Anaerfell: The Blood of Dragons, #1

Acknowledgement

To any person who faces an enemy to conceal the war within themselves.

Sign up for my Newsletter.

Click to get the first volume of Thrice Nine Legends today, including the first nine stories!

There once was a time when the gods were gods without question. When men were men without example. When heroes were only the frivolous dreams of lurid mortality. It was a time when truths and untruths were indistinguishable, hatred and love were equally excusable, and life and death regaled all of humanity in the same breath. Myths of old were realized and legends were born from the very dust man was formed of, to be told and retold until the grace of time altered them beyond knowing or forgot them completely. Still, some tales were preserved deep within the hearts of mankind, for reasons that could not be fathomed. Perhaps bearing the fruit of some profound truth or kept alive merely by the strength of the men who lived them. Some tales would never be forgotten.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgement

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVII

Chapter XXVIII

Chapter XXIX

Chapter XXX

Chapter XXXI

Chapter XXXII

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Thrice Nine Legends Saga

The Blood of Dragons by Joshua Robertson & J.C. Boyd

ANAERFELL*

HESHAYOL*

The Kaelandur Series by Joshua Robertson

MELKORKA*

DYNDAER*

MAHARIA*

Other Thrice Nine Legends Saga by Joshua Robertson & J.C. Boyd

STRONG ARMED*

WHEN BLOOD FALLS*

THE NAME OF DEATH*

WARDEN OF THE ASH TREE*

THE HIGHBORN LONGWALKER*

DEATH AT DUSK**

Additional Works

Legacy Series by Joshua Robertson & J.C. Boyd

BLOOD AND BILE*

THE HAWKHURST SAGA*

GRIMSDALR*

THE PRINCE’S PARISH*

JACK SPRATT*

*Published by Crimson Edge

**Forthcoming by Crimson Edge

ANAERFELL

THRICE NINE LEGENDS

Month of Birch

First of Warmth

45 CE

Chapter I

Bow in hand, Drast pushed a finger into the grisly wound of the dead body. The warmth had gone from the Vucari’s blood despite the height of the springtime sun.

Ser Drast?

Flinching somewhat at the title, Drast pulled his hand free from the corpse. He stood. The shorter man next to him watched him with wide eyes. The man always had wide eyes, as if he was perpetually surprised at his own existence.

Drast smiled at him. "Yes, Ser Simon?"

Simon frowned, his eyes remaining wide. Drast could not imagine how the man managed such an expression. There is no need for sarcasm, Ser Drast. We are both noble and should treat each other as such, even if your family doesn’t have the purest of bloodlines.

Drast tightened his grip on the strung bow and thumbed the fletching of an arrow, one of three held loosely between the fingers of his other hand. He still smiled. Noble or no, I prefer not to have empty words as a precursor to my name, if you please.

Simon continued to watch him. Drast swore the man didn’t blink. "As you wish, Drast. So long as you recognize that I will be referred to as Ser Simon. After all, my father is the Arkhon and yours is but a Serder. You would do well to remember I am not one of your soldiers."

Drast maintained an amiable smile. Why did Simon choose to place so much emphasis on titles? "Of course, Ser Simon. He mimicked the oddly clipped tone of the man. We are of an accord."

Averting his eyes to keep Simon from seeing him roll them, and more importantly, to keep himself from acting upon impulse, Drast kicked the dead Vucari. He knew if he had to keep looking at those wide blue-green eyes above that weak red mustache, he would need to jab an arrow in them. One arrow for each socket. If Simon held any less power, blood would already color the sand.

"I am well aware of your position, Ser Simon. He wondered if the Arkhon’s son would notice his continued mockery. And, as I may have mentioned before we left Lairhein, I am perfectly capable of retrieving my brother without you. Familial reunions should be kept private, you know?"

I don’t think so, and—more importantly—neither does my father.

Drast widened his grin, shouldering his bow and clapping the man on the shoulder. The Vucari blood still on his finger left a stain on Simon’s coat. The Arkhon’s son did not notice. I am certain. I know your family is greatly concerned with the well-being of my own, for which we are eternally grateful. He really hated Simon. It is such bonds that keep we Stuhia strong and unified, like a pack of wolves working together to bring down the mighty moose or elk.

The Arkhon and his fool of a son believed Drast’s family was conspiring against the Arkhon’s family. Which, of course, his family was, but there was no need to admit the truth. Hidden truths were best.

