartooth and defeat them in battle. For a little over a year the combined arms of human and Anktooth fought the might and wealth of the Hartooth. Perhaps a hundred or so Great Wing riders from the High Kanris came down from their snowcapped peaks and joined us. For a year I led this group of Great Wings, rising into the air over the battlements of the city to confront the flame-breathing Winged Beasties and their riders of the enemy.

It was a valiant fight. A war which songs of mighty deeds, from all sides, no doubt was composed. But heroic deeds of individuals cannot win a war. Without wealth war cannot be fought for long durations. The Hartooth had warriors as heroic and as brave as any Anktooth or human. Yet the numbers of the Hartooth seemed to never dwindle. When a Hartooth fell three would rise up to fill the gaps in the battle line. That could mean only one thing. Gold.

A vast reservoir of gold seemingly limitless in size and spent lavishly for men, arms, material and the other accouterments of war. The Hartooth’s wealth seemed like an endless ocean. Every day from the battlements we would see new formations arriving to join the ranks arrayed before us. Every day, as our numbers dwindled and weakened from constant battle, we faced fresh enemies eager to join the fray. My hundred riders dwindled with each passing day. We would litter the skies with the falling bodies of our foes still strapped to the saddles of the dead Winged Beasties. But at night, when we had fought our last aerial sortie, I would count those who returned, and my heart would grow heavy.

Wealth is the engine of war, Pilgrim. Without it no barony, no kingdom, no rarified and Noble Cause can sustain itself for long. The Anktooth were not a wealthy clan. They did not possess gold or silver mines. Their wealth came from commerce. Trade and commerce were quickly decapitated from the Anktooth the moment the Hartooth arrived.

The end came soon enough. And the journey I now struggle to complete began.

In the dying hours of the final assault on the city of Ankh, the last city belonging to the Anktooth, I was pulled from the fight by the taciturn presence of a Mauk Clan warrior loyal to the old Anktooth baron. The Clan Mauk had been loyal followers and servants of the Anktooth for generations. Related to the Anktooth, the Mauk knew they faced the same threat as the Anktooth did from the Hartooth. Resisting a First Clan meant, if they lost, extinction. The Anktooth were losing. Only a matter of hours was left in their existence. Before the rise of the next sun not one, but two, ancient and honorable Dragon clans would no longer walk the earth.

I was quickly led to a place where the old Anktooth baron stood with a group of other warriors, Dragon and human mercenaries, along with a few of his own warriors, waiting impatiently while standing with the old baron. There was a child there as well. A female Dragon child of seven years. Shaking with terror. Her heart filled with anguish and pain. Clinging to the leg of her grandfather, the old baron, with the intensity only the desperate can achieve.

But she was, Pilgrim, more than just a Dragon child. More than just the last of the royal blood to the Anktooth. She was, in truth, far more important than that. She was a legendary Pearl Princess. The last of the five promised to Dragonkind through prophecy.

The Fifth Sister.

The one promised to rise up and unite all of Dragonkind. The promised prophet destined by the Dragon gods to be the salvation of the Dragon. Once united she would lead the Dragon in the Final War against humanity.

Evil incarnate. A witch who, as the four before her were, was endowed with incredible powers to control the Netherworld. She would master the Netherworld. She would be able to tap into that vast and limitless dynamo of raw supernatural power and mold it to her will in whatever she desired. No human wizard, if she grew to adulthood and acquired all her power, would be able to defeat her. No collected mass of wizards combining their powers would be able to thwart her plans. Humanity would be lost. Destroyed. Wiped from the face of the earth if this Pearl Princess was allowed to live.

Being a Bretan warrior-monk, and wizard of the First Order, I was sworn to protect humanity from the ravages of the Dragon. But more importantly my vows compelled me to seek out and destroy Evil whenever and wherever I could find it. Now Evil stood directly in front of me. In the presence of a seven-year-old child. A frightened and confused child clinging to her grandfather.

“You are to take her, warrior. You and your fabulous Great Wing are to ride high into the mountains beyond. Hide her, Roland of the High Crags. Hide her and protect her.”

