Return of the Dragon (The Dragon's Champion Book 6) Read online

  Return of the Dragon

  By

  Sam Ferguson

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Return of the Dragon

  Copyright © 2015 by Sam Ferguson

  All Rights Reserved

  For my son Connor.

  Hard times won’t last forever.

  Contents

  Other Books by Sam Ferguson

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other Books by Sam Ferguson

  The Dragon’s Champion Series:

  The Dragon’s Champion

  The Warlock Senator

  The Dragon’s Test

  Erik and the Dragon

  The Immortal Mystic

  Return of the Dragon

  The Netherworld Gate Series:

  The Tomni’Tai Scroll

  The King’s Ring

  Son of the Dragon

  The Dragons of Kendualdern:

  Ascension

  Other Novels:

  Dimwater’s Dragon

  Jonathan Haymaker

  Short Story Anthology:

  Tales from Terramyr

  For the latest updates, follow Sam’s Author Page, Blog, Twitter @Author_SamFerg and Facebook

  CHAPTER ONE

  Al left his warriors in the antechamber and hustled alongside the dark-haired guard. The gray walls of stone were streaked with stark lines above the burning torches held fast to the stones by brackets of brass that had long ago lost their luster. The hallway leading away from the antechamber was long, roughly fifty feet before another door of brown, aged wood broke the monotony of the dark stone. To Al’s right, the door was propped open with a sandbag and inside he saw several pairs dueling with wooden swords. Al stopped briefly to survey the room. There were seven rings drawn in sand with white chalk. Two warriors dueled inside each ring while others waited along the outer rim. The swords click-clacked with each strike and parry as the officers barked out instructions or criticism. Each warrior was dressed in light linens, with a heavy armor of leather covering their vital areas and extending down below their groins. They also wore crude helmets with metal face guards. The officers observing them wore their full battle dress. Highly polished plate mail with a sword of steel at their hips and a plumed helmet tucked under an arm.

  “This way, my lord,” the guard insisted.

  Al nodded and hurried along.

  “Commander Nials has been drilling the men every day,” the guard said. “King Mathias has already ordered some of our troops out to the east to deal with the Tarthuns, but then I suppose you know about that.”

  Al nodded, but he didn’t offer any details. If the last several months had taught him anything, it was the value of discretion. So many had proven false that he had no inclination to talk at length with anyone unless he had to. Commander Nials had to know the details of his message, but this guard did not.

  The two of them turned left at the first intersecting hallway. The floor abruptly descended five stairs and then extended out straight again. Here again, there were no windows. Only sconces lit the way. There were, however, many more doors lining the hallway. Every ten yards there was a set of doors. Some were closed, others were open. Al glanced inside to see barracks. Bunk beds of wood with hide blankets covering the mattresses. None of the open rooms were messy, all were clean and properly kept. The beds were well made and the floors oft swept.

  Another intersection and the two of them turned to the hallway on the right hand side. Al climbed up a short stairway and then the guard opened a large set of double doors. The sunlight broke through with alarming brightness and heat. Al shielded his face and his irises painfully contracted.

  “Again!” a booming voice shouted.

  Al peeked around his arm to see a large man swinging a heavy flanged mace from a leather thong looped around his wrist. The man was obviously an officer, but he was not dressed as the others had been. He wore wool trousers with a leather girdle over them. A thick pad of wool was lazily draped over a wooden chair behind him, along with the chainmail shirt and heavy metal pauldrons. The man moved through the ranks and formation of spearmen practicing a phalanx drill. Al watched the bald officer and took note of the several purple scars across the man’s back.

  “This is Captain Hitage, he trains all of our spearmen,” the guard told Al as he gestured with his hand to hurry along.

  The bald officer turned and regarded Al with a questioning stare. He flipped his mace up into his palm and then promptly turned to address his men. “Run it again,” he bellowed.

  The men marched in perfect cadence with each other. A large phalanx twenty columns wide and at least thirty rows deep.

  “He is training for Tarthuns?” Al asked. The dwarf king knew that a slow moving phalanx was not the best device to employ against a horde of galloping, agile horse-archers. Then again, it might be a decent defense against the orcs in the south. Perhaps Al would suggest moving Captain Hitage to Ten Forts.

  The guard didn’t bother to answer Al’s question. Instead he led Al around the courtyard and in through an open set of double doors on the opposite side. They walked through a short hallway and then ascended a winding stairway to the third floor of the fort. The two of them stopped in front of a large oaken door.

  Another guard stood there, blocking the way with a halberd. Like the soldiers Al had already seen, this guard was dressed in red linen with armor over the top. His helmet was fastened under the chin with a leather strap.

  “King Sit’marihu to see Commander Nials,” Al’s escort stated dryly.

  The guard at the door nodded and pushed the door into the chamber.

  Al moved in after him.