Releasing Simon’s shoulder, Drast leaned over the naked corpse, examining it further, and mentally pushed the round-eyed man from his thoughts. The body had already begun to rot, stiffened and cold to the touch. It had a male shape with a shaven head and pale lips. He pulled back an eyelid to confirm the carcass had brown eyes. Vucari always had brown eyes.

The corpse did not bother him, but the creature itself sickened him. The Vucari were skin-switchers, and that kind of thing just seemed unnatural.

Ignoring the feeling of disgust, he took note of the ground. It had softened with the melting snows. The Vucari’s weight had left an indentation against the budding grasses and in the soil. He inhaled the stench of the carcass while ignoring the handful of flies buzzing near his ear.

Definitely rotting.

He pulled back and stood. It has been dead for at least a few days.

Simon asked, Did your scouts do this?

"No, Ser Simon. My scouts did not do this. It has been dead much too long and we only recently came into the region. Drast peered across the narrow distance between the mountains and the Neabou Sea. I imagine my brother’s pathfinders discovered this Vucari when they came out of the Shade Fells. It might have been an enemy scout. Tyran must have already returned from his adventure, though why they have not advanced closer to Lairhein, I cannot say. With any luck, we will find him farther up the coastline."

"Ser Tyran? Simon said in a matter-of-fact tone, gifting Drast with a wide-eyed smirk. He has been gone for many months. I hear he was after something important."

Drast held the grin, forcing his eyes to crease. Sometimes it was hard to remember to make the smile reach his eyes. Genuine. He had to seem genuine. What else could possibly keep him away?

The response caused Simon to lift an eyebrow, but he did not respond.

Regardless, it is not our concern now. The weather is warming, which means the skin-switchers will be venturing near Lairhein again. It looks to be another year of war. Perhaps you should return now to make certain the Arkhon is aware?

Simon ignored the question. Their power is minimal compared to our own. Still, it is intriguing... Simon traced his thin mustache, the dragons leave the Vucari alone and attack the Stuhia.

Drast glanced at the Shade in the south. The dark mountains towered towards the thin clouds. The soil beneath the melting snow was blackened or grey with several dark green trees lining the base of the looming rocks. The mountains could have been their own vertical world, expanding as far as the eye could see. Drast chuckled, Surely you are not expecting me to explain the motivations of dragons?

Simon cocked his face to the side. I assumed you would have some insight.

Oh, I would imagine no more than you have yourself. Drast considered punching Simon in the face a couple of times and seeing if he could make him close his eyes. "We are Stuhia, Ser Simon. We are dragon-people. By definition, we are sacred to Wolos. Drast kept the conversation pinpointed on Simon. You suggest dangerous things."

Simon started. Oh, no, nothing of the sort. I am a faithful man, of course. But I cannot help but wonder — if we are favored by Wolos, why do the serpents, his creation, attack Lairhein and lay waste to the Stuhia? Why are the Vucari permitted to invade our lands?

"Ah, Ser Simon, such questions are best asked of wiser men than I. Maybe you could consult the Ninth Council when we return to Lairhein."

Drast suddenly wished Tyran was with him. His brother never got himself into such situations, where he must think on his feet and come up with wily responses. No, Tyran would merely grunt, and then leave someone else to figure out what the grunt meant. Instead, Drast was stuck trying to determine the sincerity of Simon’s concerns. Sincerity from a Kluk would be a first. He was likely attempting to egg Drast into a pitfall of self-condemnation for denying Stuhian beliefs. Not that he particularly cared what the man thought.

Maybe if he surprised Simon, then the perpetually surprised look would fall off Simon’s face. Yes, fight fire with fire. He hardened his voice, "Are you testing me, Ser Simon? He nearly smirked, ruining his fun before he started. How could the man not hear the mockery in his tone? Did my father send you to see if I would be arrogant enough to guess at the will of Wolos?"

Simon’s jaw fell. No, Drast. Serder Dagmar Kaligula has nothing to do with this.

Or, perhaps, it is your father?

No! Simon cried.

Then tell me why you challenge my faith! Drast thundered forward to keep his false demeanor. When a moment passed without an answer, he raised his bow hand as if to strike him.

The man shrank backwards, cowering from him. If anything, his eyes became wider.

Drast fumed. Tell me!

Please, Drast. I meant no harm. I—I was only echoing...

Echoing what? Your father? Drast sneered to keep from laughing. What does he want? Why are you really out here with me and my army? I lead these men to glory. That is my duty! I don’t have time for games.

Pure terror filled Simon’s face. Beautiful.

