Dragons Blight (Valadfar Book 1) Read online

  Dragons Blight

  A story from the world of Valadfar

  By Damien Tiller

  A Doodle Rat Publication A Special Thanks To Marcus

  For Your Support In The Final Stages Of Bring This Book To Print. Dragons Blight

  A story from the world of Valadfar By Damien Tiller

  Copyright © 2011 Damien Tiller

  The right of Damien Tiller to be identified as the Author of the work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Doodle Rat Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the

  publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in

  which it is published and without similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are factious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9573986-1-0 EBook ISBN: 978-0-957-3986-0-3 Paperback

  Prologue Fireworks burst into the night sky cascading down in brilliant golden and red fingers that caressed the amassed festivities below. The city of Neeskmouth was filled with revilers of every class and creed in remembrance of the end of the Dragon Blight. It had been one hundred years to the day since that last Dragon had fallen in the Scorched Lands and the humans had been freed from their slavery. All but a handful of the party goers were too young to remember the Great War but this did not stop them celebrating. They celebrated harder than anyone could put into words. They shared a common recollection of the eight hundred year conflict and the millennia of slavery to the Dragon overlords before it. This common knowledge amassed into the pure white essence of freedom that burnt in the hearts of everybody below the night sky. For this one night a person’s class did not matter. Noble or commoner, baker or shipwright, once the ale hit the stomach they were all the same. Life in Neeskmouth was not always perfect but for this one night no one cared. Jugglers’ and entertainers danced in the streets, and music blared from the marching band that paraded through the city. People drank and food seemed aplenty even in the time of depression. The streets were lined with silver birch tables topped with the spoils of the local farmlands that sprawled out across the Handson Kingdom, potatoes, leeks and meat. The meats were fresh and hung to perfection, deer, lamb and the juiciest of pork. The celebrations marked the end of the worst battle in recent history but even during the drunken merriment the whispers of war were not far away. You would think after so long of battling and so many deaths that the human race would never want to fight again but if that had been the case we would have been no story to tell. Neeskmouth had been at war in one way or another almost since the moment the last armor clad Dragons’ body slammed into the ashen floor and their slavery ended.

  Northern Neeska, the harsh and mountainous tip of the country of Neeska was separated into seven kingdoms that included two small islands off of its coast. Since the end of the Great War with the Dragons the Handson family, rulers of Neeskmouth, had somehow managed to be at war with three of the seven kingdoms. The first Kingdom to mention was that of the White Flags, who called the White Isle home. The White Isle was the smaller of the two islands that lined the coast of Northern Neeska and the one furthest from the shore to the north of the city of Neeskmouth. It had become home to pirates who directly opposed the Handson’s family and their right to rule. The second of the collectives that faced constant wars was a small kingdom, but none the less able to hold their own against the Handson monarchy. It was the larger of the two islands, only a mile or so from shore known as the Alienage. The Alienage was home of the Elvin race, a peaceful people of druids that had come seeking refuge in 450db and had been at peace with Neeskmouth, even allying with them during the Great War until 2ab when it became another warfront for Neeskmouth. The last and most fierce enemy to the peace of Neeskmouth was towards the western edge of Northern Neeska. The home to the Poles as they had come to be known and Raidaridin the Handson’s lost city. Raidaridin had once been part of the Handson Kingdom but had fallen to barbarian rule and now stood as a constant source of outrage for the royal court. The occupied city of Raidaridin stood behind what was the most volatile battle front and had been held at a stalemate for years. The war to keep the Iron Giants soldiers aptly known as the Poles at bay had lasted for over a generation. The fourth and fifth kingdoms and the only peaceful ones were nestled between the Western Reaches that surrounded Raidaridin. The first of which were the Dwarfen Mountains of the Goldhorn’s that pressed for miles through the mountains into Neeska proper. Although the Dwarfs were not at war they had shut their mammoth gates and sealed themselves off from the topside world. Adjacent to the snow capped mountains the Dwarfs called home was the small and peaceful low laying countryside known as the Tower Plains. With war all around it one might ask how the Tower Plains remained safe and peaceful but after travelling to its heart and seeing the magnificent tower that was home to the magic wielding mages, or in the common tongue wizards, of Neeska, it would soon become obvious. Mages were one of the few people that the Handson family had not declared war with. Magic had been outlawed in the general populous shortly after the fall of the Dragon lords. Many mages were to be executed killed just for being different but they fled and using their gifts reclaimed the tower which was a relic from the Great War. Over time the tower grew and became well respected, and feared, as a place of study and protection for magic wielders. Hanging like a dark shadow to the south of the six kingdoms were the Scorched Lands, the empty and desolate plains that had once been home to the Dragons. Many rumours’ surrounded the dark and desolate place but few dared to try to breach its harsh and unforgiving terrain to find the truth behind the tall tales. It was a place parents used to scare their children and secretly in their own hearts they still held the fear themselves. The end of the Great War which brought the Dragon Blight to an end gave birth to the blackened Scorched Lands. It had been such an event in Valadfar that it changed the very calendar they had used to track the years and tonight was not just an anniversary it was the turning of a century. Tonight was a 100ab, the first centaury of freedom, and this is where our story starts not among the celebrations and drunken crowds but above watching over them from a white stone balcony in the noble district of Neeskmouth