A Dragon baron asking a Bretan warrior-wizard to save and protect the abomination called a Pearl Princess. A Dragon asking me to defy my humanity and protect the one creature who would acquire the power to eradicate humanity from existence. To defy my religious vows. To become, if I accepted the quest, a Malus Apostate, the most horrendous of all heretical banishment decrees a wizard could acquire from his religious order. To be hunted like an animal. To be shown no mercy. To suffer the agonized and miseries within the Netherworld for the rest of eternity.

If I accepted the quest. If I chose to condemn my kind to damnation.

If…

I gazed into the child’s soul. I felt her pain. I felt her terror. I glimpsed the edges of her already astonishing powers of the Netherworld. She made no effort to hide or disguise her soul from me even though she knew I was examining her closely.

I saw the potential in her. The potential for both Evil and Good. But there was something else I detected. She glowed with an aura of a child’s innocence. There was no Evil present. They were no hidden veils which might possibly mask Evil. She was as she appeared to be. An innocent child on the verge of being cruelly executed by a hostile and unforgiving world. No one was strong enough to protect her. No one felt any tenderness toward her, except that of her grandfather and the old Clan Mauk warrior who led me to her standing beside me. To the mercenaries who tried to convince the old baron they were better choices in saving the child’s life I could feel nothing but greed and hatred for the child.

She was alone in the world. Alone, confused, and defenseless. Yes… already she could command immense powers within the Netherworld. But she was without training. She knew not what she could do with these powers. Left alone and unchecked she would become a danger to all life on the planet. If she fell into the hands of her father, the Hartooth baron, she would become the trained weapon of Dragon prophecy.

But…

Two thoughts crossed my mind immediately the moment I looked into her soul. First, being the warrior-wizard of the Bretan as I was, I could not kill an innocent child. All my religious training in the Bretan Way screamed against such an act. The Bretan was supposed to defend and protect the old, the weak, the innocent, and the young. The child was devoid of all evil. She was but a seven-year-old child. To extinguish her life with the flick of a wrist, much like that of someone pinching the burning flame of a candle into oblivion, would be an evil act in itself.

At the same time a revelation came to me. Suddenly, before my eyes like a blinding flash of intense light, a way… a roadmap… came to me. Illuminated before my eyes was a possibility of defying prophecy! By taking the child into my protection and teaching her the tricks and techniques the Bretan used to control both the power and the potential madness found in the Netherworld, might I mold the weapon which would destroy Dragon prophecy? A Dragon weapon forged by the Dragon gods themselves used to destroy the very ones who created it! Struck breathless I saw all the potential dilemmas and the potential rewards this possibility offered.

If prophecy could be destroyed, might it be possible for Dragon and Man to finally learn how to live together in peace? Was it mandatory that one species or the other had to be wiped clean from the face of the planet in order to obtain peace? To finally remove the bleak and terrible fury of the Dark Lords from the hearts of the Dragon was a vision none before thought possible. But here was a chance–an admittedly dismally slim chance–of doing just that!

Defy my religious vows. Defy my gods. Defy all of humanity and Dragonkind together in order to achieve something beyond comprehension. Peace. Wonderful, lasting, so long sought-after Peace.

I agreed to the Anktooth’s request. I agreed to protect the child and teach her the Bretan Way. I knew what dangers this could mean to all. I knew Evil, if it ever entered the child’s heart, would know how to thwart all the techniques the Bretan knew in controlling the Netherworld.

I knew I would be condemned by all. I knew I would be hunted, along with the child, and promised a most horrible end. I knew my fate. Yet I agreed to defy it. Within an hour we fled from the dying city of Ankh. We flew high into the towering peaks of a mountain pass which led up into the High Kanris. We, the child and I, began our quest for either achieving the unreachable crown called Peace. Or die trying.

Only the Fates knew how our journey would end.

CHAPTER1

Be like the graceful willow

Which bends and does not resist

When the wind blows strong;

For in truth,

Strength lies not in resistance

But in the power others

hurl against you.

-FROM BE BOOK OF ST. ALBANS-

Destiny.

-One’s destiny is never the route anticipated.-

-Destiny is the Mistress of Obfuscation; one never knows where it might lead.-

-Random serendipity, or maleficent opportunity, are like the strikes of a blacksmith’s hammer on the glistening surface of Destiny. -

-Destiny may be formed with random thoughts, or an idle turn of a word; it is a virulent force fed by ideas. Or as weak as an old man’s passing whimsy.-

-One needs not seek Destiny. Destiny will find you.-

Destiny.