A shrug of Drast’s shoulder sent his bow down his arm and into his grip. In a blink, he set one of the arrows to the string. The sinew pulled hard and the yew bent heavily. The copper tip gleamed in the springtime sun, leveled at the cowering man’s unblinking, bulging left eye.

Please, put down your bow, Drast, Simon pleaded, falling to the ground in a heap. His hands raised above his head, palms opened as wide as his eyes. We don’t have to mention this hiccup when we return. A simple misunderstanding.

Drast worked to keep his jaw shut. Why would Simon cower before him? The man was at least an equal in power with the magic of the Stuhia, Koldovstvo. Probably more powerful, actually.

Simon’s eyes closed.

Drast grinned, releasing the tension on the string. "Come now, Ser Simon. You must develop a sense of humor. He twisted the bow in his grip. With a flip of his wrist and a jerk of his arm, he had hooked the bow over his shoulder again. You also must learn not to question the gods. There are many who would take offense to such questions. Be glad the lesson was not harder to learn."

Simon’s eyes widened again, bewildered at what had just occurred. Drast could not conceal the sigh that escaped his chest. Although fun, he did not have the time or energy to play this game all day.

A soldier approached from the rear. Ser Drast! There is battle on the shoreline just beyond the bend. The pathfinder says it is Ser Tyran. The man paused as if realizing the tension between the two Sers. The soldier raised his voice, clarifying, Your brother.

Delight boiled in his stomach, watching Simon. He recognized the soldier’s voice without seeing him. The man was charged as his Voivode, a soldier who held the position to aid in the command of the other soldiers. Excellent, Walstan. Move the spearmen to the front and the archers to the rear.

The Voivode complied. As you wish, Ser Drast.

Stop calling me Ser! Drast hollered over his shoulder.

Walstan mumbled something inaudible and raced to prepare the army. Drast kept his gaze on Simon, who had not moved a muscle. It suddenly struck him that Simon could have an accident during the battle. A stray arrow, perhaps. Such an accident would surely please his father, Serder Kaligula; he was certain. The Arkhon’s family, the imperial bloodline, had always been a thorn in his father’s side. Removing Simon would be one less prick to worry about.

Get a hold of your wits, you will need each one, Drast said.

Simon’s voice shook like willows in the wind. Yes...of course.

Without another word, Drast left Simon scrambling to follow. He walked away forcing himself to stare onward. The lessons learned from his father seldom left the forefront of his mind. Turning back would be a sign of weakness; in this case, a sign of guilt. He wanted to see the look on Simon’s face. The concern, the uncertainty, the fear.

Gritting his teeth, he picked up his pace to reach the incline overlooking the camp of his small army. Eighty-six men were commissioned under his watch, and each of them valuable. His ability to keep them alive would determine his family’s advancement in Lairhein. Unnecessary death often soured people, and his father never let him forget his duty to his family.

"Drast, how long has it been since you have seen Ser Tyran?" Simon asked from behind.

The question naturally put him in mind of his brother, and he grunted as a response.

Do you worry for his death?

Drast snorted. I don’t think death has the gall to face Tyran. It avoids him every chance it gets.

Drast felt surprised when the other Ser whispered, We all die eventually. It is the one thing we cannot avoid.

He adjusted the arrows. "You think you have completed your charge, Ser Simon? Believe you will be taken to the Thrice Ten Kingdom?"

One can only hope.

Drast grunted again. His brother’s way of responding was undoubtedly easier.

He inspected the soldiers while he and Simon descended towards the army. Firm handshakes, guttural laughs, and ready smiles were passed freely about. Each soldier moved without hesitation, seemingly eager for a good fight. Was there such a thing as being too well trained?

The spear wall had nearly been organized before he reached the bottom of the hill. The men were in a convex formation, their leathern shields and stone-tipped spears at the ready. Meanwhile, the rear third of the men carried bows like Drast’s, though not as high quality.

He hoped they were too well trained, because it was a far cry better than the reverse. If it was his brother’s army ahead, he wanted the strength of his own army to be witnessed.

Walstan approached from the throng of soldiers. The men are ready, Ser Drast.

He cursed silently at the title. If Walstan was less useful, he would consider having the man meet a similar accident as Simon on the battlefield. Lucky for him, Walstan maintained the army most of the time, freeing Drast for more compelling activities. I can see that. Let’s not waste time. Go on. Move them out.

The red-haired Voivode nodded. He rotated back the way he had come and shouted, Move out!

