Dragon Sword: Demon's Fire Book 1 Read online

  Dragon Sword

  Demon’s Fire Book 1

  Christopher Patterson

  Dragon Sword

  Copyright © 2020 by Christopher Patterson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Rabbit Hole Publishing

  Tucson, Arizona 85710 USA

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  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Before You Go

  Stone of Chaos: Chapter 1

  Stone of Chaos: Chapter 2

  About the Author

  Also by Christopher Patterson

  Prologue

  As I cut down the last of the demon’s soldiers, I see him in the distance—a great shadow against the smoke-filled horizon, laughing over the carnage he had caused. He spreads his wings and they are like black clouds, blotting out the sun and casting their own, sickening red glow over the world. He cares not for the life he has spent, for his lost soldiers, for he is the Lord of Chaos and he thrives on turmoil and pain and terror.

  Four shadows appear next to him—his beasts of war—the Beasts of Chaos. They are gargantuan things, laying waste to the land, the sky, and the sea. Eret Eloam—the world—burns, even the water and the clouds, and it seems that even the Creator has abandoned us. But I know that is a foolish thought. He is here, with us, even if we doubt.

  I mount Ydron. I feel the power of the dragon beneath me. Is it enough, though? This Lord of Chaos and his Beasts of Chaos are even too much for dragons. I look to a brother and two sisters. We are all that is left of the dragon riders. I look down at a green, egg-shaped stone in my hand. It is light. It is magic. It is meant to be a prison. My dragon rider kin each have one as well—red, blue, and white. We are the world’s last hope.

  Paladins and sorceresses gather around us. They were once an army. Now, they are less than a hundred. Specifically formed, bred, and taught to fight the Lord of Chaos, this is the end of their calling. Either we win or Eret Eloam loses.

  I say nothing. Most generals in my position might say a word of encouragement, something inspirational, but everyone here knows the cost of defeat. The demon screams. His Beast of Chaos roar. And an army of demon-kind, goblins, and shadow children flood over a hill and cover the earth like a plague. I look to my dragon riders and nod. They nod back. They know this is it. Ydron knows too. She tilts her head skyward and belches fire. We take to the sky.

  It is carnage below. For each paladin or sorceress that dies, a hundred foes meet their fate. But they are numerous, and we are few. The dragons spit fire, but the battle below is not our focus. It is the Beasts of Chaos and the demon. If we can stop them, we can stop the war.

  We get close and my heart quickens. They are horrid creatures and the Lord of Chaos is the worst of them all. I pray to El—the Creator—to give me strength in this final moment. If I am to meet my end here, let it be in faith, not fear. Let my death save the world. Let our sacrifice be the thing that brings evil to heel once again.

  I feel the demon’s heat. It burns my skin. It singes my hair. It stings my eyes. But I—we—press on. Together, as our bodies begin to wither to the power and dark magic of the Lord of Chaos, we hold our stones, our prisons high, and we say the words Yalathanil taught us. We say the words that will entrap the Beast of Chaos and cripple the rising of the Lord of Chaos. We shout them at the tops of our lungs, or the din of fire and roar of flaming clouds. We call them out, even as our tongues fail us our skin peels away. We call out the words, even as this world passes away and my spirit transcends to a new world.

  The Lord of Chaos screams and curses. The stone, held in a hand that is now black and scarred and broken, glows a brilliant green. The others’ do too—red, blue, and white. We have won. I can’t smile, I can’t cry, but my spirit rejoices. We have won. I cling to Ydron. Fire cannot hurt her. She is a dragon. I cling to her and I hope she feels my presence, my thanks, my love, and my hope. I hope she will carry the next dragon rider high into a sky that is reborn from this chaos. She feels me. I know she does.

  As the pain of this life passes away, and as I cling the stone close to my chest, I close my eyes for the last time and I pray that the Lord of Chaos never return, for he is destruction and death.

  1

  Darius, the General Lord Marshall, marched down the hallway leading to the throne room. Reflecting his urgency, his thudding boots echoed off the cavernous walls of the capitol building of Amentus, a building hundreds of years old, built from white marble. The arched ceilings, painted to look like a crystal blue sky with puffy, white clouds, aided the acoustics of the corridor, and the ancient builders had a purpose behind such construction. One man could stand at one end of a hallway and shout anything—a command, a proclamation, or a call for help—and someone standing at the other end, some fifty paces distant, could hear him as if they stood next to each other.

