The Shattered Crown: The Third Book of Caledan (Books of Caledan 3) Read online

  Contents

  Limited time offer: claim your free copy of The First Crown: A Caledan Novelette

  Map of Caledan

  Noble Landholdings of Caledan

  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

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Thanks for reading!

  Limited time offer: claim your free copy of The First Crown: A Caledan Novelette

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Limited Time Offer

  Download a Free Book!

  Click to read for free today - limited time offer!

  It's easy to kill a man. It's hard to kill a dragon. Is it impossible to kill a god?

  Bahr, the god of Fire and War, is terrorising the land, annihilating men, Eldarkind and dragons alike. Nothing can stand before him and Beren, chief amongst men, faces everything he loves being lost to Bahr’s fickle fires.

  After witnessing Bahr’s devastating power, Beren despairs, until the mysterious king of the Eldarkind offers him one glimmer of hope – but it comes at great cost. To have any chance of success, Beren must have faith in the enigmatic Eldarkind, set aside his lifelong differences with the dragons, and place his trust in the enemy who has destroyed his home and family. Unless he does so, they are all doomed.

  As Bahr’s vengeful eye turns to their hostile alliance, their differences threaten to divide man, Eldarkind, and dragon. Can Beren forge the strongest allies from his bitterest enemies before Bahr destroys them all?

  Discover how the epic fantasy tale begins in this prequel, The First Crown: A Caledan Novelette, set 1,000 years before the Books of Caledan trilogy. If you liked The Lord of the Rings, The Inheritance Cycle, or the Books of Pellinor, then you’ll love the Books of Caledan series.

  Click to read for free today - limited time offer!

  Chapter One

  The dragons came with the darkness; insidious shadows that swallowed the earth with voids of light. Screams arose from the ground before they had given any other sign of their presence.

  The humans were becoming more cautious, Cies noted. It mattered not. No being could stand before dragon-kind, least of all mortals. With a slow-burning satisfaction, he opened his fiery maw and dove from the air, followed by his gleeful kin.

  Destruction came to Harring that night.

  Chapter Two

  Soren slouched in his armchair before the fire with his feet stretched out to feel the faint warmth. The fire was too small to fill the entire space, and the cold of winter nipped at him. His high-ceilinged drawing room was rarely warm, but now, somehow, the insipid breeze found its way inside, and it chilled him to the core. Not even the midday winter sun brought warmth and respite; only a cold and flat light.

  "More wood, please!" he called. A scurry sounded outside the door as his serving boy scuttled off to fetch another pannier of wood. Soren rose, stiff-limbed. He paused at the sharp rap on the door.

  "Yes?"

  "The Lord Steward of Pandora," his guard announced from without and pushed open the door.

  "Lord Behan," Soren greeted him with a smile.

  "Your Majesty." Behan's bow was not as low as it ought to have been, prevented by the stiffness of his arthritic joints.

  Soren invited him to sit by the hearth instead, and Behan sunk into the chair with a grateful groan, whilst the boy returned and rebuilt the fire, and Soren hovered about the feeble warmth.

  "What news?" Soren's face fell as Behan shook his head. "Another?"

  "Yes. Harring."

  Soren's gut wrenched as Behan said the word. It surely cannot be Harring? His eyes closed for a moment, as he said a silent prayer for his friend, Garth, and his daughter, Lindy, in that isolated and windswept place. No help would reach them there. I pray they are safe. He swallowed past the lump in his throat. "How many?"

  "At least half have been killed, or fled and not returned. The other half managed to escape, and have since returned to their homes, though nothing remains of them. This news comes with latest word from Denholm."

  Soren's mouth twisted in a grimace. He knew Lord Verio of County Denholm would have nothing positive to say. He waved at Behan to continue.

  "Verio is threatening to shut the city gates. He has seen an unprecedented influx of refugees seeking shelter and safety behind his walls. In his own words, the city is 'overrun with them like rats'."

  Soren growled an inhuman sound of rage. Verio was a despicably selfish man, but his words betrayed an even deeper contempt for his people.

  "Yes, quite," Behan continued, with a shake of his head. "Hardly words of good taste. Soldiers are being killed alongside civilians, he reports. All his efforts are in vain, and he seeks now to consolidate his own safety. His weapons are of no use whatsoever against the dragon attacks. They attack from the sky with great spurting jets of flames, bulk that shatters buildings, and claws and teeth that can rend anything in their way. Even on rare occasions when close combat is possible, their hide is far too thick to pierce with any blade, and they are too dangerous to approach or survive. No defence stands before them. Verio is counting on his castle itself to provide enough fortification for him to outlast any attacks."

  "And the people of Denholm county?"

  Behan did not answer.

  "Are left to fend for themselves," Soren answered his own question, his lip curling in disgust. "The man is a coward."

  "He is, indeed, but, perhaps faced with such a foe, he cannot be blamed for wondering how he can survive if they attack his city."

