Dragon Wife
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Dragon Wife
by
Diana Green
Dragon Clan Series, Book 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Dragon Wife
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Diana Green
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Debbie Taylor
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Publishing History
First Faery Rose Edition, 2014
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-386-5
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-387-2
Dragon Clan Series, Book 1
Published in the United States of America
Prologue
Huroth, the dragon chieftain, pulled painfully awake. What had roused him? Was it a sound, a bright flash, or this hellish throbbing inside his skull? His senses were slow to respond, his mind sluggish as if he had slept for an age. Perhaps he had. It was difficult to remember.
He tried to move but found himself locked in place, as if frozen in a wall of ice. His vision found little to focus on, save blurred bluish light, and a terrible cold knifed through him. He roared, throwing his strength against whatever held him, but nothing changed. Even his mighty voice was muffled.
Time crept by as Huroth struggled to free himself. He concentrated all his will and power into his limbs, pushing, straining. Nothing. He stoked the dragon fire, deep in his belly, and breathed it out. Nothing. He sent his thoughts racing into the world, searching for another dragon, someone to link with, anyone who could help. Still nothing.
Where was his clan? Surely they couldn’t all be dead. Not Thalos the Indestructible, not Ulli and Greylor...not his own son, Harith? Fear chilled him worse than the icy grip of his prison. Was he truly alone?
Huroth tried to remember what had happened, how he’d come to be trapped like this, but it was useless. Recent memories were as clouded as his vision. He could only recall events further in the past, during the Trolkin war and before. But how long ago was that?
Gradually the light faded as night fell over Huroth’s prison. He slipped into a fitful sleep, exhausted by his efforts to escape. This was not the deep oblivion from which he’d first roused, but a restless dozing. Night stretched on and on, till at last dawn broke. The day came and went, and then the next, light following dark, following light. He didn’t perish of hunger or cold, though both gnawed at him. Some powerful magic held him beyond the mortality of starvation and freezing.
Huroth lost all track of time in this endless cycle of days. Weeks passed, possibly months. The only changes were a subtle warming along the bottom of his feet and a quiet dripping. It was the sound of hope. Drip. Drip. Drip. Ice melting, ever so slowly.
Then it happened, on a morning no different from the rest. He saw a sudden movement at the edge of his vision, indistinct but repetitive. The motion stopped, and he heard a distant voice chanting. It sounded like the ancient tongue of the Eldrin, though he couldn’t be sure.
Tension built in the surrounding ice as it bent and buckled. CRACK! A thunderous breaking echoed around him. His prison split and fell away. He found himself in the largest of his clan’s caves, open at one end to the mountain air and a breathtaking drop to rocks below.
The cave appeared long deserted. Animal bones and bat droppings littered the floor. Huroth growled. No other creatures would dare live here if dragons were using it. Where were his kin?
Directly in front of him stood a ragged human with filthy brown hair, an overgrown beard, and wild eyes.
“You, dragon!” The man cried, raising a glowing blue staff to point at Huroth. “It is I, Vardis, who have awakened you. Bow before your new master and serve me well.”
Huroth glared down at the man, whose voice was as puny as the rest of him. Though his blue staff vibrated with power, Huroth doubted he had full mastery of it. He appeared little more than a hedge wizard with a tool too great for his skill.
Huroth let loose a roar which shook the cavern walls, knocking the human to his knees. The man dropped the staff, throwing his hands over his head.
NO!
Huroth bellowed into the stranger’s mind.
It is you who will serve me!
****
Orwenna fidgeted, barely resisting the urge to scratch the back of her head. These hairpins, which Cousin Lutia had stuck her with, were abominable. How could women stand to have them poking into their scalp morning through night?
Give her a nice simple braid, any time. Who needed their hair piled up and decked with jewels? It’s not like that would turn her into a beauty. Nothing but a powerful glamour spell could work such a miracle.
Young as she was, she suffered no illusions about her appearance. Though her mother was an elegant woman with luxuriant red hair and graceful features, Orwenna’s looks were quite different. Her hair was browner and straighter, like her father’s. Her face and body were too bony, her mouth too wide to fit the ‘rosebud’ ideal. Only her eyes were like her mother’s, a blue as deep and beautiful as the sea.
“Stop squirming,” Lutia scolded in her ear. “Act like a lady.”
Orwenna fought back a grimace and sat on her hands to keep from yanking the hairpins out. She was trying to be ladylike. Really. It wasn’t as easy as it looked.
The naming ceremony dragged on, as if all this pomp and ritual were necessary just to welcome a baby boy. Orwenna knew, for a fact, that the princess’s naming ceremony hadn’t been half as long. But she was just a girl, and this infant prince was a much needed heir to the throne.
For a while, Orwenna tried to stay interested. She studied house banners hanging along the length of the great hall and raised her eyes to the intricate tile work that topped each pillar. She compared clothing worn by the gathered celebrants, mostly velvet, fine wool, and heavy brocade, as spring was late this year.
It was no use. The priests kept droning on about divine guardians and royal destinies. Despite her best efforts, Orwenna’s mind turned to thoughts of home.
Have the ewes started lambing yet?
She wondered.