  As the Lord Marshall stomped by, guards placed at regular intervals slammed their right, gauntleted fists into their breastplates as they saluted. Positioned next to the pillars which formed part of a fake colonnade—they didn’t hold up any weight but were simply an architect’s embellishments—these men and women who guarded the capitol building were the best trained, most fearless, and most devout soldiers. As they saluted Darius, it meant more than any other salute—it was true respect.

  He came to the tall, solid double doors made of a light oak leading to the throne room, each etched with the carving of a gigantic sun. The two men who guarded the doors saluted. As with all of the guards, they wore plate mail that covered every part of their bodies and made from the best steel, save for Dwarf’s Iron. A sun with seven points—the
symbol of Amentus—was emblazoned on their breastplates. They lifted their visors.

  “Open,” the General Lord Marshall said.

  “Sir ...” one of the guards began.

  “I don’t have time,” the General Lord Marshall snapped. He knew King Agempi was in a meeting with his advisors and politicians. It was an important meeting, something to do with the economic situation of their country and the steps they needed to take to rectify whatever issues they were having. It was all over Darius’ head and the reason why he loved being a soldier and never accepted the King’s offer to make him a senator or advisor of state. “Open the damn door.”

  Both men lowered their visors and stepped to the side, drawing their tower shields—painted blue with a yellow sun at the center—close to their bodies in attention. One of them knocked on the double door. They opened.

  A colonnade—this one real and made of the same white marble as the rest of the building and inlaid with suns and moons and stars—led to the wide dais on which the thrones of the King and Queen of Amentus had been placed with perfect precision. Guards stood next to each column, but unlike the ones who stood at attention in the building’s main hallway, these didn’t salute as the Lord Marshall walked by. It wasn’t for lack of respect. Darius had trained each one of these men, personally ensuring they were the most loyal and most fierce—the last line of defense if the capitol building fell in battle. They saluted no one, not even the King. It was their command. They were the Warriors of the Sun, the most elite of knights in Gol-Durathna’s military, and their loyalties were to the state … and the state only.

  The king was in a meeting with several advisors and senators, but he looked up as the General Lord Marshall stepped onto the blue carpet that led to the dais, caring little for the dirt on his boots. A broad-shouldered man, the king had dark ringlets in his hair that spilled over his shoulders, and his thick beard had gray streaked through it. Despite the thickness of his beard, Darius could see his red lips and still white teeth when the king smiled. He stood and lifted his hands to silence one of his advisors before he opened his arms as if he might even hug his general.

  “Darius!” the king called, “I thought you were away.”

  The General Lord Marshall didn’t answer. He simply approached the dais and, reaching the bottom step, knelt, right fist to his left breast, and head bowed low.

  “Stand, Darius,” the king said, pushing past one of his advisors, “and dispense with these formalities. It is good to see you.”

  The General Lord Marshall stood. His eyes met the king’s. Those eyes—a brilliant emerald green—were the kindest eyes Darius had ever known. He had seen rulers from other countries on the brink of war with Gol-Durathna, red-faced and angry, stand in front of King Amentus and soften simply because of those eyes.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?” King Agempi asked.

  “Sire, we weren’t done,” one of his advisors said.

  “Silence! I can interrupt a meeting with my advisors and greet one of my oldest friends if I want.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” the advisor said, head hung low and backing away a few steps.

  King Agempi X was a powerful man and a good ruler. He surrounded himself with well-educated advisors and politicians of character and integrity but hated the mundane nature of most meetings concerning the state. He was a man who believed his real place was on a battlefield, and his shoulders, chest, arms, and legs evidenced as much.

  “As much as I take great joy from discussing taxes, the level of our wheat stores, and our economic concerns east of the Giant’s Vein,” King Agempi said, “I think I can manage a small break for you, Darius.”

  “I wish my presence was for pleasure, Your Majesty,” the General Lord Marshall said.

  “That concerns me,” King Agempi replied, some of the sparkle leaving his eyes.

  “It should,” the General Lord Marshall replied.

  “Well, then, speak, General Lord Marshall,” the king said.

  The General Lord Marshall shot a quick look to the advisors and senator who had been conferring with the king.

