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  THE DRAGON THRONE

  VOL. I --- KNIGHTS OF THE FROST

  PART I

  (A tale of the Dragonrealm)

  by

  Richard A. Knaak

  KNIGHTS OF THE FROST

  All rights reserved copyright 2016 by Richard A. Knaak

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the author.

  Published by Porta Nigra Press

  Cover Art by Larry Elmore

  Legends of the Dragonrealm:

  The Dragon Throne

  Book I: Knights of the Frost

  Book II: Empire of the Wolf

  Book III: Dragon of the Depths

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would like to gratefully acknowledge the countless fans of this series for its longevity, with special thanks going to the following supporters:

  Adam Harrison, Jon Cazera, Samir Schwayri, and James Evick for adding to the new generation of mages.

  Keith Homel, Jeremy Corlis, Jesse High, Brian Johnson, Jeremy Reynolds, Stuart Gormley, Wade Atkinson, Chad Armstrong, David Moniz, Brian DiTullio, James Hancock, Dylan Griswold, Andres Montoya, Jeffrey Nelson, Patrick Cowan, Ivan Ho, Joe Hollowell, Daniel Centelles, Ashley Blodgett, Ryan Paque, Michael Keith, Amanda Niehaus, and Jimmy Svensson for their added contributions to this effort.

  Jeremy Reynolds again for light editing.

  And everyone else who has taken it upon themselves to join in seeing more tales of the Dragonrealm come to life!

  Richard A. Knaak

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  I

  Rendevous in the Northern Wastes

  Frost painted his beard whiter than it already was, but the cold weather was the least of the general’s concerns. As he peered back at the four dark warships, the groans of the ice pressing against their wooden hulls echoed throughout the aptly named Northern Wastes. Risking the life and limb of every soldier under his command, he had ordered the small fleet to the top of the world. If the hulls could not hold the ice back, then the general and his men would perish in this desolate realm.

  This had better be worth our damned time, he thought not for the first time. The past several years had been lean ones for he and his followers, with one aborted campaign after another. If it was not the dragon man hunting them down, then it was the other servants of the Master Guardians. Through the efforts of both, the great and glorious Aramite Empire had been over a generation reduced to a handful of desperate holdings scattered around the continent far east of the Dragonrealm and a number of small islands. Worse, many of those wearing the black armor marking them as the favored of the Ravager were no better than true pirates, sometimes preying on their own.

  But we stay true to you, my lord Ravager, the general added, calling on upon the Aramites’ savage, lupine god. There had been a time when doing so would have meant something, for the wolf raiders --- as they were better known to many of their enemies --- had been the worshippers of a very active, very real entity. Yet, for far too long since the triumphant return of the empire’s most hated enemy, the Aramites had been a people bereft of their god, with no one left alive who could answer why.

  “He said we should wait here in this damned excuse for a harbor,” Captain Nemon D’Faud muttered next to him. Where the general was a bear of a man, D’Faud was fittingly more canine in appearance, with a long, narrow nose and dark brown eyes ever searching the vicinity from under a thick, black brow. D’Faud sniffed the air. “It’s long past time for him to show. We should leave, sir.”

  “He’ll be here, captain. If he’s the man he says he is, he’ll be here.” The veteran commander tried to peer through the swirling snow ahead. Visibility was nearly zero at this point, but the general had over his lengthy career developed something of an extra sense. He had no skill at magic --- and certainly not the blood magic to which the keepers, the empire’s sorcerers, had turned when inexplicably cut off from the Ravager’s glorious power --- but still felt certain that something was taking place just beyond his view.

  “We’ll wait overnight,” the general declared. “If nothing happens by tomorrow, we’ll set sail again.”

  “Yes, sir.” D’Faud stepped away to give orders. The general’s decision meant certain protocols were now in place. D’Faud had acted as the commander’s right hand for five years after eliminating his predecessor, a not uncommon practice among the more ambitious officers of the empire. He had served the general well and had only tried to assassinate him twice. The second time had cost D’Faud the two smallest fingers on his left hand, a sign of his superior’s high regard for him since the other choice at the time of the failed attempt would have been cutting a crimson river across the captain’s throat.

  Tents quickly sprouted up under D’Faud’s direction. Other men began building a wall of snow and ice against the wind. By the time they were done, a base of operations as hospitable as anyone could make possible would be in place.

  With his landing party hard at work, the bearded commander started toward the blinding snow. As he did, his gauntleted hand fell to the hilt of his own weapon. Under normal circumstances, he would have been accompanied by a contingent of four guards, but the general had long ago dispensed with any protection other than what he carried. In these treacherous times, guards were just as much a potential danger as they were a defense. The last straw in that regard had been when he had been forced to execute the two supposedly loyal sentries who had assisted D’Faud in his last betrayal.

  A slight movement ahead caught the general’s attention. He grabbed for the sword...and just in time.