  “Commander Nials, sir, King Sit’marihu seeks an audience with you, sir,” the door guard shouted.

  Al looked across a short, rectangular room to see a large man standing at the window. He stood staring out, with his hands clasped behind his back. He turned to reveal a tanned face and strong, brown eyes. Instead of armor, he wore a simple black tunic and brown linen trousers tucked into black leather boots. A longsword hung from his belt and swung widely as Commander Nials turned to regard Al.

  “So, the dwarves have emerged from their dark hole to join us in the sunlight I see.”

  Al bristled and stopped in the middle of the room. He folded his arms and locked eyes with the commander. “I have been above ground more than most men,” he said evenly.

  Commander Nials grinned slightly. “I meant no offense,” he assured Al. “I received word from King Mathias that you have lent your warriors to the Middle Kingdom.”

  Al nodded. “I have done my fair share of splitting skulls as well,” he put in.

  Commander Nials eyed the dwarf and then nodded. “I don’t doubt it.” The
large man looked up to the guards and dismissed them. Then he turned and gestured toward a small table off to the side of the room. The two of them moved to sit.

  “Wine?” Commander Nials offered.

  Al shook his head. “I’ll get straight to the issue at hand,” he began. “Orcs have besieged Ten Forts.”

  “Ah,” Commander Nials said. “Well, with young Finorel as commander, that spells disaster if the orcs are organized.”

  Al held up a hand. “Mercer commands the troops at Ten Forts.”

  Nials arched a brow and his lips drew taught over his face. He narrowed his eyes on Al and silently waited.

  The dwarf king sighed. “I wasn’t there for the change in command, but from what I understand, there were quite a few traitors to the crown at Ten Forts. Finorel was among them.”

  “Was?” Nials probed.

  “Apparently he died in his dungeon cell after Mercer imprisoned him.” Al leaned forward. “I myself delivered five hundred warriors to Ten Forts, but it isn’t enough.”

  Nials scoffed. “What do you mean? Have the dwarves gone soft, or have the orc tribes united?”

  Al glowered at Nials. “The tribes have united.” Nials’ smirk vanished and he straightened in his chair. “The orcs receive reinforcements by the hundreds, sometimes thousands, while the troops at Ten Forts struggle to fend them off.”

  “I am afraid I have to cut you off,” Nials said abruptly. “I can see you are here to ask for reinforcements, but I have none to give.”

  “None?” Al repeated. He jabbed a finger at the window. “I saw the troops down there.”

  Nials shook his head. “New recruits, all of them,” he explained. “There isn’t a soldier in the bunch that has more than a few weeks experience with a weapon. The only veterans I have are my officers, and even those are thinning.”

  “What happened?” Al asked.

  Nials sighed. “King Mathias called us into action. Kuldiga Academy was ruined in battle, Lokton Manor was destroyed by a marauding horde, and then Valtuu Temple was destroyed by a large dragon. Events like that tend to make a king rather nervous. I am only here because I have the fresh recruits to train. All of my veterans have been called out. Some have gone east to the Tarthuns. Some have gone to set up camp near Valtuu Temple and defend the nearby villages there. Others have been stationed around various regions in the Middle Kingdom. You may not know, but some of the nobles have also turned traitor to the crown lately. So, King Mathias has called for martial law. My men have been sent to bolster, or outright take over, the garrison of every town and village with a large enough population to pose a threat north of here.”

  “So you have none to send south?” Al questioned again. His voice broke in the middle of the question and his head sank down to land in his upturned palm. “The dragon is dead, that much I know for sure. However, there is no way for me to know how much longer Ten Forts will hold against the orcs.”

  Nials nodded. “You will have to send the request directly to King Mathias. I have no authority to send the freshies even if I wanted to.” Nials paused and pointed to Al, leaning in close. “And, just to be clear, I don’t want to send them out. They aren’t ready for battle yet. Certainly not against orcs.”

  Al dropped his eyes to the floor and drew his brow in tight as he stroked his beard. There wasn’t time to go north to Drakei Glazei. Even with the cavedogs it would be days, weeks, before they could get there and back to Fort Drake, not to mention they would only then be able to march south, and who knew how long it would take to prepare the army for such a journey. The dwarf king rose to his feet.

  The two locked gazes again as Al brought his eyes up to meet Commander Nials’ brown orbs.

  “I am not one for speeches,” Al said. “Words bore me. I am a dwarf, and we are people of action. The orcs are battering down the gates as we speak. We sit here in your fine fort and you have wine at your disposal. Meanwhile, I have friends and kin under the barrage of arrows, and they go for want of food and bandages. We need men, and we need fresh supplies. We need it now. The orcs aren’t going to wait for the new recruits to finish their training. There isn’t the time to teach them the perfect way to march or the proper way to polish their dress boots. If they can hold a spear, or help shore up defenses by digging ditches, they are fit for the fight. Commander Nials, this is one of those battles that history will remember. Thirty years from now they will either praise your name for having the common sense to make the right decision, or, if you stay here to train your men and leave mine to die, then orcs will sit around this very room and drink to your name and call you fool.” Al folded his arms and set his jaw as he watched the man bristle in his chair. “Which is it to be?”