  Chapter one – celebration for a lonely heart Darcy Dean, who was a noble by birth, leant on his second story balcony. He watched the excitement that played out on the cobbled streets below. In the bright flashes that came between the darkness the fireworks lit his face but were met with disinterest. He could not enjoy the festivities. It wasn’t that he was busy or that he didn’t want to. It was that inside of him it felt like a hole burnt where his heart once was, a dramatic statement for sure and one he would have snuffed at had he read it in one of the many books that gathered dust in the family library, but it was true, he was crippled by a depression and the loneliness that grew within. Life in the city could be lonely at the best of times with everyone rushing around with their own lives. The average person had little time to spare for others but for Darcy the isolation seemed magnified. It had been with him for so long now it almost felt natural, like it was meant to be. Pardoning the conflict of expression loneliness had become his friend. Some might have asked how someone who was born into finery and luxury, a guest of nobles and a partaker of feasts, could feel so terribly alone. The answer was a simple one, other than the short time each day he spent with his house hands and crew Darcy spent most of his time alone. He was the heir to
an estate given by the King himself to Darcy’s father and a wealthy one at that. However the feasts he went to were for business, the luxuries were not his own but belonged to his father and mother. Darcy did nothing for himself but everything in service to the estate. He could not enjoy the benefits of it as with his parents absent. It fell on him to run every aspect of the family chores, this included the ship yards, imports and exports, shipwright, the council, functions and more bootlicking than the average leather obsessed mill-worm could do in its short existence. Darcy was young for his age, he was twenty-seven but had lived a somewhat sheltered life and he wished his father could be there with him just to take some of the pressure of and to allow Darcy to experience life. But his father, a great hero and soldier, was stationed out not far from Briers Hill in a fort known as Hallows Fort. Briers Hill was a small town that flew the Handson flag close to the borders of the Western Reaches. Before Raidaridin fell it was the halfway mark for traders by land. For a small village it had been prosperous, but with the encroachment of the Poles from the west, trade had all but died by land and now the only people that passed through its quaint streets were the army led by Darcy’s father. The town stood as the last resistance blocking the newly named Poles. The Poles were a group of giant and barbaric men who took their names from their unusual pike-spear like weapon. For years the Dragon lords had kept them at bay forcing them into the harshest of mountains but with the fall of the Dragons the “ Mountain Giants” or Iron Giants as they had been known had pushed further into Handson’s kingdom. The Poles had moved slowly to start with, unsure if the rumors of freedom in Neeska were true and it was fifty years before the city of Raidaridin had been occupied by them. The city fell quickly. None were prepared for an attack from the west. It was this that turned the six kingdoms into seven and the Western Reaches had pushed further into the Handson Kingdom. Darcy’s father was knight-commander at the small fort of Eastern Briers Hill. He had been stationed there the last ten years and in all that time Darcy had not seen him. Darcy only had the word of the odd scout and trader that his father still lived. Though he was fairly confident that with the fame his father had assembled serving the king the whole kingdom would mourn his loss if he ever did die. But that did not mean Darcy could not find time to worry about it during his busy schedule. Darcy knew his father had work to do for the king but that did not mean he had to like it. The Poles rarely went more than a few days without trying to breach the defenses of the Handson Kingdom and push further into their lands. They normally came in small groups but fought like they were possessed with demons, not in the literal magic wielding sense but in the inhumane and violent way. It was Darcy’s father, Sir Dean who had to hold the line so that Neeskmouth could remain free and have these celebrations. That was the reason there was no way Darcy could find merriment in them.