  Out of the shrouding snow they burst. Two beasts that at first glance resembled icy white wolves...but wolves with short fat snouts and sharp, thick tusks stretching several inches past their bottom jaws. They moved with incredible speed for creatures whose feet, he noted, were webbed.

  Before the first of the chest-high monsters could reach him, the general had his sword out and before him. He stood his ground as the lunging beast obliged him by swiftly and surely impaling itself on the point. Releasing his grip on the sword, the Aramite shifted so that the corpse blocked the second attacker. The action also gave the general the moment he needed to draw the long dagger he kept opposite his sword.

  A howl ripped through the region, a howl not originating from the creature the veteran soldier faced. Worse, that howl was answered by many, many more from a number of directions.

  A warning horn responded from the camp. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw some of his men falling into battle positions. The landing party consisted of handpicked fighters well-suited to reacting to extreme changes in situation. A pack of beasts would hardly be a threat unless there were far more of them than the howls indicated ---

  The monster he had so thoroughly run through rose.

  The general swore as the thing coughed twice, dislodging the sword in the process. The wound that should have been mortal healed in the space of a single breath.

  Magic! He retreated from the recovering creature. This land had once been ruled by one of the most sinister of the drake lords, the Ice Dragon. The Aramite commander felt certain that these beasts were remnants of the late and unlamented Dragon King’s defenses. It would not be the first time guardians had outlived the beings who had created them.
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  But knowing that did not help him. Against another warrior --- or two or three --- he had no concerns, but against beasts that did not die, not even the finest swordsman could prevail.

  The sounds of combat rose behind him --- the sounds of combat quickly punctuated by a human scream and more monstrous roars. Although he wanted to look, the commander knew that if he took his attention off of his own adversaries for even a moment, the next scream might be his own.

  The foremost creature reared before him. Only then did the general see the wickedly-curved claws at the end of each webbed foot. He judged that those claws were very capable of ripping through the strong breastplate protecting him.

  Despite being well aware of his odds, the veteran commander stood his ground. Flight would only see him die dragged down like a frightened rabbit. A wolf raider did not run from an enemy.

  The monster’s head exploded.

  Gobbets of flesh splattered the general. Ignoring the foul rain, he leapt back as the twitching body tumbled toward him. The snow-colored beast hit the ground hard, sending more blood splattering everywhere.

  The second fiend hesitated --- and then its head erupted with equal ferocity. The body spun in a circle before somehow landing on all fours again. To the general’s fascination, the torso managed about half a dozen steps before finally realizing it was dead and collapsing.

  Half a dozen additional explosions rocked the vicinity of the campsite. Wiping his face clean, the Aramite commander saw that each of those explosions marked the doom of another beasts.

  The rest of the creatures finally broke off the attack, rushing back into the snowy landscape.

  A quick survey of the camp revealed several ravaged shapes that only vaguely resembled the men they had once been. The general counted at least seven casualties. A nearly even loss. Not as bad as he had expected, but not satisfactory in the least. Most of the dead looked to have been mauled by the savage claws, but at least one appeared to have had his head bitten clean off.

  Of the creatures, all lacked their heads. As with the pair that had attacked him, the white bodies lay as if they had continued to after death.

  The general returned his attention to his own dead. Two cloaked figures --- one of them the lone female in the landing party --- knelt down by one of the mangled human corpses. The Aramite commander scowled. Retrieving his sword, he stalked toward the pair, who seemed very intent on gathering some of the still-spreading life fluids of the hapless victim in a pair of tiny vials.

  “That man perished in service to the empire!” the bearded commander rumbled angrily as he sheathed his weapon. “Give him respect in death for that, at least...”

  “He will still serve the empire in his own way,” responded the woman somewhat wearily. “Thus, he would find our use of his blood worthy.”

  “Waste not, want not,” jested the man despite his own evident exhaustion. He finished gathering some of the now partially frozen blood, then stoppered the vial.

  Although they were clad in uniforms akin to those worn by the soldiers, the crimson cloaks were enough by themselves to mark them as something else. Their helmets lacked the wolf’s head visors that those of the general and his men included. Both differences in uniform were recent changes he considered unnecessary. Everyone knew exactly what these two and their comrades spread through the rest of the shattered empire were simply by looking at their eyes.

  “Will those things return soon, Ren?” the bearded commander finally asked in order to change the subject. There was no talking with keepers. The caste of sorcerers had grown more and more inwardly focused and unsettling of spirit the deeper they delved into their blood magic. No one knew which of the desperate keepers had been the first to discover the inherent power in blood, but the word had quickly spread among the survivors after the Ravager’s disappearance and then after that to their apprentices.