Drast had known Walstan while growing up in Lairhein. He found it strange to see the man holding the stone-tipped spear. Although they had played together as young children, they had grown apart as they matured. During their adolescence Drast had been told by his father that Walstan was unworthy to be called friend. Unequal was the better word. Afterwards, their playing had stopped.

He could not be certain, though—Walstan had seemed to try to prove himself since Drast’s father had separated them. Even now, Walstan dashed ahead of the brigade at a half-jog to lead the attack. The man had earned the title of Voivode. He was certain his brother had a complex process to choose men for such a responsibility, but Drast merely found Walstan to be self-sufficient. Drast hated to deal with the details of leading an army.

Walstan’s momentum generated grunts and battle roars throughout the small army. The lot of them advanced towards the shoreline at a matched speed.

He listened for Simon’s footfalls. They were light, almost like raindrops falling behind him against the dirt. It only took a moment before the sound was drowned out by the din of weapons and death.

A war horn blew on the opposite side of the hill.

His army was only moments ahead of him, climbing over the remaining incline. Their ferocious exclamations resounded, rising as they charged towards the enemy. Drast hastened his feet to join his army. He was a leader, but a leader was only as strong as the men who followed him.

The Vucari flooded from the Neabou Sea and onto the shoreline straight into the welcoming hands of the Stuhia forces. The skin-switchers had their many long boats pulled to the shore. They vented from the shallow waters, mostly wearing nothing, and carrying weapons like those of his soldiers.

A second force of Stuhia men moved in sections, pressing the Vucari back into the Neabou Sea. They struggled in the waters to maintain their ground and fight with equal strength against the men on the land. Drast noticed at once how several of the Vucari shed their skins and transformed into more vicious beasts. Wolves, panthers, and bears swarmed forth as soon as they conquered the lashing waters. They growled and snarled, viciously charging the Stuhia.

He heard Walstan bellow from the ranks. He had used the magic of Koldovstvo to lift his voice. Fire!

The order echoed and the archers behind the spearmen let loose their stone-tipped shafts into the ranks of the enemy. Upon death, the creatures returned to their human form, naked and helpless. Others still in their human form flung spears and fired their own arrows towards his soldiers.

Drast hated the Vucari. Unnatural half-human, half-beast creatures that claimed connection with the dragons by whom the Stuhia were defined. The magical force of Koldovstvo bound them together, the single connection between the Stuhia and the Vucari. Somewhere in the histories he had heard the suggestion that the Vucari were Stuhia before sullying their magic. Of course, it mattered little now.

If there had been a pause in the battle from his own soldiers suddenly advancing on the scene, he had missed the moment. The Vucari spread down the bank and stormed towards his spearmen like they had been formally invited to death.

He took only a moment to scan the terrain and the other army ranks for Tyran. Drast saw no sign of his younger brother. He knew he could not take the time to look for him now.

"Best to stay close, Ser Simon."

I am not a stranger to battle, Drast.

Perhaps not, but even acquaintances should be careful after long absences. Pay attention and I might teach you a few things. Drast winked at the man and set to work. He found something refreshing in being a simple soldier rather than playing at politics with his father.

The three arrows in his hand were put to the string and before the last struck its mark, three more filled his hand. No sooner had the first arrow been set on the right side of the smoothed yew and loosed than he replaced it with another. Against the naked Vucari invaders, the bow was certainly his weapon of choice. In less than the time it would take a man to swing a sword, Drast could fire three arrows and replenish the projectiles in his hand again.

"Ser Tyran is near the wagon." Simon had caught up with him.

Without responding, Drast glanced to the right. He had not even seen a wagon, but sure enough Tyran stood beside it, stalwart and unflinching.

A head taller than the men in his own militia, his younger brother had grown a full beard and head of hair in the year he had been gone. Their reddish color, the mark of any Stuhia, shown vibrant against his dark attire. Tyran looked as though he had aged several years, making him appear to be about the same age as Drast. Using Koldovstvo aged any man or woman who wielded it, and Drast had no doubt his brother had need of it in the Shade. Any Stuhia was more than willing to pay for such great power, no matter the cost. Their veins held the blood of dragons—the source of the mighty magic. All the same, Drast could barely recognize the man as the boy who had left Lairhein last spring.

What in the Nine Lands is that? Simon gasped from his side.

Drast stared in bewilderment at the wagon behind his brother. A bluish-grey beast hung halfway off the backside. The dirty white fabric covering the thing flapped loosely to the side. It only took a moment for Drast to distinguish the multiple crescent heads coiling limply from the singular body.