I remember these words vividly. Spoken to me by an old man who walked with a firm stride, hands clasped behind his back, his dark brown eyes taking in the beauty around us as we made our way through the gardens of St. Rolla’s Monastery. Even then, as a young initiate in the midst of my training in wizardry, Master Breen was old. As old as the Bretan Brotherhood was old some said. Others whispered Master Breen knew Saint Bretan; learned from the sect’s founder the Bretan Ways of a warrior monk. Still others said the old man had witnessed the final climatic battles against the onslaught of the Dragon which drove the remnants of humanity into the High Kanris.

It does not matter. I know not the truth. All I can say with certainty is that Master Breen was very old. Yet, in many respects, very young at the same time. He did not walk with the gait of an old man. His stride was slow, deliberate, but firm and unhesitating. He was old and wise. And gentle. This I remember this the most. His gentleness.

His dark brown eyes were sharp and clear and filled with a mischievous merriment quite captivating to behold. He loved the cloistered gardens of St. Rolla’s with a passion. After every arduous training session, whenever a task in training a warrior monk to become a wizard had pushed me to the brink of exhaustion or frustration, I would find Master Breen kneeling at a rose bush and carefully working the flower beds around it in an effort to make it bloom more beautifully.

“Ah, the young wizard has suffered another defeat?” he would say, a smile working his thin lips, his voice quiet, yet compelling to hear. “You need not worry, boy. Tasting defeat in a trial of skill is but a thin layer added to the eventual lustrous shine. Patience is the key. Patience and endurance. Yes… patience and endurance.”

He would come to his feet, wait for me to join at his side, and we would stroll through the gardens for hours on end talking about my difficulties. Ah, to be honest; I would be the one talking, and he mostly listening. He would smile, make an amusing comment about something or the other, and it all seemed to come together by the end of our stroll. I always felt better, and even prepared, for the next day’s difficulties after these talks.

Master Breen was neither a monk nor a servant at St. Rolla’s. He had no official position there. Yet he was much revered by monk and servant alike. Even the abbot himself demurred to Master Breen’s wishes whenever the old man voiced an opinion. It was, in retrospect, all very curious that such a one as he would come to live in a Bretan Monastery. Not that our monasteries are reclusive hideouts for the devout. In all of the surviving monasteries my brothers occupy, our doors are open to any who made need our assistance. The weak, the poor, the dying, the young, the destitute come to us seeking our aid. We turn no one away.

But in Master Breen’s case it seemed quite odd such a man would choose to live the simple monastic life of a Bretan monk. Neither rich nor poor, Master Breen was neither common peasant nor exiled nobleman. He was not an inhabitant of any of the standard class systems found in most of the societies in the High Country. He was a non-entity. A ghost who lived among the living. A ghost with very special skills.

As a young initiate I learned much from this old man. Important concepts a wizard must accomplish if they wish not to be seduced by the powers of the Netherworld. Power is corruption. Power is an enchanting seductress who lures her victims into a sensual oblivion which knows no limits. Once lost into that oblivion no wizard ever comes back. They are gone forever.

The Netherworld was the ultimate seducer, the ultimate power. A wizard who consciously played within its confines would, in the end, would find himself standing on the precipice of his own destruction. In the end the seducer’s sensual call would become too much for the wayward magician to resist.

Think of the Netherworld, Pilgrim, as a vast river which stretches off into infinity. Standing on its lone banks and gazing onto the river was like looking into Infinity itself. There are no boundaries. Only the unwavering flatness of water everywhere. Standing on the banks before the Great River of Time is an intoxicating liquor in itself. One’s senses are bombarded with exciting stimuli. But this sensation is nothing when compared to sliding into the water itself. The water in the River of Time is warm and titillating. The water is filled with an electrifying power which surges through every pore of your body with a breathtaking alacrity. Suddenly every atom of your body is filled with a sense of infinite power. Of infinite knowledge. Your eyes and mind can see into the Past as clearly as you can see into the Future. All things are known to you.

