The Dragon Oracles. Part One: The Call of the Crown. (Sample)

CHAPTER 1 - Landings

Landings

The northeastern An'aird Barath coast, one hundred and ten leagues north-northwest of Bailryn.

When Cal first heard the stories, he had not believed the old fisherman's tale. More than a century had passed since the Dragon War, and everyone knew the witch was dead. They were eleven days from Whitecliff when he discovered the old man had been telling the truth. The Dragons were back, and they had brought an army with them.

Captain Fitzmella had anchored the Swallow east of a bluff bordering a shallow cove. With luck, the black cliffs south of the peninsula would camouflage their boat. But hidden or not, Cal did his best to stand still as he gazed at the Bay to the north...

There were seven ships in the bay, anchored in line half a mile off shore. They had been there a while, Cal guessed, yet no lamps burned on their decks. The faint shimmer of the Northern Arc had given up their position. The blue-grey light—known to the Cren as the Lights of Collisdan—danced around the shadows, drawing a pale sketch of the ships' rigging.

Despite the dark, Cal could see the longboats ferrying men and supplies from ship to shore. Each carried half a load of cargo and maybe fifteen Kel'madden. The Troopers held their spears vertically as they sat to port and starboard, causing the longboats to give the impression of massive, prickle-backed creatures lurching towards the shore.

To Cal's left, beyond the beach, he could see odd-looking beasts of burden striding up the cliff path, pulling thin, two-wheeled carts. The creatures were tall, like horses, but the similarity ended there. They had short, rodent-like faces with what looked like slanted eyes. Bristles of thick, black hair—a kind of mane, Cal thought—ran along their backs from between their ears to their slender tails. Strangest of all, the horses' skin reflected light from their handlers' torches. Could they have scales?

Scaled horses? Whoever heard of such a thing? Cal decided the darkness must have been playing tricks on him, they were a long way off.

Back on the beach, the longboats ploughed into the soft sand. The Troopers disembarked by twos. In short order, they had lined up in ranks four abreast, ready to march along the cliff path to their camp. From where he was watching, Cal could not make out the uniforms of the men now standing in tight lines, but now and then, the Lights of Collisdan reflected off what must have been armour. The Troopers were of a height with the Swallow's crew. But where the crewmen were slender, the Troopers had broad shoulders and appeared thick chested. No doubt, they were Kel'madden to a man, but were they all warriors, Troopers from the Eastern Isles?

Cal's grip tightened on the guardrail. Another hundred! How many more do they have up there? Again, he glanced over at where the cliff path crossed into the valley beyond. What I wouldn't give to—"

"Have you seen enough, Master Cahldien?"

Mateaf, Cal's Second, edged his way to the bow.

He was tall—seven foot, or thereabout—but still half a hand shorter than Cal was. Both men were thin but broad. If their heads were not covered, their blond hair would flow past their shoulders. Both had the grey-green eyes of their kin and moved with the relaxed grace many folks associated with Cren Woodsmen, swift and agile, despite their size.

Master Cahldien smiled. "No need to be so formal, my friend. Our Surabhan hosts do not care for rank, only gold. Call me Cal."

Mateaf nodded, yet looked reluctant. He always took his duties as Second too seriously, Cal thought. Forty years as friend and comrade, yet, at times, the man still acted like he had a pole stuffed up his shirt.