Son of Dragons Read online

  Son of Dragons

  Book 2 of Legends of Oblivion series

  Andrea R. Cooper

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Copyright © 2014 by Andrea R. Cooper.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

  www.crimsonromance.com

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-8125-8

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8125-0

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-8126-6

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8126-7

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © iStockphoto.com/InnaFelker and iStockphoto.com/Ohmega1982

  To my husband, who not only showed me love is real but opened up a world of magic and fantasy … who encouraged me to indulge in my love of reading and never told me to give up my dream of becoming a writer … and who wrestled with little ones so I had time to write. Thank you for your support. I love you.

  To my children, Troy, Levi, and Chloe, may you always follow your dreams and hold onto them until they come true. Never accept defeat even when friends or family doubt you.

  Acknowledgments

  A special thank you goes to Tara Gelsomino for accepting this novel and to JC for your wonderful insight and suggestions, as well as the Crimson Romance editors for polishing my story and inspiring me to make my writing better. Thanks also to the Crimson Romance staff for helping my story reach others.

  Thank you to my writing group, my wonderful beta readers, friends, and family who supported me by listening to my ramblings about this book or reading it and offering insights.

  Special thanks go to my sister, Pam, who inspired me to open up more of the world and characters locked in my imagination for readers to enjoy.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Epilogue

  More from This Author

  Also Available

  Chapter One

  Mirhana stood over the body, shaking her head. Even with her poisoned-tipped arrows embedded in the creature, and pus dripping from his wounds, the corpse did not stop trying to flee.

  For all of Mirhana’s life, the witches had trained her against the undead: deadwalkers, vampyres, wraiths, and more. She knew their sound. Their voices rasped like the wings of beetles. They killed anyone in their path.

  She glanced over her shoulder. The man she’d saved from this deadwalker’s clutches lay unmoving beneath the base of a nearby tree, his slain horse beside him.

  Her gaze narrowed on the corpse once more. His hands clawed the dirt as he dragged his mangled body away from her.

  She unsheathed her sword and stomped her boot down on the back of his neck. “Tell me, demon.” She dug the tip of her blade into his tattered tunic. “What is your purpose here?”

  “To do the will of my master and none other,” he choked out.

  Mirhana sneered. If the creature saw her, he would no doubt tremble at the sight. “Who is your master? Who has summoned you out of your slumber?”

  When he did not answer her, she dug the blade into his back.

  “Careful, or I’ll sever your spine with another twist. Would your master appreciate the delay of your crawling? Or will his wrath do more damage than mine?”

  The deadwalker’s feeble attempts at escape stopped.

  “Good. Now, tell me who sent you.”

  His silence brought her blade deeper into his decaying flesh. Mirhana wrinkled her nose. The creature reeked of fish guts and sickly sweet rotting meat.

  “W-Warloc,” it finally spat.

  She frowned.

  “The land heals,” she said. “All signs show the Warloc’s dead.”

  Warloc meant “oath breaker.” For millennia, he’d systematically joined then betrayed covens of witches and wizards across the thirteen kingdoms, turning them over to the witch-burning monks to gain more magic and power.

  “So am I. Yet here I am.”

  Taken aback at the truth of his words, she pondered their meaning. With the Warloc’s death, these deadwalkers should also be gone, for it had been he that raised and controlled them. But how could the Warloc not be dead?

  Her ancestor, Nivel, had told her that the Warloc was killed at Beltane. And the changing state of the kingdoms had been further proof. No more did winter lock them in its frozen embrace, and the blight ravaging the land had disappeared as well. “Speak truth, the Warloc is dead.”

  “His body is no more.” Drool oozed from the creature’s mouth. “But he lives on in another form. His orders filter through his protégé to prepare the way for his return.”

  “Tell him to stay dead, where he belongs.”

  Then a woman’s voice rose out of the creature. “For every one of my followers you kill, I will infect three times the number of innocents.”

  “And you are?”

  “Sorceress, progeny of the Warloc, successor to his kingdom. And I will claim my inheritance.”

  “Then come and fight. Why send your ghouls here?” Mirhana shuddered from the gooseflesh that danced along her skin. Even if she did not have magic strong enough to reanimate the dead—nor did she wish for it—she recognized the taint of evil curling up from within this deadwalker. A movement caught the corner of her eye near the dead horse, but when she glanced back the fallen human lay still. It must have been the wind.

  “I seek Landon of Fafniron. Give him a message for me.”