  Soren stood for a moment, trying to imagine experiencing a dragon attack. He recalled the fearsome bulk and presence of the dragons he had met, and could imagine only too well the fear they would strike into unfamiliar hearts. Yet, he could not understand why they attacked. The dragons he had met were fierce and terrifying, but bound to peace. What had changed? He repeated his thought to Behan, but the older man shook his head and sighed.

  "I cannot fathom it myself, Sire. The witness accounts state all property and structures were wholly destroyed by fire and physical strength. All livestock are killed—most are consumed. People are killed and left. In any case, we must look to what we may do. The attacks move south and west through Denholm county—and they increase in frequency. We receive news of fresh attacks daily. There are, and we have, no defences to stand in their way. What can be done?"

  "I know not," replied Soren, with a heavy heart. "Soon, they will breach the Grey Mountains." He kne
w dragons could fly over the passes with ease."And then…"

  "Pandora."

  "Yes. We could be next. It is perhaps only a matter of time before they attack us."

  The consequences were implied. There would be no way to defeat such a foe.

  The two men remained in silence, both gazes lost in the crackling flames of the fire that greedily wrapped itself around the fresh logs. Shivers crawled down Soren's freezing spine and every hair stood on end, even as his front roasted in the crescendoing heat.

  Soren was foolish to think he had found peace for himself, and for Caledan, he realised. Does peace ever come? he wondered. He was at last rid of his usurping, murderous uncle, Zaki, and for now the ambitious and aggressive southern king, Harad, too. However, now he had a far greater problem—and no idea how to solve it. He pushed back his rising panic at the hopelessness and helplessness of the situation.

  "I must make contact with the Eldarkind," said Soren at last. "If any should know of what is happening, it is they. Their race is as old as the dragons. Their magic could aid us."

  "If I may suggest something of pertinence, Sire?"

  Soren indicated for him to proceed.

  "Your mother had a mirror," he said, watching Soren expectantly.

  Soren raised his eyebrow, nonplussed.

  "With this mirror, she could look upon lands far away, and speak with the Eldarkind as if they sat as close as you and I now."

  "How is this possible?"

  "Their magic, of course. Scrying, they call it. The ability to see far. The mirror was a gift from Queen Artora to your mother upon her coronation. After her untimely death, I hid its purpose. To Zaki, it was nothing more than a mirror, and I felt no need to furnish him with the truth. He was unworthy, and underestimated the value of the Eldarkind."

  Soren's lips pursed at the mention of his uncle, whose face flashed before his eyes.

  Always the same face. The one of surprise and pain in the moments before he died; and then the lolling limpness of his head and the unseeing glaze on dead eyes that would only trouble Soren in his nightmares. It was still raw. Soren swallowed. "There is no time to lose. I must speak with Artora at once. Take me to the mirror."

  Chapter Three

  Tarrell, the new king of the Eldarkind, stood with his hands clasped behind his back, admiring the splendour of the winter mountain vista before him. It was barren, a blank canvas of snow and bare meadows, but beautiful nonetheless. Everything was enriched now that the full flow of magic had returned to Ednor.

  It rushed through his bones and his body hummed with the energy of it; rejuvenated and revitalised. He revelled in that, and the relief that accompanied it. It was only now the full power of the energy stream had returned that he could appreciate how much of it had been stifled—choked, and siphoned away—though he understood not where.

  "My lord," his aide called, and burst in without waiting for invitation.

  Tarrell turned and frowned, about to admonish him, but his usually unruffled aide's agitation gave him pause.

  "The dragons are here."

  "I beg your pardon, Alikar?"

  "They are here," Alikar repeated, shaking his head in bewilderment.

  "Who? Myrkith-visir?"

  "No, Sire. The dragon who leads them calls himself Farran. He claims urgent counsel with you."

  "So be it." The dragons were far too large to enter the building. "I will meet with him in the courtyard."

  ~

  The rumbling reverberated through the hallways as Tarrell strode outside. What on earth is the meaning of this? He had been unable to scry with Myrkith-visir for days. The mirror had turned as black as night and he feared the worst, but did not understand it.

  "Lord Tarrell." The dragon named Farran had a rough, gravelly voice.

  "Farran, it is my pleasure." Tarrell executed a short, sharp bow before tilting his head back to show his fleshy under-jaw to the dragon.

  Farran dipped his head almost to the ground before rearing to reveal his own chin. The dragon greeting revealed a vulnerable point as a sign of trust to both enemy and friend.

  As Farran lowered his head to eye level with Tarrell, for he towered over the Eldarkind several times his height, Tarrell stole a chance to examine Farran's company. Bloody. Muddy. Exhausted. What has passed? Tarrell wondered.

  "Draw fresh water for these guests. Bring fresh meat also." Eldarkind scattered to carry out his bidding. "What has passed?" he repeated his question to the dragon.

  "Bahr of the Fire."

  Tarrell stilled. He met Farran's giant eye. "You have had dealings with him." It was not a question. Bahr of the Fire, a fire elemental of the oldest and greatest nature, had lain in the darkness, bound by ice for a millennia. His affinity to fire, and his role in shaping the existence of the dragon race had occurred as a concern to Tarrell. What if Bahr has sought their allegiance? Before he could ponder any more, Farran replied.