A dragon...Father sent him to kill a dragon.

The Stuhia will lose favor with Wolos for this travesty. The dragons are precious to him! It is no wonder the Vucari are allowed to invade our lands.

Drast blanched, nocking an arrow. Ser Simon’s time to die had come.

Before he could act, Drast felt something strike his skull. He collided with the dirt and the world darkened.

Chapter II

Twenty-six soldiers had died in the Shade Fells. Their deaths hardened the wits of those who had survived. Yet the remaining men still fought like lilies instead of lions.

The strong center had collapsed and Tyran’s army was being pushed back up the beach towards the mountains. The right flank had begun to separate from the center and the left pressed forward relentlessly, leaving their compatriots behind. His men had abandoned all semblance of a unified force, succumbing to exhaustion. Or...fear? Fear of death was a powerful motivator.

The Vucari are gaining ground, Ser Tyran. The men need your direction, a voice spoke beside him.

Mm. Tyran clicked his tongue, taking note of Drem’s obvious declaration.

Drem tried again. What are your orders?

I have already given my orders, Drem. It is not your place to make amends for the failings of your fellow Voivodes.

But they are competent men.

Only compared to the other soldiers I have to choose from. Tyran would never tell Drem he was the most useful Voivode among the four. Drem always followed his orders. He was a good soldier.

The army had battled through the Shade Fells against nightmares and worse, and now they were being overwhelmed by skin-switchers.

A moment passed. Tyran realized he had not finished his thought, having been stuck in his own head. They should know how to control a battlefield. Clearly the men have not had their fill of death in the Shade, else they would have learned from their time there. We can spare a few more ill-spent lives before we go home.

The Voivode shifted his weight uncomfortably. We are so close to home. I would hate to see any more die when their loved ones are this close.

Don’t challenge me with your pity, Drem. I have spent a year teaching these louts how to fight. Do you think I don’t want to be home? Isolde is waiting for me and it is only now, with home on the horizon, that the fools forget how to lift their shield and thrust their spear. If they are weak, let them die.

Ser...

As for those who survive, let their inner turmoil give them the sense to learn from their failings.

He held each of his men to the same standard to which he held himself. None of them, with their weakness, would keep him from reaching Isolde. She had waited for him. He would not betray her loyalty to him by dying here.

A war horn sounded from the Vucari. They were pressing the attack.

The man at his side shifted again. He noticed Drem looking towards the horizon where the sun would be setting in a couple of hours.

Tyran barely heard the commotion billowing from the western hill beyond the screams of dying Stuhia and roaring Vucari within his gaze. Though in mere moments, an army was silhouetted against the dimming sun rays. Not a single soldier slowed in their descent. The Stuhian spearman and bowman pummeled towards the shoreline like they would wipe the Vucari from existence in a single charge. The soldiers’ lack of restraint told Tyran all he needed to know; it mirrored the leadership. As expected, within seconds, his elder brother, Drast, dashed over the hill following his troops.

Even at this distance, Tyran knew his brother. No other man would carry a bow and a handful of arrows, the weapons of a scout, and move with the carelessness of a front linesman. His brother wasted little time scanning the terrain before propelling himself into the heart of battle with his men, his bow working furiously.

Nothing changed. The man was as rash as rash could be. What good could an army be without a commander to lead them?

Drast’s army would give Tyran enough distraction to reassemble his own forces. Tyran bellowed at his Voivodes over the battle din. Eplich, Meran, Kormish, to me!

The three Voivodes stumbled over the sand, retreating from the battle.

Eplich, press forward! I want their left flank hit hard. Use Koldovstvo if you need to; a few years are better than death. Kormish, fall back. Get your men back in rank, keep them organized, and widen the gap. Make sure your men stay together, and don’t falter. If any one of those bastards breaks rank or file, you personally put your spear through his skull.

Kormish nodded.

Tyran pressed on. "Meran, hold fast. You are the pivot and you cannot move. Do not press the attack, but keep them in place. When Eplich pushes and Kormish retreats, rotate your unit with them. I want the Vucari with their backs to our allies and their flank to the sea. Thin out their ranks, crush them, but leave them a way out. We want them fleeing, not fighting to the death. Now, go."

Drem spoke again from beside him, clear relief on the tip of his tongue. Very wise, Ser Tyran. You will force them to use their magic while driving them into the sea.

War is eternal. If we can weaken them today, they will stumble tomorrow. The Voivodes maneuvered the troops and Tyran watched his plan begin to unfold. "Battles between Stuhia