Hi Guys,
As I'm sure most of you know, I've been working hard on restoring my major WIP to full glory so y'all can get your eager loving eyes on it's crazy space opera goodness, but I have not been idle on the fantasy side of things.
I'm more than positive that you're all familiar with my rascal fae series starring The Red Wolf himself and that he will be taking steps on a most interesting journey in the future. What I am about to show to you is but a small taste, the tiniest sliver of the full cake to come and I hope you enjoy.
Here, in this snippet you will read, you, my wonderful readers, will be shown the smallest crumb of just who raised Puck and why he is the morose figure we all know and love to be. Here, you will be introduced to his father, Bjorn Goodefellow and his mother Queen Andraste and be shown just how far apart in personality they were.
So, without further ado, I give you, The Madness of Dragon Eggs.
The final battle of the land of flame and the death of Asherah, the Dragon Queen
One hundred years before the Great Migration
Bjorn Goodfellow wiped a burning tear away from his face as he looked down at the bodies of his two eldest children. He was still tired and battle worn from the final fight. The scent of burning flesh still lingered in his nostrils as did the bitter aroma of flaming hair along with the stench of boiling fat and blood. His cerulean hair was soaked through with sweat and half of his face still stung from where one of Asherah’s younglings had nearly clawed one of his eyes out.
The Healing Hag’s had done their level best to reduce the scarring, however, their best on this occasion would not be enough. Bjorn’s handsome but weathered features were now forever marked by three claw marks that covered the whole left cheek of his face.
He looked down at what was left of his firstborn, his beloved daughter Sonata.
Even now he could remember the day she had been born and how he refused to leave Andraste’s side no matter how much she screamed at him to leave. The mother of his children and Queen of all the Fae had railed raved and threatened him but would not move no matter how hard she or the midwives insisted he leave. He remembered when the midwives finally handed her over to him and the feeling of pure light and joy he felt holding her. He was there for her words, her first steps, her time on a horse, with a sword and when she had been sworn to the service of her Queen and mother.
She had been resplendent in her green armour, her hair flailing in the wind as she swore her oath of service. It was a day of immense pride for him, but the woman he saw on that day was not the one lying in front of him.
All things considered the hags had done an excellent job of cleaning her up. Most of her face had been burnt to a crisp while the rest of her had been fused to the emerald plat of her armour. Pieces of flesh had merged with steel and so badly blackened by Asherah’s fire that it was indistinguishable except by touch. Bjorn had not wanted his child’s final image to look like that and insisted that flesh be taken from his own back so as to restore her features in whatever way possible. It was little comfort but at least he knew that once he reached the other side he would be able to know his daughter on sight.
His younger daughter had been spared a much less gruesome fate but it had been even more traumatising for him to watch his beloved Szelanya fall in battle. Szelanya had been his “Little Sword” as he had so called her, ever present at his side growing up and just as desperate to gain his approval as Sonata had been. His Little Sword had stood next to him, holding one of the many in place so as to pin the Dragon Queen to the dirt while the untied Mythic legions held the hordes of Dragon younglings that ravaged their lines, desperate to save the beast mother. It had all been in vain, the lines could only hold for so long before they broke which is exactly what they did.
Szelanya had fought to the last, even going so far as to tie the chain around her waist so as to hold her position on the attack. When the dragon children descended on her in numbers so large that she was obscured from his sight Bjorn knew she was dead; even now he could still hear her screaming as she was ripped to pieces, her plea for safety and for aid repeated like a horn that would not silence: “Mama, Papa! Help me, please save me!”
He could feel his eyes beginning to sting again as he looked at the webwork of stiches crisscrossing all over her face, keeping what was left in place.
There hadn’t been much for the Hags to work with, most of her face had been mashed into a red pulp interspersed with the occasional mud and blood soaked piece of flesh. They had worked a veritable miracle salvaging this much of her face, even if the light had vanished behind his Little Sword’s eyes.
“Bjorn” said a soft and gravelly voice behind him.
He turned to find the diminutive form of his Dwergan captain and best friend Arduk Leatherhelm staring up at him.
