The Dragon Prince Read online

  Copyright 2019 by Rex Jameson

  All rights reserved.

  First Edition (2019)

  ISBN (Electronic): 978-0-9989386-5-3

  ISBN (Paperback): 978-0-9989386-6-0

  This book is a work of fiction. Incidents, names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual locales, events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  To find out when Rex Jameson has a new release, sign up for his email newsletter at https://rex-jameson.com/ new-releases-email-list

  This book is dedicated to Larry Dowdy. You truly appreciated being challenged with hard questions and the thrill of debate and growth as a human being and thinker. Not everyone can appreciate the pursuit of better understanding, and even fewer have thick enough skin to accept when they are wrong or following a bad path. You were a beautiful person and someone to emulate, appreciate, and truly remember. Rest in peace, my friend. I will never forget your lessons in learning or life.

  Map of Surdel

  Map of Visanth

  Table of Contents

  1: The Brightest Stars

  2: The Light is Snuffed

  3: A Lesson Unlearned

  4: Sven’s Curse

  5: The Dragon Prince Rises

  6: Landfall of the Dragon

  7: The New Regent

  8: Of Blood and Cleansing Fire

  9: The Other General

  10: Deep Love

  11: The Invasion is Diverted

  12: The People Mobilize

  13: A Cold Draft in the Library

  14: The Blood Chief Follows the Wind

  15: The Court of Nomintaur

  16: The Dragon Burns Hotter

  17: The New Paladins

  18: Southern Reinforcements

  19: The Wrong Kind of Reinforcements

  20: The Elves Arrive at Croft Keep

  21: Dragon Fall

  22: Memories of Visanth

  23: The Crowe Flies North

  24: We Have to Stop Meeting Like This

  25: The Party Grows

  26: Old Enemies, New Friends

  27: A New Direction

  28: The Prince Beneath the Plains

  29: The Defenders of Kingarth

  30: The Lion and the Dragon

  The Age of Magic Series

  About the Author

  Other Fiction by Rex Jameson

  1

  The Brightest Stars

  Prince Jandhar Rasalased stood beside his brother Roshan on the bow of one of his father’s many pleasure boats, two-hundred-leagues west of the major textile city of Ezcril in the southern Visanth Empire. The water was choppy, but the massive river barge glided down the Raveaduin as if it were a palm-leaf floating in a palace pool on a calm, sunny day. Above the sound of hundreds of slaves rowing, Jandhar heard rapid popping sounds, like dried corn kernels had been thrown into a fire.

  It was his first time this far down the Raveaduin, and he had been so excited when his father had announced the trip that he had hardly slept in a week. In truth, any trip with his father could produce this euphoria, but he had waited to see a dragon for fifteen years. Even for a beloved prince with nearly infinite resources to import them, finding one outside of the Dragongrounds was extremely rare.

  “Is that them, Papa?” Jandhar asked.

  King Jofka laughed richly as he approached the bow, stroking his well-manicured, upward mustache and short beard.

  “Yes, my son!” Jofka said with a deep, booming voice. His eyes went wide and his hands expanded for effect.

  Jofka laughed with his sons as he embraced them in a big bear hug. The boys glimpsed over the nearby railing, but Jandhar didn’t see swarms of baby dragons like he’d hoped. If there were any still around, they must have circled the boat while flapping their tiny wings. He smiled, appreciating the wind in his hair and the salty breeze coming in from the nearby desert, before he turned back to his dad.

  Jandhar admired his father’s long, flowing brown hair and oiled muscles. He wanted to be just like Jofka: handsome, intelligent, and loved by the people. The king was universally lauded by the nobles for his boldness and ruthlessness against both the Kingdom of Surdel to the north and the various tribes along the Great Ocean to the east. When his armies attacked, he was always victorious, and the celebrations of major triumphs could go on for a month with gladiator bouts, massive parades, and even boat races just outside the deep-water harbor of Scythica. The races attracted thousands of ships from all across the empire. The sea became so packed with colorful sails that it looked like a painter’s canvas.

