Old Dark (The Last Dragon Lord Book 1) (6 page)

One moment was the reign of the dragon lord; the next, a dawn that had no name. Yet the sun still rose all the same on the coast of the fishing village, the huts charred by dragon fire, the lines of fish laid out like beads of a broken necklace. The waters still ebbed and flowed over the bodies lying facedown in the sand, their hands clutched around rocks and swords and what was left of their children. The wind still blew through the forest and rustled the leaves where Old Dark lay, swollen with sleep.
 

One moment it was darkness, an age where you couldn’t trust your shadow for fear it would betray your secrets, for there were ears everywhere—and the next, infinite silence.
 

Uncertainty.
 

Trepidation.
 

The news spread with the rising sun. Down the golden coasts of the western continent, where elves gathered in the forests to debate whether it was really true. Across the plains where human farmers leaned against fence posts, wondering if they no longer had to make tributes. To the four corners of the world, the snowy tundras, the searing deserts, the roiling, jewel-dark seas.
 

Trade routes faltered, then flourished. The hills filled with fat cattle and farmers grew rich from not having to slaughter them without pay.
 

For dragons, it was a sad day and the end of an era. Keeper dragons wept inside their caves, and Crafter dragons keened louder than the wind.
 

The dragon lord was dead.
 

No, not dead. Asleep. But for the world who had never known any different, it was the same as dead.
 

How the world rejoiced! How elves and humans danced in celebrations while the dragons retreated to their homes, brooding...

The dragon lord was dead.
 

But the world didn’t know the whole story. No one saw Toad springing out of the shadows at the last minute, slamming into Fenroot, breaking the dragon’s face. Moss escaping into the brush. Norwyn and Toad running to the great dragon, sleeping as lifeless as a stone.
 

The vigil outside the palace walls was a sham. The thousands of chanters with their offerings of jewels, beef, and gold were also carrying swords and axes at the bottom of the carts. They stormed the castle walls easily, for the dragons were in mourning.
 

The mob searched for Alsatius and Smirnagond, burning every room in the palace as they did so. They found the old dragons in the gardens, and they burned them alive.
 

Dark’s parents died with his name on their lips.

The palace fell, spilling its rock and bones across the valley.
 

It was all over. Centuries of power gone in the time it took for the palace to crumble.
 

And as the world exhaled, it had to figure out what to do, now that the House of Dark had fallen.

ACT II

VII

Ancestral Bogs, Western Continent

Year 2020, One Thousand Years Later

Lucan Grimoire brushed sharp branches from his eyes as he journeyed deeper into the bog. Flies nipped at his face and mosquitos infiltrated his long sleeves.
 

He’d picked the wrong day to wear a suit. He had loosened his tie minutes earlier, wrapping it around his neck so he wouldn’t lose it. His light blue button-up shirt was stuck to his skin from sweat, and he was sure the ivory buttons would leave marks by now.
 

An incessant buzzing floated around his ear and he smacked at it. Two flies lay pulsing in his palm. He made a face of disgust and shook them away. He tasted bug spray in his mouth and spit it out.
 

“How much longer?” he asked.
 

“A little further, sir.”

A few paces ahead, a university student stopped and gave him a look of pity. He parted a clump of tangled branches and motioned Lucan through.
 

“Do you want me to use my machete?” Tony Dyer asked. “I know you aren’t used to the bogs, Mr. Grimoire.”
 

Lucan didn’t answer.
 

“I figured you’d be against it, with your platform on the environment and such.”

What does he know about my platform?
Lucan thought.
I’m running a campaign, and here I am in this bog, all because I believed some backwater university kid.

Tony had a backpack on, and his shirt was tied around his waist. He was young, limber, and of elven blood—high cheekbones and bronzed skin, probably from living outdoors in the sultry bog, and ears that were only slightly pointed from centuries of racial mixing.
 

Lucan had pure elven blood—as pure blooded as one could get given the historical circumstances—and that meant something. At least to him.
 

“If it’s just a little farther, then leave your machete alone,” Lucan said.
 

Tony started through more brush, but Lucan grabbed him. “I’m sticking my neck out for you. I don’t traipse after every starry-eyed person who gives me a pitch, you know.”

“I know your business background,” Tony said. “I’m not lookin’ for money, sir.”

Lucan wanted to laugh in his face. Not looking for money! That was exactly what all the snot-nosed startups said.
We’re not selling you anything, Mr. Grimoire.
And then they’d turn around and ask for a hundred thousand spiras.
 

This kid was full of crap. Money was the only language anyone understood anymore, even with the end of the world looming. It was the vowels. It was the consonants. It was the forge around which everyone understood the sparks.
 

“Then what
are
you looking for?” Lucan asked.
 

“I want to make a difference.”

“Aren’t you a little do-gooder? I thought you kids lost your optimism before you went to college.”

Tony picked up his pace, and a branch smacked Lucan in the face.
 

His cheek stung. “Gah! Ah, alright, I guess I deserved that.”

He jogged after Tony, more aware of his sweat and body odor than ever before. The purple trees whispered in the breeze and the murky depths of the water nearby bubbled and popped.
 

They moved into a constellation of cicada songs as Tony spoke.

“I’m a student of Professor Charmwell’s.”

“What?” Lucan said, cupping his hand to his ear. He couldn’t hear the boy over the cicadas.
 

“Professor Charmwell. You know her, right?”

The name sounded familiar. She was a stuck-up professor who had gotten a lot of news coverage for her stance against magicological drilling a few years ago. He had presented her an award at a banquet once. Or maybe that was someone else. Too many faces to remember them all.
 

“I know of her. If she’s your professor, why didn’t you go to her first?”

“Isn’t optimism your message?”