His bushy black beard reached the centre of his chest while his hair was uncommonly cut into a short buzzcut. His trusty crossbow and club were both strapped to his back, ready to be drawn within an instant. He looked tired and rundown, as did everyone in the base camp for the united legions, but it was not the only the reason for his exhaustion as he grieved with his friend for his children. Tied to his belt was a leather drinking skin that hung loose beneath a leather buff coat which covered his ample frame. In his gloved hand he held his snakeskin cap from which he derived his name.
As far as Dwergan names went it more unusual than most. His fellow countrymen had a tendency to choose dramatic titles such as ‘Hammerhand’ or ‘Wolfsbane’, others chose to honour their mothers and fathers with ‘Son of’ or ‘Daughter of’. Arduk did not have the pleasure of such an option; having been abandoned as a child he had never known his parents and so settled on using his beloved hat as his title.
He reached out and laid a soft hand on his friends arm, the only gesture either soldier knew how to express in such moments.
“Bjorn I…” he began.
“What are the numbers” he said coldly, puching past his friend and out of the mourning tent the hags had set aside for him.
The smell of sulphur was still thick in the air as was the odour of burnt and rotting flesh mixed in with the choking smoke of Dragon fire that floated about the legions base camp. The sounds of every different kind of Mythic howled throughout as the hags administered their ointments, salves and cures to the injured. Those with minor wounds were seen to by the hags in training while the life or death cases were left to the elders. Those on the edge of death were either given a dose of Forever Night, a mixture to lull them to the other side while others were given the Misery Chord, a thin knife used to speed their way to death with a carefully placed incision.
The soldiers that survived the titanic clash had either taken to burying their friends whilst administering the final rites or had taken to splintering off into groups to maintain the defence perimeter in case of surprise attacks.
Bjorn grasped the handle of his bone white Wraithblade and ran a finger over the sapphire gem in the centre of the hilt for a small measure of comfort as he passed through the sea of exhausted soldiers. The mist of its frosted blade twitched against the wind, trailing off and disappearing only to return and float away again in a trail of fine blue smoke. It was a strange kind of comfort but somehow the cold of his beloved sword gave more reassurance to him in that moment than the warmth of hearth and home.
“I need something else besides numbers Arduk” Bjorn said.
“I know, I know” Arduk said reaching for the leatherskin at his waist and passing it to his General. “Here’s the whiskey, once you’ve tended to that needless distraction I’ll give you the numbers.”
Bjorn unscrewed the cap and took a suspicious sniff of the contents. The fae warrior had seen every kind of battlefield with Arduk. Across Earth, Ocean, Sky and flame the two had fought side by side and back to back. The Dwergan had saved his life a hundred times and he had repaid that friendship a hundred times in return, there was nothing Bjorn would not trust him with: Except his whiskey.
Deducing the dram was safe enough for consumption he took a hearty swig and passed it back to him.
“At least you didn’t put powdered mushroom root in it this time” he said.
“That was on time, and you were asking for it” Arduk replied.
“I didn’t do anything I just…”
“Started a fight in a Ghulish restaurant, had I not dosed your whiskey we would have ended up on the menu”
“Yeah, but I spent the next day and a half shitting my breeches thanks to you”
Arduk gave a healthy laugh and clapped his friend on the back, lighting a dog end rollup cigarette and blowing smoke rings as he walked.
“I should have had my head checked before trusting a Dwergan that doesn’t drink” Bjorn said as they passed a waggon of fresh injured troops. The smell of the camp was one of sickness and death, occasionally he would get a hit of tobacco smoke or some new kind of scent but mostly it was death and blood he smelt. He could still feel the whiskey burning down through him toward his stomach, it had tasted good enough going down but it had done little to comfort him but it did well enough to tug at his anger every time he passed a dead or injured fae.
“There’s at least twenty thousand dead but the count is still on-going” Arduk explained. “Ten thousand severely injured, expect about half to survive. Fifteen thousand still mobile but exhausted and in dire need of rest and food”
“How are our supplies?”
