Dragonsphere (The Fallen King Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  Byramm’s face turned a deep crimson color. “It is tradition! Which you apparently lack any knowledge of. You are fortunate you’re not a child anymore.”

  Raanan smirked at the chamberlain. “Careful, Byramm. I might break your hip.”

  “Please brother,” Dagmar interjected, “we must get this right before evening. Two days from now is the coronation and we will have the entire kingdom watching. The less inexperienced we look, the better.”

  Raanan conceded the point and stood where the chamberlain directed. That old man had been a pain, usually quite literally, when he was younger. Anytime he made a mistake, Byramm was always there to deliver discipline. Now that he was in charge of himself, he could pick at the chamberlain all he pleased with no painful retaliation.

  The next few hours were full of boredom for Raanan as the chamberlain laid out the course of events that would unfold leading up to the coronation. The monastery would bring the sphere out as a symbolic display of power, there would be a few speeches by the people who had helped raise the older prince, and once they were finished, he would be crowned the new king of Talvaard. The only thing that would be different from any other ceremony, at least according to Byramm, was the announcement of the marriage and treaty with Oakvalor.

  “The general has tripled the guard in the event the people do not initially take to the idea. There will also be archers on the rooftops. We are not only protecting our new king, but also our new ally and his entourage.”

  “That should be plenty of protection,” Dagmar said. “I’ve given King Elkanah permission to bring his bodyguard as well. We have made every preparation possible. Now we can only trust the Divines for the best.”

  • • •

  The palace grounds were crowded with people who had come to see the crowning of the new king. Many of them had traveled hundreds of miles from all corners of the kingdom to glimpse the ceremony. The kings of Talvaard were known to live long and die of old age rather than of battle or disease, so the ceremony was a rare event.

  Innumerable banners and flags of bright orange, yellow, and red lined the buildings and walkways leading up to the Palace Square. Why it was called a square, no one was certain. The stonework that laid out the area in front of the great wall which separated the actual palace and the Square was in the shape of a rectangle. Whoever had termed it a square, the description stuck.

  Soldiers wearing ceremonial armor, emblazoned with the royal insignia of a phoenix bursting forth from a pile of ashes, stood guard along the streets to ensure order and keep the crowds from overwhelming the plaza where the sphere and the new king would be. Archers lined the rooftops with bows in hand, keeping careful watch. The entire population of the monastery, with the exception of the Guardian and those under his command, formed a large circle around a short pillar to the right of where the king would stand. Velkyn and the three former candidates for his position stood alert with their backs to the sphere, forming a protective square. An identical pillar to the left held the crown used only for coronations.

  Prince Raanan peered down at the scene below from the window of the throne room. Dagmar would pace the room, then turn, and pace back. “Are you nervous, brother?” Raanan chided. “You act as though you have never stood before a crowd.”

  His brother ceased his march. “It is easy for you to be calm. You aren’t the one who is accepting a crown that has many enemies. Not to mention the ire I may receive from the people of our kingdom with the announcement I make today. So yes, brother, I am nervous.” Dagmar continued pacing back and forth.

  Raanan shrugged and turned his gaze back to the scene outside. He could see the glint of the sphere through the veil that covered it. Enormous groups of children waved miniature flags with the royal crest. It seemed that the people were happy. The Square was a much different place the night before when they held the funeral. The same people who were excitedly waving flags and banners were also the same people who had cried and openly mourned the loss of their previous king.

  Ranaan thought about how his father looked inside the casket. He had always viewed his father as tall and strong, wise and venerable. Seeing him shriveled and pale just lying in a box made him conscious of the reality of death. It was no respecter of people or their status.

  Trumpets signaling the approach of King Elkanah momentarily drowned out the sound of the people talking and cheering. Raanan looked to see which direction the entourage was coming from and spotted them to the west. He could see about twenty men dressed in the colors of Oakvalor marching in front of a carriage.

  “Brother,” he said loudly, “our guests have arrived.”