  A blast from another firework snapped Darcy from his thoughts and he watched it as it flowered into a bright blue that reflected from the moon. Darcy took one last look at the dancing crowd and stepped back inside his father’s noble home. He wasn’t in the mood for partying and he had been summoned by the king – Harvey Handson the 3rd– to hold a private congress in the morning far earlier than he would have liked. Darcy’s family had not always been noble. For his service to the army Darcy’s father had been granted several trade ships and a knighthood, and since he was away at Hallows. Darcy had stepped in to be the steward of the fleet, a thankless task that seemed never ending even in these times of economic downturn. Darcy hated the falseness of the holding court and the best of times but his mood was lower tonight than normal because he feared that the king suspected him of withholding tithe. Which, to be fair, he had. The trades had been light the last few months but after the socalled losses from one of the ships around the White Isle. Darcy had agreed to pay for safe passage out into the White Sea. Paying the pirates was an act illegal in theory but widely practiced. Very few ships made it out to sea without their cargo being taken by the White Flags unless they paid the illegal shipping tax. The White Flags were fair pirates, if such a thing truly exists. Almost too fair and they had allies throughout the nobles of Neeskmouth because of it. They wanted independence in the kingdom and the right to vote for who was in charge rather than birthright of a monarchy which they viewed as barely different to Dragon rule. So they used the protection money and spoils to directly challenge the king. Because of this submitting to piracy or illegal taxation had been declared a crime against the crown and could be punished by hanging. Darcy hoped that he would not feel the course edge of the hangman’s rope in the morning but he could barely care. The stress of leading a fleet as large as his fathers had become was more than he could tolerate. Times had been bad for the city with wars on every front and if he didn’t pay the pirates then not enough cargo would get through the blockades to actually pay the men. With no pay they would not sail. If they did not sail then the King would not get any of his tithe at all. In some ways Northern Neeska had been richer during the old days, when the Dragons lorded over the city streets. Slavery often makes for a rich country when you don’t have to pay for your labor. At least that’s if you believed the history books that talked about the city being lined with gold before the slaves began the eight hundred year war. Darcy resigned himself to his fate whatever it may be and prayed that sleep would take him quickly. He slid his feet slowly across the dark wooden floor taking in the chill of the moistened wood as he made his way towards the lavish but oddly uncomfortable bed. The bed often felt damp with the sea not being far away and the cold Nylar nights being a breeding ground for condensation. As Darcy sunk into the biting iciness of the bed he blew out the last remaining lit candle that rested inside a candle holder that was made of solid silver, beautifully engraved on the Walnut bedside table that had once belonged to Darcy’s grandfather. Darcy pulled the silken, and goose feather filled pillow over his head. He knew it would be only a few noisy hours before his house maid awoke him, if he managed to sleep between the drunken singing, explosions and the biting cold.

  Dawn came with light rain that tapped on the dirty glass of the Dean Estate windows. The sound of the last die-hard revilers still celebrating outside could just be heard over the tipper-tapping of raindrops on glass. Darcy opened his eyes and his blurry vision settled on the smiling old face of Granny. Granny, as she was lovingly known, had been a servant of the Dean household since she was fifteen starting as a kitchen hand. She’d remained loyal and worked her fingers to leather and fifty two years later and she was head maid and as close to family as an employee can come. She was the closest thing Darcy had to a friend or family for that matter.

  “ Morning to you dear” She said with a voice that sounded worn out. “I’ve set you a bowl on your side table.” She continued and even through the warble Darcy could make out her normal caring tone. Granny as she was known was a haggard old woman whose face closely resembled the side of a cliff, a cliff covered in chalk that did little to hide how depleted she had become. Little wisps of hair poked out from her chin like a disgusting oasis in the desert. Her body was hunched from years of servitude and her knees clicked each time she moved like the loose wheels of a wagon. She was skinny and her tattered clothes hung from her adding ten years to her appearance. She was a crone in every sense of the word to look at but she had a heart of gold and her voice that had begun to break with age still hinted of sweetness that she must have carried her whole life.

  “ Hurry before it cools too much.” Granny continued as she placed a plain teak bowl onto the dark walnut side table sloshing water down its side. Darcy slid up the bed resting his head back against the headboard. The wood felt cold even through his long dark brown hair. He let his tired eyes focus on the room around him. It was typical for the grandeur of the estate and had remained unchanged since he was a young boy. The walls were painted with thick white clay that had turned yellowish in the sun of the brief summer months. All the furniture was made with similar dark woods, walnuts and stained oaks. That match
ed the hard wood floor. An island of warmth of the floor was made up of a rug on the floor that was white and brown, a series of sheep skin sown together and decorated to look like flowers. Small paintings cluttered the walls by artists Darcy had never heard of. Strange spiky plants brought in from far off shores sat in vases scattered around, most of which had turned a strange brown color desperately waiting the sunnier weather. The windows behind his bed let in hardly any light at the best of times let alone with the dark mornings of Winnan, the month of the great freeze. Darcy didn’t really know why he stayed in this room. It was one of the smaller ones in the estate and the only one without a fireplace. His parents’ room would have been far warmer and away from the noise of last night, but even with their absence it would have felt wrong. Darcy was sure he must have first been put in this room as a punishment for something when he was tiny. There was no other explanation for being in such a bitterly cold room. His father had probably arranged for one of the maids to stick him here for a night or so as punishment. Then when his father had disappeared off to war Darcy had remained stuck living in the ninth level of hell as he called it. The room was a picture of beauty to look at, but looks can and often are misleading. Even with his disturbed sleep and tired mind the first thing to drop into it was the appointment with the king and Darcy wanted to just pull the cover back over his head. When Lady Dean, Darcy’s mother, had been sent off overseas on diplomatic missions Granny had become Darcy’s guardian. She had been around the nobles of Neeskmouth for long enough to have almost a better understanding of the twisted nature than the king himself and even after ten years in charge of the estate Darcy still often sought out her council.

  “ Granny, do you know where I put those shipping documents. I fear that the king will have questions about the drop in profits.” Darcy said as he slid to the edge of the white quilted silken sheets. The room remained silent as Darcy reached for the bowl Granny had left on the side table, washing away the sleep from the night before. He could not remember his dreams but the beads of sweat that coated his face revealed the secret that they had been restless nightmares probably brought on from stress and the noise of fireworks and shouting from outside his window.