In the waters of the Netherworld all who have come before you, and all who will come after you, can be summoned. With stunning clarity, not only do you see the current of Time, but you also reside in all of its stunning detail. You see all of the currents of Time which make up the River of Time. Suddenly parallel universes spring up before your eyes. Universes uncountable and unimaginable. You see… You. You as You were in the past. You as You are in the Present. And You as You will become in the Future. You in all the different universes which might dwell in the River of Time.

For a wizard to summon the soul of someone who has, or will at some time in the future, tread the paths found in the Outer Realms is a dangerous liquor to taste. But the power to summon yourself… summon the You of your Past, or of your Future, and discuss with them what is in store for you, is a power destined to make you slip into the clinging arms of Insanity.

Terrible is the power of the Netherworld! Frightening are the dangers found in this River of Time. The allure of manipulating Time, of controlling the accidents of Fate which are destined to befall you, or anyone, is an addictive drug which lures the wayward wizard to his eventual destruction. Wizards become intoxicated with the power. This overwhelming intoxication convinces them they can manipulate Time itself.

Ah, Pilgrim! Foolish is the wizard who becomes thus seduced into believing this madness. The terrible truth is Time cannot be manipulated. The Future is too nebulous to clearly see. Too many currents weave a complex tapestry we call the Future. Certain threads within this tapestry may unravel and break. Others will fill in the gaps and make the weave even stronger. The Future is never a constant. It is always in a state of flux. Too many currents, too many variables, make up the Future. No wizard, however powerful he may be, can use the powers of the Netherworld to shape what is to come.

That I learned while at the monastery of St. Rolla. The powers of the Netherworld were to be used only when necessity demanded it. A wizard’s power came directly from the Netherworld. If one wished to be more of a wizard than a warrior-monk, one would eventually succumb to its lures. Into the abyss the wizard would fall. An abyss which there was no path available in bringing him back into the Light.

It was Master Breen who taught me about the seductress of power. In his soft and gentle ways, he showed me the pitfalls.

“To live with the Netherworld, Bretan, means to always look at it as a potential enemy. It never reveals its true purpose. It is neither Good nor Evil. Honor or morals means nothing to it. Because it cannot, or will not, consider the Good from the Evil it becomes the perfect residence for both. In the Netherworld never, ever, take anything felt or witnessed with your own senses for what it appears to be. The true nature of the Netherworld is to deceive.”

Words, spoken long ago by a man I so admired played across my conscience as I sat on my hunches beside a towering oak in the depths of the Goram Hill Forest country. Below me, perhaps no more than two or three miles away, in a narrow valley between towering, forested hills, I gazed upon the encampment of a Dragon army. I felt myself frowning. My heart felt like lead. The valley the Dragon occupied was long but narrow and as straight as the path of an arrow. Virgin forests, thick and dark, filled most of the valley floor. Here and there were large patches of open spaces where local farmers had hacked out fields to plant their crops. Running through the middle of the valley, twisting and turning in a dark brown ribbon of constant use, a wide and deeply rutted road made its way from the north to the south. In the north it finally faded into the vast sprawling grasslands of the Northern Steppes. Its opposite point ended in front of the massive wooden gates of a walled city called Malagna. The first of two large Dragon enclaves possessed by a small Dragon clan called the Malawei.

A part of my mind wished to dismiss the sight below me as some kind of fever-induced dream. The First Clan so far north in the hill country? Here, and apparently ensconced in their fortified camps, unbeknown by any human or dragon opponent?

Impossible.

Yet there they were. A vast fortified camp setting behind a double set of wooden palisades made from felled trees. Within the walls the Dragon created a perfect city. Rows upon rows of tents formed perfectly aligned communities and wide streets allowed for easy access to any part of the camp. Just on the outer side of the wooden walls a deep and wide trench had been dug encircling the entire fortification. Sharpened stakes driven at angles into the back slopes of the trench provided an extra barrier for any foe who might attack the dragon encampment.

This was not a temporary resting place where an invading army momentarily paused to rest itself. This was the beginnings of a permanent establishment. The rough canvas tents would soon be replaced with stout log cabins. A third wall, stronger in its construction than the first two, would be thrown up upon the opposite side of the trench. With the addition of that third wall the Dragon would be rooted into the land itself. It would take an army four times the size of the enemy before me to dislodge them from this valley.