  Jandhar couldn’t remember a single failure his father had been a part of. It seemed Jofka could do no wrong. Even turning a blind eye to the Crelloni Separatists, the result of an ancient rebellion against the Visanth Empire, was seen as mercy and not weakness by the news heralds. And Jandhar could see why. Even though his father didn’t attack the Crelloni, he didn’t cow to them either.

  This trip down the Raveaduin was just as much meant to thumb his father’s nose at those rebels as it was to appease his heir apparent Jandhar on his fifteenth birthday. The crown prince had been trained in foreign manipulation by some of the greatest political minds in the empire, and the duality of the trip made Jandhar admire his father all the more. However, in truth, the prospect of seeing a dragon was far more interesting and enticing to him than any exploits his father might accomplish as a side effect of what appeared to be just a celebratory excursion for his eldest son. Political genius could wait to be admired in a scroll read aloud by an academic—maybe in a year or two.

  “Do you think any of them are fully grown?” Jandhar asked, bouncing up-and-down on his bare soles.

  “It’s unlikely,” Jofka conceded. “Dragons are cursed.”

  “Why did Cronos mark them?” The younger prince Roshan asked. “Why must he torment them so?”

  “Do not speak ill of the Gods,” Jofka said wisely, “even in jest. All is done for a reason; even the curse of the fire-breathers. But I remember my tutor Behnam telling me a story of the dragons, during those brief moments when I paid attention.” Jofka elbowed Roshan in jest. “He said that Cronos worried that the dragons had become too dangerous—too easily misused by man and elf to wreak havoc on the world. In his divine wisdom, he changed them to better serve his creation.”

  “But what of the dragon riders?” Jandhar asked, pulling on his father’s red thawb, which matched his own.

  “Ancient legend,” Jofka said, twirling his mustache. “More myth than history, I’m sure. These are stories from even before Sven! 15,000 years is a long time for a truth to be twisted into something more interesting.”

  A loud pop echoed nearby from somewhere in the rocky crags just north of Mount Vernid. The sound of rapidly fluttering wings fought for the prince’s attention over the sound of wave crashes against the barge.

  “I saw one!” Roshan said, pointing toward the shore.

  “Where?” Jandhar demanded. He rushed to the portside to admire the southern bank. His eyes searched frantically for wings and snouts.

  When he caught sight of the shore-side swarm, three popped in quick succession in puffs of smoke. The survivors flitted and dove like dragonflies. Hundreds of them squawked in playful calls, seemingly oblivious to the fact that at least three of their brethren had just died in explosions of scales and skin.

  “They’re so tiny!” Roshan said, laughing.

  Jandhar grunted in frustration. He wanted to see a big one.

  “These are maybe weeks old,” Jofka said, “which is practically ancient for a dragon. Mothers lay thousands of eggs if they live two years. Poor things might lay dozens a day after their first year. The
fathers last half as long; they’re too aggressive for the own good. Fighting for territory and females. They just agitate the curse and tempt their fates. But a single male can sire the entire grounds in a week. I try to emulate them—if only I could be so virile!”

  “Dad!” Jandhar complained.

  His father was a notorious lady’s man across the empire, and these jokes were a part of daily life. Jofka maintained four harems in the capital alone. Jandhar overheard servants claim that other pleasure houses existed in each of the towns in Visanth, even the separatist-friendly ones like Corellin and Zelfusal.

  “Look!” Roshan yelled and pointed toward the keel. “Look! Look!”

  Jandhar rushed to his brother’s side and leaned over. The deck was slick, and the crown prince lost his grip on the wooden banister. He panicked as he toppled forward, but a strong hand grabbed his crimson-and-white kandura as he dangled.

  He laughed at his father’s scornful look. Below, a four-foot, black dragon skimmed the water with its wingtips. It belched fire along the water’s surface, and silvery fish leapt out of the murkiness to escape the heat.

  “Dad! Dad! Dad!” Jandhar called, pointing in exultation as the mature male scooped an airborne fish with a claw and tossed it forward to its open jaws to deliver a killing bite before skewering the prey between its hind claws again.

