The Wings of Dragons: Book One of the Dragoon Saga Read online

  THE WINGS OF DRAGONS

  Book One of The Dragoon Saga

  Josh VanBrakle

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2013 Josh VanBrakle

  All Rights Reserved

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead or actual events is a coincidence.

  Arboreal Press

  Sidney, NY 13838

  www.arborealpress.com

  Library of Congress Preassigned Control Number: 2013907674

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9891957-1-3

  First Edition: 2013

  Cover design and typesetting by Heather Hilson

  Forest Fire Copyright Adrian Hillman/Fotolia.com

  Dragon Copyright Kuma/Fotolia.com

  Find out more about the author and upcoming books at www.joshvanbrakle.com

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing my first novel has been both the most laborious and the most rewarding undertaking of my life. It is also something that never could have happened without the support of some truly incredible people. First and foremost, I want to thank Shannon Delany, author of the 13 to Life series and the Weather Witch series, whose writing workshops literally changed my life and convinced me to pursue my dream. Shannon, without your advice, I would never have completed this novel.

  I also owe a great deal to those who reviewed drafts of this manuscript and whose comments and copy-edits helped me refine my work. Tom Foulkrod, Jim Hilson, Gretchen Smith, and my dear wife Christine, I truly appreciate your willingness to stick with me through the numerous revisions and support me as I begin my writing journey.

  Finally, I especially want to thank Heather Hilson, who turned my manuscript into an actual book. Heather designed my cover as well as handling the typesetting and formatting.

  If this book is any good, it is only because of these wonderful people.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  1. Left in the Tower

  2. Amroth’s Speech

  3. A Night of Three Murders

  4. Stupid Old Hag!

  5. Departure

  6. First Blood

  7. Ryokaiten

  8. Okthora’s Law

  9. Encounter with the Almighty

  10. Lightning Sight

  11. Descent into Darkness

  12. Ambushed!

  13. Change of Plans

  14. Vengeance

  15. Magic and Minawë

  16. What Comes of Revenge

  17. To Protect Someone Precious!

  18. Haldessa Ablaze

  19. Home in the Trees

  20. Evil Unveiled

  21. Crown of Flames

  22. The Kanji Circles

  23. Loyalty’s Reward

  24. Kindred Spirits

  25. The First Army of Lodia

  26. What’s Most Important?

  27. Saito and Saitosan

  28. Reunions

  29. The Sea Stone

  30. The Meaning of Strength

  31. Ziorsecth Rises

  32. Sacrifice

  33. The Wings of Dragons

  34. A New Heart

  PROLOGUE

  Bitter cold engulfed the young woman as she realized the truth. She would not live to see the dawn.

  “Stay in the house!” her husband had cried to her. Less than an hour ago, that’s where she’d been: curled up next to the fire and falling asleep with her head against his arm. Now she stood in the middle of a pasture, clutching a tiny package to her chest with all her strength. Tears cascaded from her cheeks at the sight of the two figures before her. Mere yards away, they clashed in the night, sparks flying each time their blades met. In spite of her husband’s warning, she’d followed him. She wouldn’t cower inside while he fought for his life and those of his family! As long as she breathed, she would never abandon him, nor would she relinquish her cherished bundle that the pair of them, against all common sense, had created together.

  The fiercest spark yet lit up the pasture, and a moment later a sword arced through the air toward her, landing on the ground not a foot away. Frantically, she stared into the darkness, and she just barely made out the silhouette of a disarmed man on his knees, pleading. His triumphant opponent paid no heed and stabbed deep into the defeated man’s chest.

  With a single glance at the sword before her, the woman knew which fighter had fallen. She wailed in the night at the death of her husband.

  At the sound, the murderer turned and walked slowly toward her. The woman froze, so filled with fear she couldn’t think. She gazed upon the villain’s foul blade, still dripping with her husband’s blood. Tracing with her eyes up the killer’s arm, she beheld the face of her death. The murderer hesitated briefly and then, fist clenching around the hilt as though steeling for what would come next, swung.

  The woman felt surprisingly little as the blade sliced through her neck, and shock, more than pain, caused her to drop to the ground. As she fell, her tightly guarded bundle came loose from her arms and rolled a short distance, coming to a stop next to her fallen husband’s sword. The cloths protecting it fell away, revealing a tiny infant boy, the tip of his shoulder resting gently on the blade’s hilt.

  As the attacker readied the third death blow of the night, the dying mother beheld her son open his eyes, his piercing sky blue eyes. She flashed back to earlier that night, when those same eyes, this time belonging to her husband, stared at her with worry. “He will be hated,” he’d told her, “just as I am hated.”

  “He will be loved,” she’d declared without the slightest doubt, “just as you are loved.”

  He’d smiled at her, the same sad smile that made her fall in love with him, the one that hid nothing of his grief. Just once, she wished she could have seen him smile at her genuinely, from the other side of that pain.