Are the crocuses in the yard replaced by daffodils, or has this cold snap delayed them? More importantly, is Mother recovering from her long winter’s illness, and is Father home from his sea voyage?
Just as Orwenna feared she might scream from tedium, a figure lurched around a pillar at the back of the hall. As he half jogged, half staggered toward King Elric, a murmur rose from the courtiers. People got to their feet and strained for a better look.
The king stood also, staring at the alarming individual who approached him. The man was gaunt and dirty, his hair a matted mess, his clothes threadbare. Worst of all were his eyes, which held the look of madness.
“Guards!” the king shouted, though there was little need. Four armored men were already hurrying to intercept the stranger.
Only this was no stranger. Orwenna suddenly recognized his face.
“It’s my Uncle Vardis,” she said in surprise.
“Surely not,” Lutia hissed. “He’s banished.”
As guards held the man’s arms, he called out, addressing the king.
“You have no need to fear me, Elric. I am not as you remember.”
“What I remember,” countered the king, “is a younger brother using magic against me. How dare you return?”
“I come as emissary for a dragon…one I woke from an age-long slumber. If you listen to what I say, the kingdom of Rhelaun could profit.”
“He’s crazed,” someone said loudly. “Lock him up.”
“Dragons are nothing but legend,” someone else cried.
King Elric raised his hand for silence, gazing keenly at Vardis. Though they were brothers, there was little about them in common. Where Vardis sported a great thatch of auburn hair, the king was fair and balding. Where one was whip thin and volatile, the other was stocky and deliberate. Only around the eyes could a resemblance be seen. Both had low jutting brows, giving them a look of dour intensity.
“Why should I believe such a tale?” The king asked.
“You need not believe, Elric. It will become self-evident.” Vardis turned to the gathered courtiers, his eyes feverish. “The dragon chieftain is on his way. He will be here within the hour. If your archers fire upon him or your soldiers attack, he will burn the town to cinders. But, if you welcome him and show proper courtesy, he will offer an alliance between his kind and yours. Rhelaun could have the might of a dragon clan behind it.”
The king’s eyes narrowed. He stepped back slowly and sat on the throne, like a tomcat retreating from a fight.
“Take him to the dungeons,” he ordered the guards.
“Brother, I beg you to listen!”
“I will speak more with you later.” He waved dismissively, and Vardis was dragged struggling from the hall. The king beckoned the captain of his guard, then leaned in close and spoke quietly to him.
Orwenna was too curious to resist eavesdropping. She whispered a quick charm, taught by her mother, and concentrated. Energy tingled up her neck and circled her head like a halo of invisible sparks. Though whispered, at a distance of thirty yards, the king’s words rang in her ears, clear as a bell.
“Inform the archers to hold fire, except in self-defense. The same goes for all sentries. They are to stand down, unless the creature attacks. Is that clear?”
“If you’re sure, sire.” The captain’s voice sounded doubtful.
“You think me foolish?”
“Well…no. Of course not. But a dragon, sire?”
“It is highly improbable,” the king acknowledged. “However, I find it never hurts to be prepared. Stranger things have happened.”
“Yes, sire.”
“If there is no dragon, my orders are harmless, except to give the men a good laugh. If there is a dragon, I’d rather not have the town burned.”
“Very wise, sire. I’ll see to it directly.”
“Good man.”
Orwenna bounced lightly in her chair, barely repressing her excitement. King Elric, her pragmatic uncle, believed enough to warn the guard. He thought there was some chance a dragon might actually arrive at the castle, within the hour. Incredible!
As it happened, she didn’t have long to wait. The naming ceremony was barely over, when shouts were heard from the courtyard. A guard rushed in, almost incoherent with shock.
“A dragon, sire!” he yelled. “There’s a great black dragon flying in from the hills.”
“Let no one fire on it!” The king barked his command, springing up from the throne. “We mustn’t provoke a fight!”
Orwenna cursed the fact all the windows in the hall were high and narrow, set with stained glass. She wouldn’t be able to see anything from in here. As she rose to find a better spot, a shadow passed over the windows in the east wall. A tremendous beating of wings could be heard, even through the thick stone. Women shrieked, grabbing their children’s hands to flee deeper into the keep. A number of men joined them.
“Come Orwenna, quickly.” Cousin Lutia grabbed her wrist and tugged.
“I’m staying.”
“You can’t!” Lutia’s grip tightened.
Orwenna wrenched her wrist free and took a step back. She was not going to miss this, the most exciting thing to happen in generations. It would take more than a matronly cousin to remove her. Safety and appearances be damned.
Something in her expression must have communicated this, because Lutia let out a defeated sigh and hurried away.
The gathering grew quiet as sounds of boot heels on stone echoed from the entryway. A man strode in alone, though to call him a man seemed less than sufficient. There was such raw power about him, such majesty in his bearing. No one could mistake his identity. This was the black dragon, shifted to man-like form, just as legend described. Orwenna felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck.
“I am Huroth, son of Huren,” he announced, his voice rich and deep. He faced the king, down the long silent hall. “I am chieftain of the dragons who dwell in the Drake’s Teeth Mountains. We offer an alliance to the kingdom of Rhelaun. How do you answer?”