Yet, by Springtime more of the First Clan would arrive. Thousands more.

In this part of the Goram Hills neither the Malawei, nor the warriors from the two small human kingdoms nearby, would be strong enough to remove the Clan Hartooth from the valley. With winter setting in no force could be hammered together to do the bloody work needed before the spring thaws arrived. The Clan Hartooth had arrived in the North Country. The First Clan of Dragonkind. The clan who reveled at making war on all of humankind. The prophecy said they would unite all of Dragonkind and lead the combined clans into the Final Battle against humanity. They were here. In this valley. Threatening the very existence of humanity itself. And I, a Bretan warrior-monk, and one of the few surviving Bretan wizards left, sworn by my religious vows to confront Evil in all its forms, saw Evil resting in the valley below.

I knew my duty. I knew what must be done.

Evil had to be confronted.

Coming to my feet I turned away from the sight below me. My heart was heavy. Guilt and shame flooded through my veins. I would mount my powerful war bird, a magnificent black and red plumed Great Wing and ride away. I would shirk my duty and flee from this conflict.

A more powerful threat compelled me to act like a coward.

CHAPTER2

When one faces a force of greater strength,

Bend with its surging tide and channel its power in ways

It least expects.

For force blindly hurled is effort with no purpose;

Without a clear vision

No Victory is possible.

-FROM THE BOOK OF ST. ALBANS-

In the saddle of my powerful Cedric,I gazed down at the heavy forest floor below me. A winter’s heavy blanket of snow fell the night before, creating a rugged, and isolated, canvas of white over the entire length of the valley floor. As the powerful war bird rose and fell on the various winds which played across this remote section of a mountainous valley,I used my Inner Eye to scan for any possible wizardry traps. A wizard’s Inner Eye is a powerful tool. One ‘sees’ the auras of all living things within the range of his powers. Since all Life radiates its own signature aura. It cannot be hidden, with the possible exception of a wizard who has wrapped himself in the folds of a Cloak of Invisibility. So fine and so precise are the auras visible to the Inner Eye a good wizard can identify a person’s, or a species’, aura individually.Even among wizards their auras are so unique one can tell if a particular wizard may be Bretan, Niscian, Rogarian, or any of the other specific religious sects.From my perch high above the valley, I felt no presence of danger. Nodding in relief I twisted in my saddle and looked at the heavens above and behind me. No fire-breathing Winged Beastie, the four limbed, bat-wing Dragons of legendary fame, rode the winds. Nor, thankfully, did I see the feathered magnificence of any Great Wings.Turning again to my left I scanned the gray-white haze of the towering shield wall of the High Kanris.

The High Kanris.

The unassailable rock edifice with its lofty tops crowned with glistening snow called the shield wall. The homeland for the majority of the human race. A series of mountain ranges torturously intertwined and undulating like a pit of deadly vipers in rugged snowcapped peaks and high mountain valleys. Residing deep within the mountain ranges were a number of human kingdoms. Large and small, rich and poor, the kingdoms found refuge in those high crags. Refuge and safety from the ravages of the Dragon. It was the shield wall which provided this blanket of security.

A wall of rock, rising with a sudden explosive urge high into the heavens, encapsulated the High Kanris like the stone battlements protecting an impenetrable city. The wall towered more than nine thousand feet into the sky. Rising, like some mythical god, over the forest hills and rolling country surrounding it. It was too high for a Winged Beastie to soar over. Its wall too steep and too rugged for any individual to climb. Only four major routes lead into its interior. Each route heavily guarded by warriors dedicated to keep the Dragon at bay. Because of this magnificent natural defense, the Dragon found himself in a stalemate in his war against humanity. The shield wall protected Man from Dragon incursion. The stark grandeur of its immense size and stupendous height actually frightened the normally fearless spirit of our foes. The Dragon feared heights. Ancient experience and Dragon folklore told them the high country was filled with unspeakable terrors.