  Instead, the last image the woman saw was the downward thrust of the murderer’s blade toward her son.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Left in the Tower

  Toah. Toah. Toah.

  Iren Saitosan’s eyes snapped open at the sound of something he almost never heard, yet instantly recognized: the echoes of footsteps on the stone tower stairs leading to his chamber.

  Toah. Toah. Toah.

  He threw off his tattered blankets and leapt out of the hard bed. Almost no one came up here. Every so often, children would dare each other to see who could climb the farthest up the steps without getting frightened. They considered scaling the tower all the way to the top and knocking on the Left’s door the ultimate sign of bravery.

  Toah. Toah.

  These steps didn’t belong to children though. They were too heavy, and there was no associated chatter. Those not making the climb always teased the challenger, alternating between goading them on and threatening them with what the evil Left might do to them if they dared to continue. No, these steps came from an adult.

  Toah. Toah.

  Iren tensed. Since the day King Azuluu had decreed that he must live up here away from “normal people,” no adult had ever climbed the tower.

  Toah.

  That was odd. Iren furrowed his brow. The steps were slowing down, as though whoeve
r made them were hesitating. It was probably just some gawker, no different from the children, coming to see the freak, the Left.

  The sound of nervous breathing made Iren focus on his chamber door. Whoever had come had made it all the way to the top and now stood just outside. The door was already slightly ajar, just as Iren had left it. He grinned. This was his favorite part. He couldn’t help but glance above the door at the wooden bucket resting precariously against the top of the door and the wall. His little trick always worked on the kids; he wondered if an adult would be stupid enough to fall for it too. Folding his arms, he leaned against the windowsill and waited.

  After a moment a loud grunt came from the steps, and then the door flung open as the intruder shoved his way in with a shoulder charge.

  “Ow!”

  The bucket slammed into the man’s head, dumped its load, and then rolled away, rumbling on the stone floor. Its former contents, a full load of water, now soaked the intruder. Across the room, Iren cocked his head sideways and smiled innocently, saying, “Should have knocked.”

  The intruder put a hand to his head, feeling for a bruise. “Captain Angustion warned me you might pull a stunt like this.” He started to say more, but some of the water snuck inside his mouth, making him gag.

  “That’s smart, Balear, spitting it out,” Iren said lightly. “Do you know how many times I’ve washed my clothes in that?”

  Balear’s face paled, then just as quickly reddened as he shouted, “You left-handed demon-child!”

  Iren didn’t react to Balear’s outburst. He’d been called worse in his tenure at Haldessa Castle. Instead, he did his best to look unintimidated, even though Balear carried a broadsword on his belt. “Why don’t you head to the baths and wash off?” he suggested. “Also, I hate to tell you, but you should really consider drying your uniform. That’s a very unbecoming look for an officer in the Castle Guard.”

  Balear seethed, sending drops of water cascading off him.

  “Something the matter, Balear?” Iren could barely restrain his laughter. Balear was perhaps the most stuck-up of all Haldessa’s residents. His short-cropped blonde hair and black uniform were always immaculate. It must be killing him to have a Left get the better of him, especially one wearing discarded jester’s motley and with unkempt tan hair that hung loosely around his shoulders. “Here,” Iren offered with mock sincerity, “let me help you back down the stairs.”

  He stepped forward and reached out his left hand, but Balear recoiled as though from a poisonous snake. “Stay away from me!” Wild-eyed, the sergeant located a small rock sitting atop Iren’s nearby dresser. He threw it, and Iren winced as it struck the floor just short of his foot.

  When the stone clattered to a stop, Iren’s grin was gone. Numbly, he picked up and dusted off the pebble, cradling it like an infant. Setting it gently on the windowsill behind him, he turned his back on Balear and said no more.

  He’d hoped it would be enough for the thick-headed sergeant to get his meaning, but apparently Balear was too stupid for that. Behind him, the soldier barked, “Hurry and make yourself decent, or as decent as a freak like you can get. That order comes from Captain Angustion himself. The king’s ordered a celebration tonight to honor the captain’s successes against the Quodivar. All castle residents must attend, and while I can’t begin to understand why, the captain says that includes you. Make sure you come.”

  Iren scoffed, responding without turning around, “Why would I do that? All Amroth wants to do is prance around and recount his, no doubt, single-handed victory.”

  Balear stiffened. “How dare you insult Captain Angustion! Our gracious captain extends you a personal invitation, something you cannot possibly deserve, yet you haven’t the slightest humility at his offering. You foul, disgusting, Left cur!”

  With that, Balear stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him. Its harsh ring, and the harsher ring of “cur,” echoed mockingly off the stone walls for what felt like an eternity afterward. Iren folded his arms on the windowsill. It was bad enough King Azuluu forced him to live up here without straw-haired bigots bothering him. With a deep breath, he vainly attempted to wipe the encounter from his mind.