“Not good. The baggage train got hit while we were engaged with the enemy. We were fortunate that one of the heavy artillery units caught sight of the beast attacking before it had a chance to completely destroy everything. Our best case scenario we can hope for is saving half of what we came with.”
“Any chance the Alfr’s or the Dwerganz helping?”
Arduk looked at his friend in bewildered amusement, astonished that his friend, as intelligent as he was, could have said something so utterly stupid.
“They’ve already started pulling out. The Draed’s, Ghul’s and Ogyr’s too. The only people who’re going to help us is us, we’re on our own.”
“Dammit!” Bjorn said, kicking as pebble down the dirt track. “Guess I shouldn’t have expected much loyalty from folk who barely raised a hand during the fighting should I.”
“The plan was yours Bjorn. It was your idea that the fae led the charge with the others boxing the younglings in with nowhere to go and allow us to take care of Asherah. Maybe…”
“Maybe I need a viable solution to our supply issue and not criticism over how stupid my plan was!”
“Look, there’s a very simple solution” Arduk said a little hesitantly. Bjorn raised an eyebrow at his friend, wondering what curious scheme he had cooked up this time.
“We’ve lost most of the supply train, but there’s still plenty of meat left just lying around” Arduk said gesturing to the piles of dead dragon younglings mounded up around them.
“You’re correct, we have lost the train but you’ve clearly lost your damned mind! Do you seriously think our men are going to disgrace their fallen foes by showing such dishonour as to carve them up and serve them with a side of potatoes?” Bjorn demanded furiously.
“I think we’d be lucky to find potatoes considering what was left in the baggage train” Arduk said casually.
“Are you smart mouthing me Captain?” Bjorn said angrily.
“No sir, I’m just pointing out that starving men can snap and it might behove you, General to make sure that it’s not us they snap at?”
Bjorn let it simmer in his brain as they walked. He knew that Arduk was right of course and though he loved him like a brother he loathed him like a hated enemy when the stunty little bastard knew he was right about something.
He knew the consequences of leaving this matter unchecked could be dire for them all, he had to see past his grief and make the right decision for all of his men which in this case meant setting aside his distaste for the matter.
He felt his personal bodyguards emerge from the ranks and file as he walked through the encampment. As far as personal guards went Bjorn’s was small. There was only five or six Fae men and women who, along with Arduk, were responsible for his personal safety; most nobles or royalty had a hundred or more but Bjorn preferred the personal touch, treating his bodyguards as friends and cohorts rather than servants doing a job. He loved and trusted all of them, every single one, after all he had personally trained them all and fought side by side with them. The bod between them all was so great that he would give his life for all them as they would do for him.
“Start taking meat from the carcasses. Salt what you can for the journey home, the rest distribute among the sick and dying first, give enough to get them moving again.”
He couldn’t see his face but he knew Arduk of old and he, knew that right now he grinning from ear to ear. His friend had often told him of his three great loves: A beautiful woman, a fine smoke and being proved right.
They walked for a touch longer before Arduk broke the silence.
“She’s waiting for you, just up ahead” he said.
“I know, who did you think I was going to see?” Bjorn replied.
Glancing sideways at his friend he could only guess where his intuition had come from but he could take a good guess.
The grieving General had, for some considerable time, a more than contemptuous relationship with his partner and paramour who just happened to be the one person that outranked him in the whole damned army. ; Queen Andraste, High Mistress of all the Fae.
“I’m not planning on getting into a fight if that’s what you mean?” he said, barely able to contain his grief and anger. “But if that Skellion decide to make his presence known then there’s no stopping me from driving my fingers into his eyes.”
“Oh, I can pretty much guarantee that” Arduk said with a laugh, “Although, being as the slimes a Spell Peddler I’m not sure who hates him more between us.”
Arduk neither liked nor respected Spell Singers. The Dwergan was unusually quite approachable for his species, the only exception was Spell Singers whom he referred to as ‘No good, two faced, treacherous book worms who needed a woman more than they needed a book.