Only invasion by an overwhelming force of their fabled pike-wielding infantry, and hordes of fire-breathing Winged Beasties, lay open to them if they wished to continue the war. An invasion up through one of the four wide passes penetrating the wall itself.So far, no Dragon clan felt compelled to attempt such an arduous task.

Or, at least, not yet.

But in the next valley not too far way lay encamped a massive Clan Hartooth army. They were, as Dragon prophecy foretold, the ones who would ultimately storm the very heights of heaven itself in their desire to eradicate humanity.

Satisfied all was well I urged my old black-winged friend to land in a small clearing below.With a swift and sudden descent Cedric spiraled down and used powerful wings to brake before setting down in the quiet clearing. Leaping from the saddle I turned and hurriedly unsaddled the black beast. It was feeding time and I could feel the hunger pains rummaging through the soul of my old friend as keenly as I could feel my own.Cedric bent his huge head down to me and gently nudged me with his hooked beak. Playfully I roughed his dark blood red feathered plume atop his head and told him not to eat too much. Stepping back, I braced myself for the rush of powerful winds as the war bird launched himself back into the heavens.

“Grandfather!”

The voice of a child calling. A small child, perhaps seven or eight years, her voice filled with relief and pleasure at seeing me arrive at last. Turning, I caught her just as she bounded into the air and leapt into my arms. Throwing arms around my neck she hugged me tightly and kissed me on the cheek.

“I’m happy you are here, grandfather. Especially now since so many bad people have arrived.”

Holding her in my arms I kissed her on the forehead and turned to watch the others join us. The rough pebble skin of her forehead felt odd to the touch. Especially so for a warrior-monk as I. As a Bretan monk I swore religious vows to protect Mankind against all evil. For generations that evil was defined as Dragon and the Dragon’s unquenchable thirst to destroy humanity. Yet, here I stood, holding in my arms a Dragon princess, the last surviving relative to a once powerful Dragon clan.

But in truth she was more than just a child princess. She was a Pearl Princess. The definition of Evil Incarnate in the legends and prophecies of both Dragon and Man. The last of the five promised Pearl Princesses Dragonkind would be given by the Dark Lords. With this last one preordained to unite all of the clans and make war upon Mankind for one final time.

As a warrior-monk, and as a Bretan wizard, I knew the prophecies which swirled around this child. I knew she was a creature who possessed powers far and away more superior than mine when it came to the manipulation of the Netherworld. I knew the immense gamble I took five months earlier when I agreed to take the child and raise and train her in the Bretan Way.

Any other monk would have slain the child upon first sight. A quick and efficient death and a final defeat to Dragon prophecy. But I could not. I felt her soul. My Inner Eye scanned her aura. I found no evil residing in the child. She was, five months earlier, as she was now, an innocent child being pulled and tossed about in a grand scheme of manipulation. Like a helpless child’s puppet there were powers, both Dragon and Man, who wished to control her innate abilities. And depending on which force finally won out the child would be an instrument of good or a weapon of evil.

I could not slay an innocent child. My hopes were to show her how to control her immense wizardry powers and mold her into that Netherworld force which would defy the Dragon’s Dark Lords and forever deny them their victory.

But there was a heavy price to pay in accepting this role.

Now practically every kingdom in the high country, and almost every Dragon barony, hunted us. Not all. But the vast majority did. We were outcasts. Our lives were forfeit the moment we were caught. And I, once a loyal follower of the Bretan Way, was now condemned as a Malus Apostate; a warrior-wizard of abomination. A creature who, thanks to his acquired powers, was automatically a threat to all of humanity. Every wizard from each of the religious beliefs would be hunting us. I doubted any would offer any form of mercy if, and when, they found us.

Two kinds of Dragons hunted us. One set believed in their prophecies. The child, the Fifth Sister, would grow up and acquire all her wizardry powers. She would unite all of Dragonkind and the ultimate war would be fought against humanity. They hunted us to free her from my control. My fate, and the fate of the three others who helped me in protecting and teaching the child, were sealed. There would be no escape.

A second group of Dragons hunted us with equal intensity. They too wished to destroy us. To destroy all of us. These Dragons doubted the prophecies of the Dark Lords. Over the last few years of living alongside, and sporadically fighting the human, they had come to grudgingly accept humans for what they were. Commerce arose between many Dragon baronies and human kingdoms. A sort of unspoken truce existed with many Dragon clans and human kingdoms. Prosperity flourished between Dragon and Man for those who chose this path. The child represented a dire threat to their prosperity. She was a symbol of old hatreds and ancient curses. She had to be destroyed.