  “I see him!” Jofka said, laughing heartily as he held his son’s clothing firmly so Jandhar wouldn’t topple into the surf. “Stop squirming!”

  The dragon made a triumphant squawk and vomited a caustic, flammable liquid onto its feet as it tore into the half-foot-long common river snook. The flying lizard turned gracefully, arcing toward the boat. Jandhar bounced in excitement as his father pulled him back into the boat.

  “It’s coming, Papa!” Jandhar said. “It’s coming right this way!”

  Jandhar waved at the creature as it devoured its meal, while gliding toward him. Suddenly, there was a pop much louder than any he had heard earlier. Goo and scales peppered the side of the barge and clung to his favorite outfit. The puff of black smoke floated past the royals. The remains of the fish twitched just beneath the surface before sinking into the choppy, brown water.

  Jandhar and his brother Roshan began to cry. The creature had been so beautiful and magnificent. They had only been able to watch it for the briefest moment. It seemed like such a waste of beauty and magnificence.

  “Why?” Jandhar asked his father.

  Jofka sat on a bench near the bridge of the barge. He motioned for his sons to join him, and they did, while sniffling and wiping their noses on their white undershirts.

  Jofka leaned back against the wooden wall and looked to the sky. He twirled the upward-turned ends of his mustache. Jandhar followed his father’s gaze.

  “It’s still daylight,” Jofka said, “but if you look hard enough above, you can always see two stars. The astronomers call them Alnair and Almeisan. They are young for stars, but like these dragons, they burn brightly. Can you see them?”

  Jandhar strained his eyes. He thought he saw one of them directly above.

  “Is that Almeisan?” Jandhar asked, pointing high above.

  His father nodded.

  “It’s not safe to live so brightly,” Jofka said. “The most furious fires consume the most wood. That’s why it takes so many people to maintain the bonfires that light Mirzam Square next to the palace. But do we not consider all that fuel a worthwhile expense? Is it not important to keep our markets well-lit? These dragons burn fast, just like the fires in those pits. Dragons are here but for the briefest moments, but we all see them. No, we don’t just see them. We marvel at them. We all know they were here. Just like when we talk of the Mirzam Square, we appreciate their light and warmth, don’t we?”

  Somewhere off in the distance, a dozen pops went off. Jandhar looked toward the shore, but he didn’t see wings or hear the buzzes of the swarm. The dragons must have gone inland.

  “So too goes the life of kings,” Jofka said, laughing at the confused looks on his sons’ faces. “You must choose the kind of life you want to lead. Do you sit in the shadows of the mountain, lounging and growing fat and old? Is that what you want the people to see? Is that the story you want your children to hear from your scrolls? Or do you be the light for the next generation? Do you spread your wings and talons and fly, defying even the gods who dared curse you? Do you skirt the surface of the water, reaching into the darkness and grabbing your prey, screaming into the face of your enemies? Or do you grow old, sitting on a rock, never risking anything?”

  Jofka made a fist and struck his palm, smirking at the satisfying popping noise he made with his hands.

  “Even if the brightness might kill you?” Roshan asked, peering form behind his brother.

  “What is life, if not the short period before death?” Jofka asked. He pointed back toward the heavens. “Do you want to be seen and known, like Alnair and Almeisan in the daytime? Or do you only want to be seen and known at night when the sky is crowded by millions of other lights and you can feel safe amongst the crowd of others? Do you want to blend in? Be indistinguishable? Unrecognizable?”

  Jofka crossed his arms and shook his head.

  “Not for me, little ones,” he said. “My sons, you are masters of your own fates. I will be proud of you no matter which path you choose. But if you want my advice, you are talking to the man who invaded southern Surdel, pillaged their towns and cities with only a hundred sailors, and laughed at their king’s cavalry as they stared at me from their shores as I returned to Visanth aboard my ships! Which fate do you think I’ve chosen, huh?”