  Suddenly Mirhana’s arm jerked of its own accord, ripping her sword out of the creature and turning, propelled by the Sorceress’s power until the blade pressed against her own throat. Mirhana clasped her other hand over the hilt, straining to keep the edge from sinking too deeply into her skin. The tingle of her blood oozing from the cut stung.
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  “Tell him each night I will bring more creatures from the grave like this one, until he succumbs to me. Tonight, four besides this one, hunt. Tomorrow, six, and so on. Until they saturate the land. All humans they infect, living and non-living will also obey me.”

  “So your kingdom will be a race of corpses. Hope you don’t mind the stench.” Mirhana gagged at the thought of the stink that would blanket Fafniorn.

  “Tell the ancient ladon to come out of hiding, or none will be left alive in Fafniron.”

  The kingdom of Fafniron was a two-day journey from here. There were bigger and richer realms closer. Why Fafniron?

  The magic controlling her arm ceased. With a grimace, she touched her fingers to her neck. Thankfully, no part of the undead had contaminated her.

  Without remorse, she raised her sword and lopped off the creature’s head. Her legs trembled. This Sorceress was stronger in magic than she. If the Sorceress spoke truth about the Warloc and deadwalkers, then the battle still raged, despite what Nivel said.

  Mirhana had hoped, with the coming of spring after a harsh winter that lasted nearly twelve moon cycles, that these deadwalkers and wraiths, at least, would be gone. If that were possible, she would only have to worry about witch-burning monks and vampyres and an occasional necromancer. She could handle that. It might even give her time to have a life—maybe find someone to love and have children.

  It should have been an impossible thought, with all the death she’d seen in her life, but Mirhana couldn’t help hoping for a future. For now though, she could only make this world safe for that future—not just for herself and her possible offspring—but for everyone else as well.

  That thought alone brought her a measure of comfort.

  She cleaned her blade with balsam fir resin, then rinsed it with water from her waterskin and shook off the excess, and sheathed her sword. To prevent its friends from tracing her, she removed her arrows from the beheaded creature. She would burn the body ensuring no smell of the creature would carry across the river.

  She looked back to the creature’s victim and scowled at him. What kind of foolish man would be out in the forest in the middle of night? And how had he ended up tangling with a deadwalker?

  With her weapons sheathed, she raced back to the willow where his body lay. Her Elvin eyes told her before she touched him that his breathing was even.

  She opened her mind to the magic inherited from Nivel, and strengthened by the witches who had raised her.

  When she and her twin brother had been born, the Elvin had cast her out. Twins were rare, and it was Elvin custom, Nivel had told her, for one of the babes to be sacrificed to the witches. Mirhana’s resemblance to the humans had made her the easy choice.

  Nivel had the typical arched eyebrows and pointed ears of the long-lived race, but he had married a human woman, whose genes had manifested (after skipping several generations) in Mirhana. Though her parents had both been Elvin, her ears were more curved, and her black eyebrows arched at a less sharp angle over her green eyes. She was shunned by her people for looking human and exiled to live with the witches.

  Now their generations of knowledge and training filled her, as well as the magic they’d given her with their blood pact. She fingered the scar on her palm. She was bound to them and they to her. Any strong emotion from one of them would jar her from a sound sleep. It was a way to protect each other from a distance. She would know instantly if they needed help and where they were.

  Prickles of her magic coursed through her, like droplets of rain upon her skin as she searched the human now before her for any trace of the undead’s taint.

  His shoulder-length chestnut hair hung loose, probably from wrestling with the vile creature. If this man had been infected, she would have to kill him also.

  Her magic found no marks on him and she let out a breath. There was no cure once someone was bitten or scratched, or if their blood mingled with a deadwalker’s. Their victim could feel fine, perhaps even rejoice that they had escaped harm and be welcomed back into their household. Then night would fall, and the victim would rise as an undead corpse and wreak havoc on the unsuspecting family members.

  But she must have interrupted the deadwalker before he could complete his attack on this human. Soon the man would recover, and Mirhana must remain hidden. No one must know of her, an Elvin who appeared human, combing the lands, hunting the undead.

  If she must, she would search all night until the others this Warloc’s protégé spoke about were found and destroyed. She doubted the Sorceress brought forth such creatures in this same area. The better strategy would be to scatter them, and she was sure this woman was no fool.

  Questions poured into her mind. Who or what was this Landon? Why was he so important to the Sorceress? Why did she pursue him here? What trouble would come when she found him?

  Focusing back on the matter at hand, she knew she should burn the body of the deadwalker. She and the witches had kept the spread of this poison to a minimum. Now, this evil threatened to wipe out an entire kingdom. If she did not stop it, this disease would devastate the land.