The child was named Ursala. She was the grand daughter to a dead baron and extinct clan called the Anktooth. Her father, incredibly, was none other than the Baron Baknar Hartooth, the hereditary leader of the Clan Hartooth. Fate and destiny came together in this child’s life in a complicated weave of intrigue and black secrecy. If no one came to her rescue she would have a short life, and a horrible end, waiting for her.

I, Roland of the High Crags, chose to defy my faith, the gods, and the Netherworld itself. I chose to protect the child and make the attempt to lead her away from her terrible destiny. And a few others, through no fault of their own, chose to follow the path I now traveled as well.

Two youths, blond-haired and blue eyed, tall and lanky and with that certain air which suggested each was filled with immense confidence, approached quickly. Twins, Gawaith and Gawain were nephews to a good friend of mine, a king in a doomed city called Odar’s Landing. This city was a key defense thwarting the Dragon’s entry through one of the main passes leading into the high country. The Vik was a kingdom who defended this pass from Dragon incursion. The First Clan had invaded the lower end of the pass and pressed against the stout walls of Odar’s Landing with a huge army. The last we knew their uncle and his loyal followers still held the city. But our last word of the king’s defense came to us three months ago. Only the gods knew how he faired now.

Behind the grinning boys came the white-haired, grizzled old Niscian warrior-monk who called himself Alvis Fairhands. Small and bone thin, he knew not how old he was. Ancient would be the word I would describe him. Ancient and yet very dangerous when he held a sword in his hands. He was the only warrior-monk I knew who was allowed by his religious brethren to retire from the warrior’s role. Warrior-monks never live long enough to retire. They are trained from youth, in each religious sect, to fight evil and the Dragon. Regardless of the odds. Regardless of their personal wellbeing. Few lived past the age of forty. Fewer yet ever become warrior-wizards. None, except for the old man standing beside me, ever lived to retire.

But the Niscian was more than just a warrior-monk. He was a Null Stone as well. In the Realm of Wizardry found on my planet, a Null Stone was a very special creature. Special and rare. Our folklore tells us that a wizard’s magic ‘is in the blood.’ Not everyone has the destiny to become a wizard. Only a few are born who have the natural abilities a wizard must have. Of those born with the talent, fewer yet become one. To be a wizard first you must train to be a warrior-monk. After this training you must enter the Outer Realms, the world around us as we see and feel it and survive. If, after so long a time, the warrior-monk has survived and has shown his worthiness, and if he has the gift to become a wizard, he begins the arduous training of wizardry.

But a Null Stone is a different creature. Whereas wizards must face years of training and a lifetime worth of trying to control the powers given to him, a Null Stone is just the opposite. A true Null Stone is someone with the gift of shutting off the Netherworld and its addictive powers. A wizard cannot use his powers against a Null Stone. They are, in effect, like a bucket of water thrown onto a smoldering fire. Their powers extinguish any and all magic.

Alvis Fairhands was such a creature. A human Null Stone of great power. He was here because I had the need for him to curb, or silence, the child’s powerful mind. Poor Ursala, as the Pearl Princess she was, instinctively commanded more magic naturally than most wizards ever acquired through vigorous training. But so untrained, the child radiated her presence in the Netherworld like some powerful beacon throwing out a beam of light in the darkest of nights. Every moment of her existence was felt by those who knew of the Netherworld.

Wizards could feel her power. And through her so too could they feel mine. She not only radiated her immense power but somehow also augmented mine and made it stronger. No matter where we traveled our presence was known to others. Our foes hunted us. In the distance I could feel the presence of wizards searching. But so far Alvis’ talent as a Null Stone was masking the child’s mind and diffusing her powers enough to momentarily hide our presence. It would not last long.

“Master, we are happy to see you! It’s been a week since we parted.” Gawaith muttered, gripping his short horn bow in one hand and nodding his head, “We have venison cooking over a spit and Master Fairhands has found some wild piqut as well.”