  Dagmar seemed not to hear the news, so Raanan motioned the guards to escort the visiting king to the plaza. “Have you seen her?” Raanan asked aloud.

  “Who?” Dagmar replied.

  “Your future wife. Have you seen her?”

  Dagmar still did not cease pacing the throne room. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “What if she is ugly?” Raanan laughed, though his brother did not.

  “I do not see how the beauty of my queen has anything to do with bringing peace to our kingdoms.”

  “It doesn’t.” Raanan answered. “Though it would be humorous for you to go into the history books as a king who married a repulsive woman.” That did cause Dagmar to stop his pacing and glare at him. “Come now, brother,” Raanan left the window and embraced his sibling. “I only jest to lighten your heart.”

  “There will be plenty of time for you to jest after the ceremony,” Dagmar said curtly. “Though … I do hope she isn’t unsightly.” He smiled at Raanan and continued his pacing.

  One of the generals appeared in the doorway. “Your Highness,” his deep voice echoed in the giant marble chamber, “The king and his daughter await you in the plaza.”

  Raanan removed the robe that lay on the throne and wrapped it around his brother’s shoulders. “That’s our queue.”

  • • •

  Calderon could hear the Abbot arguing heatedly with someone in hushed tones. When he looked to see who, he was surprised to see Donovan. His spirits lifted when he saw his mentor, but when he realized his mentor was the one arguing with the Abbot, he got confused. He could only hear pieces of their conversation over the noise of the crowd.

  “You must remove it,” Donovan said.

  “That will never happen. The coronation will begin any moment, and we will not insult our new king.”

  “Something is wrong … I feel … dangerous,” Calderon strained to hear what Donovan was saying, but the crowd was getting louder. “It’s not safe.”

  The sound of horns blaring overpowered every sound and shook the ground around them. “All hail Prince Dagmar and Prince Raanan!” One of the heralds roared.

  Calderon thought the crowd was loud before the princes arrived. The masses shoved forward and it was all the soldiers could do to hold them back. He could see a general barking out orders but couldn’t make out the words. Then the two bothers entered the plaza, surrounded by a host of at least two dozen men armed to the teeth. He had not seen much outside the monastery and was overwhelmed by everything.

  He looked to where Donovan had been but the old man was gone. The Abbot seemed unfazed by whatever his mentor had said. Velkyn looked calm and composed compared to the soldiers fighting to keep the crowds at bay.

  It took almost twenty minutes to restore order and get the people to be silent enough for the ceremony to begin. Despite the chaos of the crowds, everything seemed well orchestrated as each person who had written a speech about the new king came forward and spoke about their memories of Dagmar as a child and various other stories about his character.

  As soon as the chamberlain finished talking, an odd hush fell over the crowd. Calderon wasn’t sure why everyone suddenly went quiet. It was probably the only moment of silence he had experienced since leaving the monastery that morning.

  Byramm approached the pillar that held the crown and gently picked it up. He
turned to Dagmar and lifted the crown into the air. “It is my esteemed honor to name you, Prince Dagmar, as the new king, by royal lineage, over the kingdom of Talvaard and its people.” Placing the crown upon Dagmar’s head, Byramm turned to the assembly. “I give you King Dagmar!”

  A great shout filled the air, though the people did not try to surge forward this time. Calderon noticed Prince Ranaan was staring at the sphere. The veil had been removed and it seemed so bright. Ranaan seemed to be entranced by the thing and oblivious to anything around him. The prince closed his eyes and opened his mouth in a scream that was lost in the sound of the thousands of people cheering.

  Panic gripped Calderon as he wondered what was wrong with the prince. He was about to rush forward to help him but noticed that one of the soldiers came to his aid.

  Raanan kept shaking his head and seemed unsteady on his feet. It seemed to Calderon that nobody had noticed the prince’s odd behavior. Suddenly Raanan seemed fine. He stood straight and pushed the soldier away from him.

  Calderon kept his eyes on the prince to see if anything else happened, but he seemed fine. Dagmar was trying to hush the crowd, and eventually Calderon turned his attention away from Raanan.