  Jofka laughed richly and squeezed his sons in a hug once more. The two boys grinned and wiped the tears from their cheeks.

  Jandhar smiled as he stared into the blue unknown. He knew what kind of star he wanted to be. He wanted to shine brighter than Alnair or Almeisan combined. He looked at the larger flame that heated Nirendia and parted the night each dawn.

  He laid his head on his father’s shoulders, and Jofka kissed his forehead.

  Forget Alnair and Almeisan, Jandhar thought. Better to be like the sun.

  2

  The Light is Snuffed

  A small blue and gold dragon sat on Prince Jandhar’s shoulder as he walked the halls of his father’s main harem in Scythica. His fifteenth birthday was a couple years behind him, but his love for dragons hadn’t abated. Jandhar cooed and patted his favored pet as he strode beneath the lit sconces and atop ornate rugs of the main hallway. He had named the adorable creature Amal, hope in his native tongue, for he hoped the tiny male would live past the first year—unlike the other three pets his father had given him since their river excursion to the Dragongrounds.

  As he approached his father’s master suite, he became aware of moans coming from inside, but he ignored them and focused on the chirping dragon instead. He had grown up in the harems and had even lost his virginity in one of these rooms to a beautiful, dark-haired woman named Iighwa. His father Jofka had already constructed two harems for Jandhar, which he would inherit once he came of age at eighteen. Being a generous man, Jofka had constructed his son’s harems to be twice as large as his own.

  “You are my legacy,” the King had said. “Just as you will expand my kingdom to be twice as large as mine, I will give you a harem twice as large so you can grow into it!”

  Jandhar smiled as he remembered his father’s large, open grin. Jofka always made his son feel warm, invited, and loved—no matter how small the request or meaningless the question. Jandhar sought him out in all things—even for the thousandth request for advice on what to feed his pets to stop them from exploding.

  As he approached the door, Jandhar listened for groans more intently. If they belonged only to women, then his father was free to talk, and the courtesans were simply providing pleasurable viewing. If there were men, it was best to come back later.

  These groans were unusual. They were wet and pained. The breaths were shorter and
numerous. And then, silence.

  Amal chirped and nudged at his neck, and Jandhar placed his hand over the dragon’s eyes to calm it.

  “Shhhhhh,” he whispered.

  The dragon whelp squirmed under the weight of Jandhar’s palm. Amal was usually loud, but not so cacophonous that he would drown out the groans of a pleasure house. This silence after the wet grunts and coughs was almost deafening in its rarity.

  “Father?” Jandhar asked, placing a hand on the soft, felt-lined purple door.

  He pushed inward with both hands, and Amal flapped his small, four-inch wings. The creature flew into the room, squawking. Jandhar swatted at Amal’s playful dives and nips. In his periphery he noticed dozens of women lying along the floors on crimson sheets. He avoided their gazes out of habit; the bawdy women who laid out front had always tried to tempt him in front of his father.

  And then, Jandhar’s heart broke as he heard a loud pop and watched as Amal flamed out and sputtered into an ash cloud that fell down to the silent women who watched him from the beds and the red carpets. His fourth dragon had burst. His father would have to buy him another one from the market.

  He sighed as the ashes and scales drifted downward and followed what remained of Amal until his flakes and scales rested on the red silk sheets that snaked around the room. Then, he marveled as the remnants of his pet sank into the fabrics.

  Amal’s ashes dropped through the carpets, as if the floor were a crimson well. The wetness on his feet broke the dam of revelations and fear. There should not have been red sheets or carpets in this room—only purple, Jofka’s favorite color. The women were not lying down and sleeping. Their eyes were open and their throats slashed.

  “Father!” he cried as he ran toward the huge bed along the far wall.

  Jofka lay motionless with his feet hanging off the side closest to Jandhar. The prince kicked his sandals free as he ran around the side of the bed. He stepped over five women and tripped on another as he came closer. He howled in grief and terror when he saw the pool of crimson beneath his father’s deeply gashed neck, which still pulsated with fresh blood. The King’s watery eyes widened as he recognized his son.