  The scenery admittedly helped. Haldessa Castle and its surrounding city were built on a bluff overlooking the ocean, and Iren never tired of the salty smell or the way the sun sparkled on the water. He wished he could swim in it, just once, but he wasn’t permitted outside the castle walls.

  With a sigh, Iren pulled himself back into his room. He considered his unparalleled view atop the Tower of Divinion one of his life’s few pleasures, but today it just depressed him. His tiny chamber felt increasingly like a cage. He could see the incredible landscape of Lodia, the rolling farm fields dotted with villages and wooded thickets, but he couldn’t touch it.

  More than anyone else, Balear always reminded him of that fact. Iren clenched his fists. In so many ways, they were the same. They were almost the same height, just under six feet, and had similar muscled builds.

  “Even in age,” he muttered. At twenty, Balear had just two years on Iren.

  Despite their outward similarities, however, he and the sergeant differed in one way, the one that mattered most. Because of that difference, the right-handed Balear had achieved everything Iren desired and yet would never accomplish. Balear had joined the Castle Guard at fourteen. He’d battled the Quodivar and killed dozens of them without ever suffering more than minor injuries. Everyone who served under him enjoyed his command. Despite his young age, rumors already circulated that Balear would replace Captain Angustion someday. Iren believed them. Even Amroth openly considered the young man his protégé.

  By contrast, Iren had never once fought in a battle, a tournament, or indeed done anything noteworthy at all. When he’d asked Amroth to join the Castle Guard at fourteen, the captain had just laughed and told him to go away.

  Seeking a distraction, Iren grabbed his stolen mop from a corner and began cleaning up the water spilled by Balear’s intrusion. As he swept, shouting from the window caught his attention. He recognized the voice immediately. One of the Castle Guard drill instructors was holding a practice session.

  Iren’s grip tightened on the wooden handle. Facing the window, he held the mop before him like a sword. As the officer bellowed commands, Iren followed through with each of them, swinging the mop with increasing speed and power. Beads of sweat formed on his temples, but he ignored them. While he practiced, he didn’t have to think. He didn’t have to think about the soldiers in the courtyard below developing a lifelong camaraderie that would never include him. He didn’t have to recall the angry eyes of every man in the company the first and only time he’d tried to join them for practice. He could forget their jeers as the instructor chased him away at the point of a sword.

  When the session ended, however, all those thoughts came flooding to him at once. Slamming the mop on the floor, Iren shouted, “It’s not fair! Everyone else in the whole kingdom is right-handed. Why am I the only Left?” Grasping the rock Balear had thrown at him, Iren whipped around and launched it, not bothering to aim or even care what he hit.

  In truth, he could damage little. His chamber had little adornment: a hard bed with three discarded blankets and a dresser with the few outfits he’d fished from the trash. The only object of merit was a large painting hung on the wall beside the dresser. As if guided by fate, the rock struck its frame, and the artwork clattered to the floor.

  The harsh sound yanked Iren from his temper. He knelt and retrieved both the stone and the fallen painting. They were his finest treasures. The stone, little more than a black pebble, had come from the ocean. The surf had tossed it until it had worn perfectly smooth. Years ago, one of the castle children had brought it home, but his mother had commanded him to get rid of it. Iren swiped it that night, his only possession that had ever touched the sea.

  As for the painting, while he couldn’t truly claim to own it, he still considered it his. It had hung in this to
wer since long before he arrived, yet it apparently held such low value that no one bothered to remove it when he took up residence. Still, he couldn’t help feeling a deep attachment to it, the only thing in his room he hadn’t stolen or pulled from the garbage.

  Iren surveyed it closely. “No harm done,” he whispered with relief.

  Returning the painting to the wall, Iren stepped back and took in its splendid image: a serpentine dragon. Though unsigned, the painting’s remarkable realism made the great beast almost come alive. Blue streaks and hairs off its spine accentuated its gleaming white body. Its wings stretched beyond the painting’s borders, so that they appeared to extend forever to the heavens. Though its mouth opened wide in a silent roar, its expression invoked not terror but majesty.

  The painting’s frame held a small plaque that read, “Divinion, the Holy Dragon.” Iren smiled, proud of his unshared knowledge. It gave him a small satisfaction, knowing something the vast majority of the populace did not. Though everyone called Haldessa’s tallest spire the Tower of Divinion, few understood the name’s origin. Growing up, Iren overheard mothers tell their children that long ago, the tower served as a temple to worship dragons, sacred creatures that brought balance to the world.

  Of course, no one used it for that purpose now. Nobody believed in the dragons anymore. Most had forgotten that they even had names, let alone what those names were.

  As Iren looked at the dragon’s face in the artwork, though, for a moment he saw more than a painting. The creature stared out at the room with sky blue eyes, eyes that eerily matched Iren’s. Their gaze bored through his body, and a sudden hopelessness washed over him. Barely conscious of his actions, Iren backed away from the painting and collapsed on his bed, burying his head in his hands.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Amroth’s Speech