  “I have an announcement,” Dagmar yelled loudly to be heard as the noise of the people died down. “We have long been at war with our neighbors, and I am sure you are all wondering why the king of Oakvalor is here for my coronation. Today the nation of Talvaard and Oakvalor put our feuding past behind us. Today, my people, we forge a peace that not even our forefathers imagined. Today, I will marry the daughter of King Elkanah and seal a treaty of peace between our kingdoms!”

  There was complete silence. Calderon eyed the crowd. Everyone just stood there, staring at their new king with wide eyes and in some cases, wide mouths. Then someone in the back started clapping. Then another followed suit. And another. And another, until everyone was clapping in approval of the union.

  King Elkanah brought forth his daughter and the people began cheering loudly again. To say the woman was beautiful was an understatement. Calderon was awed by her eyes. They were bright blue, and her white flowing dress made them seem all the brighter. Her hair was blonde and long, perhaps reaching the middle of her back.

  The two kings embraced each other in a hug, and then Dagmar took the woman by her hand. “What’s your name?” Dagmar asked embarrassedly.

  “Nizana.”

  “It’s as beautiful as you are,” he complimented.

  A great smile spread across her face, revealing her teeth which were just as white as her dress.

  Despite the loudness and chaos of the crowd, Calderon was glad to have experienced this moment. “History in the making,” he whispered to himself. He noticed Prince Raanan was hovering toward the back of the plaza, his behavior seeming odd again. And then …

  Calderon watched in sheer horror as a scene more nightmarish than anything he could ever dream played out before his very eyes.

  Ranaan shoved his brother to the ground from behind. Unsheathing a sword from the soldier who helped him, he thrust the blade into Nizana’s abdomen. Blood spurt forth onto Ranaan’s hands and onto the floor. There was a wild look in the prince’s eyes as he jerked the blade free.

  Dagmar stared in horror and confusion, unsure of what to do. King Elkanah pointed at Ranaan and ordered his bodyguard to seize the murderer. The crazed look on his face made the guards hesitate. Then in a quick fluid motion, he swung the blade in a giant arc and decapitated his brother.

  Time seemed to cease for Calderon, but for everyone else, all hell broke loose. The Talvaard soldiers, unsure of what they should do, grouped protectively around Prince Ranaan. King Elkanah’s bodyguards did likewise and began systematically moving him away from the Square to the carriage, pushing their way through the distraught crowd.

  People were screaming and trampling each other to get away from the horrific sight. Calderon’s attention snapped back to the direction of the sphere when he heard the familiar voice of his friend Velkyn shouting for the monks to shield the sphere with their bodies. The thunderous sound of magic boomed and lit up the square in a bluish-green light and King Elkanah’s carriage, and his entourage, disappeared from sight.

  “So, there are wizards,” Calderon whispered in disbelief. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see the Abbot. “Go with Velkyn and the others and take the sphere to safety.” Calderon nodded and left the circle to join his friend. He noticed that the soldiers had moved Ranaan behind the stone wall of the palace.

  “What in the name of the Divines just happened?” he yelled. Velkyn shook his head grimly. “I’m not sure, but it seems like a coupe just happened.”

  “A what?”

  Velkyn pointed to the dead body of Dagmar. “An overthrow and seizure of the throne by a jealous brother. Come, we have to get the sphere back to the monastery.”

  • • •

  The trip back was rushed and nothing like the trip earlier that morning. Calderon had been entranced by the beauty of the capital city and the surrounding countryside. Everything now seemed different. Velkyn personally carried the sphere and only allowed Calderon to walk near him.

  “Why would the Prince kill King Elkanah’s daughter, let alone his own brother?” one of the monks whispered to another.

  “Why indeed?” Calderon looked questioningly to Velkyn.

  “Your assumption is as good as mine,” he replied, holding the sphere tightly to his chest. “Perhaps he wasn’t happy with not being king.”