  “Belisarius, you may stay, but the rest of you, leave us,” the king said.

  As the advisors filed out, some showing their dislike of being dismissed, the senator, an older man with curly, gray hair and a short, white beard, bowed and stepped aside, next to the king’s throne. His slight frame belied the fact that he was once a soldier too … a very good soldier. Unlike Darius, he had accepted the king’s offer to throw off his armor and put away his sword for a life of politics; it had not treated him well. He was barely older than the Lord Marshall, but he looked as if he could have been Darius’ father.

  “We have dispatched the Atrimus,” the General Lord Marshall said.

  “The Shadow Men?” Belisarius gasped.

  “I trust there is a good reason for this,” the king said.

  “There is, Your Majesty,” Darius replied. “This … this dragon attack on Fen-Stévock. We have gathered information that leads us to believe there is more to this. The Lord of the East seeks a powerful weapon; he has part of it, a scroll with a spell, but now seeks a special sword. With that he can control dragons … even kill a dragon.”

  The king sat down again, resting an elbow on an armrest of his throne and his chin on his fist.

  “Dragons?” the king said, as much to himself as to Darius and Belisarius. “A year ago, the mention of such a thing would have made me laugh. They were a fable, a myth, Darius. A child’s tale.”

  The king leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, his thick brows furling into a concerned look.

  “To be able to kill a dragon, let alone control one,” the king muttered under his breath.

  “It is the stuff of legends,” Belisarius offered.

  “This would turn the tide, Darius,” the king said. “The Lord of the East would no longer need to hide behind diplomacy. War would be imminent. And we would be on the losing side.”

  “All of Háthgolthane would be on the losing side, Your Majesty,” Belisarius added. Darius felt the old soldier adding nothing of value with his comments; politics had turned him into a ‘yes man’.

  “The man who saved Fen-Stévock is the one who the Lord of the East has tasked with finding this sword,” Darius explained, “the Dragon Sword.”

  “He is a man of Western Háthgolthane, yes?” the king asked.

  “A pity he didn’t let Fen-Stévock just burn,” the senator said, and the king rebuked him before Darius could.

  “He saved thousands of lives, Belisarius,” the king said. “Remember that. Those people haven’t a clue who their ruler is. Most of them don’t care. All they care about is putting food in their children’s mouths.”

  “How is a man from Western Háthgolthane so willing to serve Golgolithul?” Belisarius asked, his first sensible input to the conversation.

  “Truly,” the king added. “The men of Western Háthgolthane … descendants of Gongoreth and Hargoleth, who stayed after the Great War and the Treaty of Bethuliam rather than returning west. They oppose the east more than we do. By the Creator and the old gods, they oppose the east more than the men of Mek-Ba’Dune.”

  “His service is not given willingly, Your Majesty,” Darius said. “Our informant tells us that he must do as the Lord of the East bids. The Lord of the East has threatened him … threatened his entire family.”

  “That is a pity. The men of Western Háthgolthane used to be allies to Gol-Durathna.” The look on the king’s face was distant, staring past Darius and Belisarius as if he was remembering a sad memory. “They are the reason we won the Great War. Without them, all would have been lost, and they sacrificed much. Such a man would have been a valuable ally. Is there hope for this man, Darius? Can we sway him to our side?”

  “We know where he lives, where his family lives,” Darius replied. “However, at the same time, this Bu Al’Banan, self-proclaimed King of Hámon, is also after the sword. Our informants also
tell us he thinks it will legitimize his claim to Hámon’s throne and give him the needed power and support to conquer Golgolithul.”

  The king sighed, rubbing a hand along his brow as he looked down at his feet. He removed the gold crown—a simple circlet of gold studded with diamonds at regular intervals—and once more rested on an armrest of his throne.

  “Does this mean we must kill an innocent man, one who saved thousands … tens of thousands of lives to prevent the sword from falling into the hands of the Lord of the East or this King Bu Al’Banan?” King Agempi asked.

  Darius felt his stomach knot.

  “Can we sway him, as you mentioned?” Belisarius asked.

  “To what end?” Darius asked. “The Lord of the East will surely kill his family for the man’s betrayal. And this new King of Hámon will probably kill his family anyways.”

  “Then he must not find the sword,” Belisarius said.

  “But …” the king began, but his senator interrupted him as all good politicians should.