  She brushed back a piece of her hair, loosened from her braid. Her eyes caught a movement again from beneath the willow, and she watched, horrified, as the man stirred. The bile rose in her throat at the thought of another human succumbing to the undead taint. Then a worse thought arose: what if he had seen her?

  Damn. On swift feet, she tore away from the scene. She’d watch from a safe distance and kill this man if he showed signs of turning. If he was fine, Mirhana could return later, after he left, and burn the deadwalker’s body and head.

  She was nearly a mile away from the human, when she heard sticks breaking behind her. Mirhana froze, listening. The birds and other forest animals had gone silent. She gasped silently; the air felt thick in her lungs. Suddenly, a hand clamped down on her throat. Mirhana clawed at it, her fingers scraping pure bone. More magic. She growled, but couldn’t reach her sword.

  “Did I say I was done playing with you?” the Sorceress asked. “You aren’t as smart as your mouth would try to make me believe. Are you choking on your words now?”

  Spots danced before her eyes, and she allowed her knees to buckle. The hand around her throat eased some, as though expecting her to pass out. It gave her the chance to inhale past the sting in her throat. The Sorceress must think she was human to lower her guard so soon.

  Mirhana let go of the hand, ready for it to clamp shut again and drew her sword. In an instant, she forced her body down and twisted so her blade sliced through a skeleton’s body. Black hollow eye sockets stared at her.

  “When I’m done, I’ll let you know.” She brought her weapon up in an arc, dissecting the arm connected to the hand at her throat. Then she pried the fingers off and gasped for breath.

  She would incinerate this body too, but not with human fire. She would use her witchfire that burned hotter than any flame to turn these bones to ashes.

  Witchfire burned without smoke, so she could be sure if the human awoke, he’d not smell or see anything. However, if he were standing too close, he’d feel the heat of this magic as if locked inside a furnace.

  After she released the magic, she watched the yellow flames lick everything to dust. The skull took the longest, but after several moments, it too disintegrated. Witchfire drained her; she would not be able to use it on the deadwalker’s body from earlier. The strongest with magic could wield witchfire in a circle a foot or two from themselves.

  Witchfire only came to those pure of heart, because it was so destructive and precise. The purer the heart, the more powerful the magic. If Mirhana’s intent had been to burn all bones around her, it would find old bones buried and forgotten long ago. Yet, the grass or even the clothes of the dead would not be destroyed.

  Mirhana snuck back to the willow tree to see if the human had left yet. Instead, she found the spot empty except for the creature’s body. The human had gone.

  Relieved, she hiked down
the path, then stopped short. Gods! Where was the head?

  Chapter Two

  At the foot of his throne, Prince Landon leaned forward listening intently to his liegeman’s recount. Landon absentmindedly raked a hand through his thick hair, messing the strands that were pulled back at the nape of his neck and tied loosely with a black cord. “You have told me all?”

  “I barely escaped with my life! If that woman had not saved me, I would be one of them. I’ve heard the stories as have you.” Gillespie, his liegeman, shuddered and looked to the deadwalker’s head he’d brought, as though it might spring to life. “My father said only fire kills them. I have given you all I know about what happened. May the gods punish me with boils if I have not!”

  Landon chuckled. “No need for boils.” He stood and strode over to the shield hung on the stone wall. He ran his fingers over the image of the Fafniron coat-of-arms impressed into the shield: a black dragon on one side, a lion on the other, with a crown between them—his family crest. “And this woman, she was alone?”

  “Aye, the woman was alone,” Gillespie said.

  He wanted to meet this woman who battled the undead so easily. A warrior nomad. What would it be like to have the freedom to roam the countryside? Not confined by the duties or expectations of others. Fighting evil, instead of hiding in a palace while his people suffered.

  His parents never allowed him the freedom to wander outside the palace walls unless he was with an armed escort. As a young boy, he had often disobeyed and snuck out. But since he became of age, he had succumbed to their wishes, and yet was no happier for it. Instead, he longed for the smell of wild roses and swim in an icy river.

  Before his father’s strange illness, which rendered him unconscious, he had made a pact with a ruler of the kingdom called Bramad for Landon to take the hand of his daughter, Kavith, in marriage. Before they could marry, Kavith’s own father had fallen into a sickness as well.

  His father wanted this alliance for many reasons, one being that Bramad was the smallest kingdom of the thirteen in the realm. It traded effortlessly with the nearby kingdoms: the cannibals of Everlang, the silk and spice traders of Tristen, and finally the Nionians, with their rich gold stores and enhanced weapons that made them the strongest in the realm. Landon’s kingdom bordered the south of Bramad, and he understood the advantage of having an ally and buffer between them and the war-hungry Nionians.