  Calderon’s heart was heavy with grief. This was the only time he had left the monastery since he entered the sacred halls and it ended in bloodshed. A nagging thought in the back of his mind kept reminding him that the day wasn’t over yet.

  “The Tunnel is an omen of the worst kind. Through much research, we have found that it is an omen that only appears in Oakvalor, and within Oakvalor, only on the Five Islands.”

  - Lord Aio’s journal

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The sun was barely a sliver of dimming yellow light on the horizon. The few clouds in the sky shone red in the waning light of day above the low, forested hills of the Red Island. If one were watching from the hills overlooking the east or west parts of the valley at this time, he would have seen a shadow slowly stretch over to the south, creeping slowly down into the valley over the vast patchwork of fields, orchards, and pastures. All that could be seen of the Aiakh River was a dark ribbon, glittering like a long snakelike diamond in the last rays of the sunlight, winding its way north up the valley and out through a tunnel under the hills.

  One could see the campfires of the ruby and iron miners being lit on the hillsides. The familiar sounds of cattle, sheep, and goats being herded into their caves just above the valley. The smell of dead fish that were daily brought upstream for trade with the farmers came up from the valley, rising with the heat of the day. Occasionally, a warm, gentle breeze would blow from the valley up into the hills, the richness and aroma reminding the entire island of the impending harvest.

  A horn sounded, heralding the coming of night. In response, the sound of a flute playing an ancient melody rose from one of the campfires. It was a beautiful song, composed ages before the migration of the first twelve tribes of the Aihi into the Five Islands of Oakvalor. Such a song is very difficult to describe, as one would not hear the likes of it elsewhere. If one listened closely, you could hear voices coming up out of the earth, singing their ancient chant to the sound of the flute. The branches of trees rustled in the gentle breeze, humming along with the music. All of nature seemed to sing the song of the flute. If the song had words, one could be sure that all of the men, women, and children on the Island would have sung its chorus on that peaceful night.

  All was peaceful on the Red Island as the sun set on that late summer evening. One felt like celebrating with every breath, such was the richness of the pre-harvest air. All the children were sleeping soundly in their beds, while the mothers prepared nighttime me
als for their husbands coming back from a long day of work in the fields, pastures, and orchards.

  As soon as the sun had set, the moon in its full brightness rose from the southern horizon. Proceeding, guarding, and following it were thousands of bright stars, lighting up the heavens. The sun had gone to bed along with the children of the valley, and then had come the moon, escorted by her children, to continue the great dance across the sky.

  If any man by this time still had a trouble, discomfort, or sense of foreboding on his mind, it would have soon been forgotten. For once, all troubled thoughts and worries could be put aside until the morning. For just a few hours of time, man’s mind could be at peace. All of the Red Island sang with that flute song, and the hearts of mankind sang with it. For just a short period of time, in the face of eternity, all was at peace.

  The aged prophet made his way up the lonely mountain path after his journey to and from the busy streets of the capital city, Aicatan. He and his disciple, Lord Imen, had traveled much during the previous week. After four days of treading the valley roads, a week of sleeping in the cramped rooms of the city inns and taverns, and many rigorous ceremonies and rites of passage, both master andespeciallypupil were glad to be returning to their peaceful homes on the mountain, and looking forward to a comfortable rest in their own beds.

  The prophet, called Lord Aio, would have had little trouble hiding behind any medium sized tree trunk or small boulder without having to crouch low or stand sideways. His pupil, who was of average height and build, dwarfed him considerably. His scarred, withered arms told of many long death matches. What little muscle that could be found on his diminutive frame would have been hard enough to force any Cannibal to leave the morsel in frustration, claiming it in the primitive Cannibal tongue to be a peculiar type of stone. His brown, oven-baked facebut one of the many perils enduredwas decorated by a long, unkempt and unwashed scarlet beard, framed on top by hair of similar color, length, fashion, and state. The dark eyes sinking deep into his face had not lost the fire of youth, but had been stoked with over a century of war and wisdom. His thin, cracked, dry lips almost matched his face in color.