“You mean for my campaign? Yeah.”

“I was at your rally last week. At the university. And I believed.”

“Don’t make me feel bad now, kid.”

“You said the cornerstone of our age will be the people who act bigger than themselves. I agree with you. So no, I’m not doing it for the money.”

The self-important entrepreneurs’ voices rang in Lucan’s head again.

We aren’t selling you anything. We’re creating a future. Surely you believe in it too?
 

Lucan thought of his campaign manager, Celesse, who was probably sitting inside his air-conditioned sedan, strategizing about where he’d go next. He had tried to convince her to come with him, but she wouldn’t ruin her makeup.
 

Not for this.
 

Not for a rumor.
 

The ground grew softer. Lucan stepped through mud, feeling it pool against his socks. He lamented the death of his leather shoes.
 

“So what exactly are we looking for again?” Lucan asked. “No offense, but I’m on a tight schedule.”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Nothing? Then couldn’t we have done this in my office?”

“No. That’s it. It’s nothing. See, I was taking a shortcut through here one afternoon. My home isn’t too far from here, you understand. I was skipping a rock across the water when something just didn’t seem right.”

They came to the water’s edge where a giant wooden stake was driven into the ground. Tony patted it.
 

“This is the spot.”

Lucan pulled out his smartphone and snapped a picture. He pretended to marvel at the patchy water and the weeping willows wavering at the bog’s edge. A rotten, spicy smell pervaded the air.

“I hope you have more to show me than just a scenic picture. You’ve got two minutes before I really get pissed off.”

Tony picked up a rock and tossed it from hand to hand.

Lucan held up his hands in surrender. “You really need to learn how to take a joke.”

Tony skipped the rock across the water. It bounced several times before sinking.
 

Lucan shook his head and crossed his arms.

Tony took another rock and skipped it across the water. It strayed from its intended path, and a frog leapt out of the water and into a hole in the mud.
 

Then Tony took another rock and skipped it with all his might, dropping to his knees as he let the rock bounce over the water.
 

Splash … Splash. Splash-splash-splash-splash.

Thunk.
The rock seemed to bounce off nothing before it sank into the water.

“What was that?” Lucan asked.
 

Tony smirked. He took another rock and skipped it in the same trajectory.
 

Again, the rock hit something and flew backward into the water.

Lucan took a rock and practiced his swing. It had been years since he skimmed a rock across water. He remembered summers at his father’s lake house, skimming with his brothers. They were all terrible at it.
 

To hell with this.

He threw the rock.
 

It struck a surface, but it did not sink into the water.
 

Instead, it disappeared. An aura of faint pink light flashed. Ahead of them, a jagged white structure lay half-hidden in the trees, like a giant claw scratching against the sky. A rickety boardwalk led up to its entrance, several of its pylons missing.

“What the hell…?”

“Is this a waste of time now?” Tony asked. “I wanted to show you first. If the government finds out about this, they’ll exploit it. I know you’ll do the right thing.”

“Which is…?”

“Protect this place.”

Lucan put a hand on Tony’s shoulder. Then he walked cautiously around the water to the start of the boardwalk. He hovered one foot over the rotting wood.

Then he set his foot down.

An explosion of air tore through the area, knocking him back. He landed against a tree and moss spilled over his face.

“Man!”

He was lucky he didn’t break his back against the tree, but it hurt like hell.
 

Something whistled through the air, and he saw it in slow motion as it hurtled toward him.
 

The wooden stake.
 

He put his hands in front of his face and screamed.

The stake stuck in the ground next to him, inches from his body. Tony landed next to it. Lucan was amazed that neither of them ended up impaled.

They both lay in the mud for a moment, stunned and coughing.
 

The building was gone.

“Where is it?” Lucan asked, looking around. The blast had winded him and he had lost his orientation. The white claw was nowhere to be found.

Tony shook his head. “I don’t know. The stake was my marker.”

“Shit,” Lucan said.
 

“Don’t you have tools?” Tony asked. “Can’t you trace magic?”

Lucan laughed. “If this is what I think it is, I’m going to need every tool I’ve got.”

VIII

Professor Miri Charmwell flipped through a stack of papers, her glasses propped on her forehead.
 

It was summer vacation already. The year had flown by, and she had at least a hundred papers to grade before
her
summer could begin. The dean of students, a strict Crafter who accepted no less than perfection, would make sure of that.
 

She had just finished the last faculty meeting of the year, a shouting match masquerading as a committee. The upcoming gubernatorial election had thrown the school’s allegiances into question, now that all the candidates wanted to visit.
 

Neutrality was Miri’s opinion, but since the school was privately funded, it was voted that they had to take a stance. They would endorse the incumbent governor.
 

The anti-environment candidate. The one, who, weeks ago, pointed at protesters and laughed, calling them oblivious. The one who called the Department of Magical Sciences a waste of taxpayers’ money. The one who, if re-elected, vowed to dismantle the department.
 

Her job.
 

Her career.
 

Her lifetime of memories and accolades.
 

She had tried to persuade the other professors to refuse their support, but they were all too afraid for their jobs to listen. Not even Dean Rosehill had stuck up for her, which was disturbing considering his strong pro-magic background.
 

She was numb as they counted the votes. The result had to be unanimous, and they had cowed her into voting for the governor.
 

Her head swelled with pain. On her desk was a jar filled with purple cream she had purchased from a magic seller, and she dipped two fingers in and massaged her temples.
 

She preferred magic to pills. Pills worked slowly and you never knew what was in them. This particular jar of cream was sold by a seller on the fringe of the third district who recycled magic. It had the stamp of a serpentine dragon curled around a well on the front, the symbol of magical purity and recycling.