  Nials cleared his throat and glanced back to the window. “Are we that bad off?” he asked.

  Al huffed. “I wouldn’t be here if we weren’t.”

  Nials nodded. “I suppose every now and then an officer must change the orders as the battle takes shape before him.” He rose to his feet and stuck out his hand. “We’ll march south. I’ll send a pair of messengers north to King Mathias. The rest of the men will be ready by tomorrow. Given the recent transfers we have set up quite the efficient system for packing out. We’ll take every last recruit we have, and marshal our wagons as well to see if we can’t get some extra food and bandages down to Ten Forts.”

  Al let out a sigh of relief and took Nials’ hand. “Thank you,” he said. “You are a good man.”

  Nials scoffed. “I am a demoted man,” he said. “Or, at least I will be once the king hears of my insubordination. So this army in the south better be as big as you claim it is.”

  “Oh, there will be more than enough fighting to take your mind off the king, I promise.”

  *****

  Salarion waited for the silvery quarter moon to fall back behind the thick curtain of clouds again. She wanted to avoid confrontation, if possible, as she stalked along the stone corridors of Ten Forts. The raucous, raunchy orcs were busy filling themselves with an unconscionable amount of wine and ale in the courtyard outside. Through a window she watched as one of the drunken fools climbed up onto a religious shrine, squatted over the top and attempted to defecate over the edge. The buffoon slipped and fell to the ground, landing head-first on the stone pad below and putting a quick end to his debauchery.

  The nearby orcs laughed and threw dirt and food at the corpse.

  “Orcs,” Salarion said. Occasionally she found one of the creatures to be tolerable, but she had never found a group of orcs that she liked.

  She moved through the shadows in the corridor. It followed the line of the outer wall facing the south. Piles of rubble and the smell of fresh dirt mingled with stains of blood along the floor and walls gave her an idea of just how bad the fighting had been. As if she hadn’t already figured that out by seeing the large pits on the north filled with heaping piles of dead men and orcs when she had arrived a couple days before.

  Watching those piles burn almost made her question her mission.

  The orcs had spilled oil over the piles and set torches to them as if it were nothing more than lighting a camp fire. There was no ceremony for the dead, just the cold dismissal brought on by war.

  It was smart, she knew, to deal with that amount of bodies in such a way. It would keep the living army safe from disease and filth. It still felt wrong. Even for a dark elf, there were codes of ethics.

  She snaked through the corridor until she reached the central keep. She paused near a window to inspect the courtyard. She expected more of the same foolishness she had seen before, but was surprised to see a somber gathering of orcs instead. They were dressed in their armor, standing neatly in perfectly formed columns and rows. Beyond them was a raised platform of wood, with a ladder leading to the top. On the platform was a bed of kindling and branches, with a white shroud over the form of a body. An orc climbed to the top of the ladder and turned to address the others.

  “This man was the commander of this fort,
” the orc began. “He sacrificed himself so that his men could survive.” The orc held his arm out and a large torch was tossed up to him. “He fought with the honor and courage of an orc, and so he will be honored in death.” He held the torch up into the air. “He was lame, and had only one good leg, still he fought against us. He managed to slay seven before losing his own life.” The orc turned and set the torch to the bed of kindling. Sparks popped and crackled as the flame took hold. “Honor the honorable,” he shouted.

  The gathered orcs in chorus shouted, “Honor the honorable.”

  “Maernok,” Salarion whispered under her breath. He was one of the few that she found tolerable. She could only hope he would be reasonable tonight. Rather than watch the rest of the ceremony, she took advantage of the distraction. She crept out into the night, skirting the outside of the courtyard and slipping into a window in the main keep. The dark elf quickly identified the commander’s chambers and moved toward it, assuming that Maernok would have claimed them for himself.

  She was wrong.

  Inside lay another orc upon the bed. Books were strewn about the floor. Chests and drawers had been flung open and left in disarray. She didn’t bother entering the room. This orc had nothing to offer her. She moved back out into the main hall and melded into the shadows at the back of the chamber.

  Fifteen or twenty minutes passed. Several smaller groups of orcs came in and disappeared down the hallway at the other end of the hall. Another ten minutes came and went before Maernok entered the hall.

  The orc rubbed a weary hand over his face and sighed. He moved over to a long table situated against the far wall. He retrieved his sword from upon it and then made a direct line for the room where Salarion had just seen the other orc sleeping.

  No sooner had Maernok vanished into the bed chamber than Salarion stole her way across the main hall to listen at the doorway.