  The flaxen-haired woman shrugged. Ren had a pale beauty to her, one that the general suddenly thought seemed very appropriate to their current surroundings. However, despite the lack of other females in the landing party, the general knew that there was not one man foolish enough try to force himself on her. If one look from the unblinking silver eyes was not enough to deter them, then a simple touch of her hand was. The one fool who had tried to take her had been left bereft a hand.

  “They are of old magic. We thought that they were creations of the Ice Dragon, but unless he wielded power with which we are not aware, then these are likely servants of the founders.”

  Founders... As far as the general knew, no one had another name for the race that had first ruled not only this forsaken continent, but the rest of the world. Yet, despite all that power, the founders had faded away into history, but not before leaving behind a few deadly artifacts in the process.

  It was not news he needed. “You certain about that?”

  “When my sister says something, you may take it at face value,” remarked the male with a wry smile. His features were much akin to Ren’s, only fuller and, obviously, with a masculine touch to them. Unlike his sibling though, his eyes were a peculiar copper, as if someone had laid two coins over them. “You should know that.”

  “I take nothing for granted, Rayvas...as you should know.”

  “They will return,” Ren interjected. It was not uncommon for her to break into conversations between her brother and the general before they grew into something worse. “Rayvas and I should rest up before that happens.”

  “It’d make things easier if we could collect some more from the other bodies before it all congeals, sister.”

  The female keeper looked to the commander. Despite his distaste, the Aramite officer finally nodded. “Report to D’Faud before you continue, though. He’ll see that you have the privacy you need.”

  “Out of sight, out of mind to the troops while we steal from the dead, you mean?” snickered Rayvas.

  Gritting his teeth, the general made a dismissive gesture. Ren immediately guided her brother away.

  Keepers...to think this is what they’ve fallen to... The veteran commander turned from the pair. Why did they have to take after you in the first place, brother?

  A new howl arose from somewhere out in the Wastes. Recognizing it as coming from the same beasts, the general reached for his sword --- only to have the howl cut off as if something had just happened to the creature.

  A second cry followed the first, but this one began already in agony and ended that way only a breath later.

  As the last howl ceased, a different sound reached the general’s acute hearing, a strange hissing that somehow had a familiar quality to it.

  The general took a step back toward his earlier position. As he did, he noticed the swirling snow begin to shift in a direction that set the flakes against the wind. Then, the wind itself changed, growing twice as strong in the process.

  Struggling against the sudden gale, the Aramite commander lowered his visor. His gaze better protected, he finally saw a single shape forming within the raging storm brewing just ahead. It moved slowly, confidently...and on two legs, not four.

  The general pulled his hand away from his sword.

  The storm continued to swirl around the lone silhouette. The silhouette became a figure clad in black armor and wearing a travel cloak that only slightly stirred despite the harsh wind. The hood obscured the upper half of the newcomer’s clean-shaven face, preventing certain identification. If this was indeed the man the Aramite commander thought he was, then something had very, very much changed.

  The gauntleted hands of the figure gripped no weapon. No sword hung at the figure’s side, only a peculiar mace, one which appeared to have a crystalline head.

  As the newcomer neared, the snow suddenly scattered from his vicinity. Suddenly, two other shapes materialized a few steps behind, two figures no one could ever think human. The general knew immediately just what they were and the fact that they could be found in this cold, desolate land startled even him.

  The tw
o creatures had ridged, armored shells covering much of their bodies, especially the backs. Narrow eyes peered over long, tapering snouts. Each creature carried an axe not even the strongest of the Aramites could have wielded. The axes were well-worn, but the general saw no hint that they had been used recently...on the white beasts, for instance.

  Frost and snow covered the shoulders and heads of the two creatures. They trudged in perfect step with the human, their gaze ever focused on the general.

  Undaunted, he strode forward. As he did, the two shelled warriors --- Quel, the commander recalled, Quel from the much hotter Legar Peninsula far to the south --- suddenly readied their axes and eyed the officer as if more than willing to chop him into tiny pieces.

  “Ignore them,” the hooded man told the general. He had a cultured voice with a slight accent that the veteran soldier had not heard in some years. It helped verify the identity of the newcomer even before the man pushed back the hood.

  The hair was whiter than either ice or snow, whiter than the foul beasts that had attacked the camp. The face suited the hair well, being unremarkable as a whole and utterly devoid of any hint of emotion...until one dared look into the very dark eyes. There the general witnessed a rage that for a moment he felt even the Ravager himself would have found daunting.

  “General Augus D’Rak,” the man murmured with a hint of satisfaction. “Late of the Fifth Pentiad...or does it still exist?”

  “You know damn well the dragon man tore into us at the fall of Canisargos. Maybe a third of the men with me are left from it. I gathered what I could along the way once I received your message.”

  “I saw your brother several times, the senior keeper. You have some resemblance to him.”

  General D’Rak waved aside the comment. “We haven’t come here to speak about my brother, long dead. In fact, if we want to talk about the dead, we could speak about you...assuming you are Orril D’Marr.