They marched past the assembled lines of scattered royal guard. Unlike Bjorn, Queen Andraste preferred the security of a hundred battle hardened warrior women, it was better to have like calling to like when it came to personal security.
The silhouette of Asherah, the Dragon Queen, stood out against the setting sun, her blackened wings reaching towards the sky with silent accusation. Wisps of smoke floated from the dying fire of her body. Even from where he stood Bjorn could see the lifeless eyes of Asherah’s eyes staring blankly at the world. Chains still hung from her neck, the killing spears still jutted from her skull, all seven of them reflecting the dying sun across the camp.
Two rows of Andraste’s guards lined the bath to ‘Monarchs Hill’ (as the rank and file had nicknamed it). Heavily armed and bedecked in beaten cerulean armour. They were the most lethal of the Fae Army, dubbed ‘The Queens Killers’ they brooked no insult to the Queen while enemies quivered at their presence on the battlefield.
At the head of the columns stood a lone warrior with long flaxen hair tied into a long braid. Her face was a webwork of scar tissue. Burns covered her left side while numerous bladed marks crisscrossed the right side. She flinched not a moment as they approached, holding firm on the shaft of her lengthy spear, its bronze blade shining like a rouge mirror.
Her name was Cathain, first Captain of The Queens Killers and true confidant to Andraste. If Arduk was Bjorn’s faithful and trusted friend then the same could only be said of Cathain, except her lethality was leagues above anything that Arduk could muster.
“Her majesty, Queen Andraste, welcomes you and commands that you leave your personal bodyguard here” Cathain said.
“That idiot poet of yours has clearly sent you daft if you think we’re staying here while…”
“Captain” Bjorn barked and immediately Arduk ceased speaking, “You will do as our Queen commands and remain here, as will you all, is that understood?”
The five stood immediately to attention and snapped off a sharp salute. Arduk stared daggers at Cathain, his seething hatred for the woman uncorked and overflowing from inside, he was ready to commit bloody murder simply on principal against the woman. Bjorn saw the Dwergan reaching for the handle of his club and immediately placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“Relax old friend” Bjorn said softly. “We’ll get this done with, then we’ll go home.”
He turned on his heels and gestured for Cathain to lead the way. He heard the guards behind him crossing spears so as to bar any further entry from his men, he also heard Arduk giving those same guards a mouthful of Dwergan abuse which h couldn’t help but smile at.
As he was lead up the Monarchs hill he saw her, the mighty Queen of the Fae.
Andraste would have been a beauty at any age but at two hundred years she was even more exceptionally exquisite than she would have been in her prime.
Sat upon a royal Beachwood chair she was the very picture of regal authority. Her crimson hair was worn loose and long, flowing past her shoulders down her chest. Her skin was fine porcelain, untouched by blade or fire, time and circumstance, as fine and flawless as fresh fallen snow. Her emerald eyes and showed none of the warmth that Bjorn’s sad blue eyes did. Yet, as untouched as her features may have been her armour told another tale.
Andraste was not the kind of monarch who preferred to sit idly by while others did her fighting for her. Her regal armoured battle plate might have been adorned with a veritable melange of protective wards and majestic patterns, handcrafted by Fae smiths it also carried twice as many scratches and dents for over a thousand battles. The sword of the warrior monarchs leaned against the side of her throne, its blade never ceasing to burn from the fires of its forging; If Bjorn’s sword, Coldheart, was the moon of war then Andraste’s was most certainly the sun.
She lifted a blood and dirt soaked hand and gestured for him to come forward. Gripping the bone white hilt of his sword he stepped before the Queen.
As was custom in most royal courts it was expected of Bjorn to kneel before his sovereign but the Fae general remained rooted to the spot, his stubborn streak, wider than the Dragon Queen’s corpse flaring up for her to see.
He had lost two daughters to the madness brought on by this woman, he could still hear their screams and smell their blood in his nostrils, right now he was above kneeling before anyone.
“I suppose I shouldn’t expect anything less from you than insolence should I Bjorn” Andraste said coldly. Cathain pushed past Bjorn, her contempt for him brimming to the surface as went to stand by her Queen.