  "We have, and he did not visit us with amity in mind. Myrkith-visir is dead. Our clan is divided and at war."

  Tarrell's jaw dropped open. "Myrkith-visir has passed? How did this happen? Who leads your clan now?"

  "Bahr came, and with him, he brought fire, death, and a traitor by the name of Cies. His magic had twisted and grown Cies to unnatural proportions. Myrkith-visir denied him claiming us as his own servants, but Bahr and Cies had many supporters in the clan. There was a battle. Myrkith-visir sacrificed himself to end Bahr, but Cies lives on, and he has claimed the clan for himself."

  "Bahr is dead?" Tarrell comprehended what it meant. Now, he understood why their magic had diminished, and how it had returned. Tarrell exhaled with a deep sigh of ambivalence. The Eldarkind had lost their queen, Artora, the most fair and just, but Bahr of the Fire was dead, and thus she was avenged. No longer would Bahr skulk in the shadows, silently poisoning their very life force.

  "You do not submit to Cies's rule?" Tarrell added.

  Farran growled, and his anger was echoed by those around him. "No! We do not accept the rule of a coward who was banished from our clan. He is not fit to call himself our kin, let alone lead us."

  A much smaller black dragon pushed forward from the crowd. "I name myself Myrkdaga, son of Myrkith-visir. My sire died the most noble of deaths. We do not submit to traitors. I follow Farran-visir, my sire's nest-mate. He will return honour to our clan and deal revenge on Cies of the silver scales."

  Tarrell bowed to the black dragon. "I offer my condolences at the loss of your father."

  Myrkdaga turned without reply and walked away with smoke rising from his nostrils and a low growl in his throat.

  "This does not give you leave to come here Farran-visir," Tarrell turned his full attention back to Farran, now affording him the title of head of his clan. "You have strayed from your ancestral lands. Do you realise the implications?"

  His clenched fist tremored a little, as the anger built inside him. "The Eldarkind have spent a thousand year abiding by the terms of our pact; now you have strayed from its conditions. You have broken the pact!" he accused.

  Farran snorted, and Tarrell stumbled back, coughing as smoke puffed into his face. "The pact was broken already. It has been crumbling a long while—you know this to be true, you feel the magic, too—and it is His doing. Bahr has been weakening us for centuries as He devised His escape."

  Tarrell was not convinced, though he privately admitted it did make some sense. Bahr's death slotted all the pieces of the puzzle together. He was silent for a moment, in contemplation. "Can we make contact with Brithilca-visir? He will no doubt have wisdom that may aid us in this. He will not be subject to any corruption by Bahr or Cies."

  Farran rumbled his agreement.

  ~

  Farran joined Tarrell later, away from prying eyes, in his private courtyard. The cloudy sky dimmed with the impending sunset, and the chill of the mountain air deepened. Tarrell came wrapped in furs, and even Farran warmed himself; the glow of fire in his throat revealed that much.

&
nbsp; In the centre of the stone-flagged space, a still, shallow pool lay motionless. Tarrell paced towards it as Farran began the summoning. A low crooning emanated from his throat, rising and falling in pitch, and ebbing and flowing in intensity. The ethereal sound, charged with unspoken, ancient magic, made every hair on Tarrell's body stand on end, and shivers crawled down his spine.

  The surface of the water vibrated, rippling from the centre to the edges, as though a pebble had been cast into it. And then, the water broke its bounds and soared upwards, twisting, turning, and writhing. Flowing rivers crisscrossed one-another as a form constructed itself: impossibly huge, made of far more water than that which had been in the pool.

  Tarrell followed it with awe. He had never seen a dragon summoning before, and it was enchanting. In seconds that felt like hours, the form of a dragon stood before them. Made entirely of water that flowed through itself, creating ripples of reflected light that dazzled the courtyard, it stood towering over him—as large as Farran—and its feet were rooted in the water.

  "Farran-visir. Tarrell-visir," the form greeted them with a deep, rumbling voice that sounded as though it spoke from a great distance away.

  Tarrell, overcome for a moment by the wonder of what he had witnessed, and the privilege of meeting the father of dragons, dropped to one knee in the lowest bow he had ever offered another. "Oh, Brithilca-visir, this is a great honour."

  "Brithilca-visir," murmured Farran.

  "I know why you have summoned me," said Brithilca. His great snout swung between them as he regarded each in turn with a watery eye. "The clan is fractured, as it ought not to be, and there is no peaceful resolution. Cies already seeks you."

  "He seeks revenge for his exile," growled Farran. "But the revenge will be ours. For Myrkith-visir and our fallen."

  Brithilca did not reply. "There are far greater events set in motion that if left unchecked, will have devastating consequences for all. Bahr of the Fire is vanquished, yet His kin awaken."

  "More? More like Him?" Tarrell said, aghast. Farran's growl rose in intensity.