“Tell me which is more insolent? The man who refuses to stand before a foolish sovereign or the sovereign arrogant enough to believe she could tame a dragon?” he asked. Andraste did not react to the insult, she simply sat and stared at him.
“Is that your official report?” she continued further.
“My official report is that this stupid war has bought a heavy price on the butchers bill. If you were half the Queen your predecessors were then you could see that your vanity has cost more lives than it has saved.”
“Insolent cur!” Cathain shouted, but did not raise her spear. “You should not stand for that your Grace. Give the order and I’ll carve him up and feed him to wild pigs myself!”
“Clearly Cathain is living in a world without sound and vision” Bjorn said with a smirk on his face. “I suppose it’s understandable considering she lives so far up your backside!”
The captain raised her spear, ready to strike at him for such disrespect but was stopped by Andraste raising a hand to call for no action to be taken.
“She’s right you know” Andraste said. “You are insolent. I can only hope that our son does not inherit any of your more questionable traits, nor our daughter for that matter”
“You mean the one that’s still alive?” Bjorn said without thinking.
“Damn you Bjorn Goodefellow!” Andraste cursed. “I bring you here to share in our glory and you repay me by throwing insults in my face. If you continue then I may just give Cathain what she wants!”
“If I’m not to be cut down by Cathain then why am I here?” he asked.
“I have brought you here to prove you wrong” she said with a grin. Raising her hands she clapped three times.
From the black shadows of Asherah’s lifeless wing emerged a creature far more dangerous than any dragon and one Bjorn hated more than the one who took his daughters from him.
A creature in black robes, it face obscured by a large hood stepped away from the dead dragon. The being did not walk so much as it floated from one position to the next. It’s robes were tattered and frayed at the hem while a long thick rope tied at the waist held it all together. The only part of the strange creature that was visible were it pale hands, dipped in blood and topped by razor sharp claws.
“A skellion?” he said with little surprise, “I thought you swore to the council that your time with these… individuals… had passed?”
“I tell the council what it needs to know, right now this is a white lie, considering what is at stake here.”
“I know what you believe is at stake and this thing will help you no more now than it did the first time” he said. His sword hand began to itch, he could feel the sting of Coldhearts blade resonating up the hilt to his palm. Something was amiss here, something he didn’t know.
Andraste twisted in her chair to look up at the Skellion.
“Show him” she commanded.
The dark creature rolled up his sleeves and began an incantation. A small bubble of purple energy emerged between his fingers. Slowly it built, word by word, power upon power, until finally the energy blasted in a quit pop and something new sat in the hands of the Skellion.
“Is that what I think it is?” Bjorn asked.
A large blue quartz crystal the size of a human head sat in the sack glowing with an ethereal light. From the base upward it bloomed outward like a solid stone flower. Seven spikes of gleaming crystal blossomed outward like the petals of a chrysanthemum, their light shining in multiple colours like a prism. The base was thick and heavy and looked as if it could cave a man’s skull in with a single blow. Yet, upon closer inspection, a dark shape seemed to writhe and twist within. It was the silhouette of a small creature, not quite visible, not quite grown, but whose presence could be felt simply by being near it.
“A dragon egg” he said calmly, “You took a dragon egg, from the Queens final clutch and you gave it to a Skellion?”
“Our people can still be saved, the future is still left unwritten. We can find a way to tame the dragons and unleash it upon…”
“You gave the last dragon to a Skellion” Bjorn repeated.
That itch in his hand grew nigh unbearable, the pain shooting through his arm until it reached his brain. He had seen this madness go on for too long, too many dead children, too many lost to fire and steel, it was time for it to be done with no matter the cost.
Slowly he drew Coldheart from its scabbard, the frost of its blade turning to mist in the damp air.
“What do you think you’re doing Goodefellow!” Cathain shouted.
“The right thing is what I’m doing” he replied.
So, there it is guys, I hope you enjoyed it and that you're looking forward to seeing more which will be up and online very soon. Until then, stay patient and healthy and hopeful.
Bye
S.G. Mulholland