The Dragonbonded’s First Army

 

At the end of the third day out of Elmsdorf, Conner crouched before the evening fire. The wind across the plains had picked up, and the air was cold. He shivered in his sweaty clothes. Turning, he studied the dark path they had taken. Billowy white clouds were rolling in, reflecting the timid glow of the sliver of Erebus low in the west. The two had traveled well into the dark to reach this point. Morgas moved about the camp, grumbling under his breath that he had hoped to put more distance behind them. Valmer, Morgas’s wolf bond, had left the camp for his evening hunt.

They were nearing Xylor, and with every stride that day, Conner’s anxiety had grown. Would he blunder and expose them? What would the people of Xylor do if the truth was revealed? And yet, out of all the thoughts sprouting like weeds in his head, one in particular had taken root.

“There is something heavy on your mind, young Dragonbonded.” Morgas broke the deep silence as he settled by the fire.

“The night I arrived in Elmsdorf, you mentioned something about Alpslanders and the need to atone for your ancestors’ past.”

“And you want to know what I meant?”

“I don’t want to pry, but you made reference to dragons. Anything you could share ...” Conner shrugged, his cheeks blooming red. “Besides, you said I needed to know more about the world.”

Morgas chuckled. “I did say that. Very well, then.” He cleared his throat and adjusted his position near the fire. “That night in Elmsdorf, I told you how dragons came to our region of the mountains. But the tale of Alpslanders began much later.

“From the time our common ancestors rode the waves of the Antaric Sea to the shores to the north, Elmsdorf remained sheltered from the affairs of the old Seven Realms. So, it took many years for the stories of young men and women bonding with dragons to reach our village. And while such tales were intriguing, even entertaining, Elmsdorf life continued; that is, until a hundred years later, when conflict broke out within the orders, and the Seven Realms descended into chaos and destruction. Life for my people continued peacefully for several more decades. But even mountains could not shield my forefathers from the ferocity of the war that spread across the lands.

“It is said that one day, a young girl arrived at our village riding her dragon bond. She had come seeking a bloodbond with Elmsdorf’s tomal. She told of how the Dragonbonded had made a pact with the realms to protect their lands, but that the Dragonbonded were few, spread thin while they safeguarded the many castles and fortresses.”

Morgas took in Conner’s stare. “For some reason, the tomal struck a bloodbond with the girl. Maybe it was because she said she was from our region before she bonded, though none in Elmsdorf recognized her. Or maybe it was because the dragons made their home nearby. Or maybe it was because the dragons were such magnificent creatures. Regardless, everyone who could wield a sword, nearly the entire village, packed their belongings, and headed west to join a regiment of ordermen and guildsmen who had volunteered to assist the Dragonbonded in protecting the realms. In time, that regiment would be called the Army of the Dragonbonded.”

Conner rocked forward. “Your forebears fought alongside the Dragonbonded during the Anarchic War?”

“They did. For more than forty years. Near the end of the war, a massive Anarchic army was assembled on these plains, not far from here, rallied together for a daring, all-out assault upon the northern Harmonics. The army marched across Gorgonia north of the mountains, then crossed the border into Grenetia, which was unprepared for such an audacious attack. The night before the army laid siege to a beleaguered Ember’s Keep, a battalion of my forefathers, in an act of desperation, descended from the mountains east of Dragongarde and engaged the army camped at the foot of the keep. Outnumbered five hundred to one, they held the Anarchists at bay for several days while the Dragonbonded rallied their small cadre across the realms to come to their aid.”

Conner recalled the night he and Layna had arrived at Dragongarde, and the Sorceress’s account of what had happened during that battle. “But I was told the Anarchists laid siege on Dragongarde, that the Anarchic army had to destroy the home of the Dragonbonded if they had any hope of securing their supply lines here to the east.”

Morgas pulled up his shoulders. “That is the history Harmonics choose to tell. The Dragonbonded did muster their forces, and, along with the entire Army of the Dragonbonded, engaged the Anarchic forces in one of the most valiant military engagements ever waged. At the end of that bloody battle, the Army of the Dragonbonded had been decimated and the Dragonbonded slaughtered, along with half the Anarchic army. That is why the valley north of Dragongarde was renamed Valley of Souls.”

Morgas waited as Valmer’s howl echoed across the plain to the south. “With the Dragonbonded gone, the few survivors of the Dragonbonded’s army tried to return to their former orders and guilds. They should have been heroes. Instead, they were summarily turned away, shamed and humiliated, branded as renegades and deserters by their societies, and cast out by those they had fought valiantly and died for. With the signing of the Treaty of Alignment at the foot of Dragongarde, the three crowns of the Harmonic Realms gave the eastern mountain region to my ancestors as recompense for their service to the Order of the Dragonbonded.”

Conner recalled what Groegan had said to him at Dragongarde, words that continued to haunt him. “I was told the Treaty of Alignment also gave the Eastlands to my family’s ancestors, to live free from noble rule.”

“Our stories say the same. Living the way of a freeman offers one a certain perspective on freedom that others neither understand nor appreciate. Would you not agree?”

Conner stared back, Groegan’s words echoing in his head: Your Eastland ancestors fought alongside the Anarchists against the oppression of Harmonic feudal lords.

“Yes,” Conner said with little energy.

“Those from my village fought for nearly half a century in the Army of the Dragonbonded. The ordermen and guildsmen who’d marched and battled next to them had become like brothers. So my ancestors invited the other survivors, homeless and abandoned by their communities, to return with them to Elmsdorf and leave their Harmonic ways behind. That was when Alpslanders were born. Conner, I am a descendant of those survivors. My Alpslander forebears fought for your Dragonbonded forebears.”

Conner straightened and took a deep breath. “That is why you struck a bloodbond with me so readily.”

“You would have preferred I bartered harder for my services?”

“Something tells me I would not have fared so well. I would probably be carrying all the gear, building the campfires, cooking the meals ... even fluffing your bedroll at night.”

Morgas let out a deep belly laugh. “Maybe I should have held out for more!”

Morgas’s story helped explain why Alpslanders generally did not favor either side. It also showed Conner that the world was much more complex than he had ever been taught to believe. His Eastlander ancestors had fought with the Anarchists, yet the first Dragonbonded fought for the Harmonics. If he was drawn into the war, how was he supposed to know which side was right? It seemed whichever side he chose, he was likely to feel he was betraying someone. He would have to ruminate on some third way through this maze.

“There is something I don’t understand,” Conner said. “You said those who returned with the Elmsdorf villagers were ordermen and guildsmen.”

“Many of them masters and grandmasters.”

“Yet none in your village use elementals?” Conner asked.

Before he answered, Valmer ambled into the camp, panting. The wolf nuzzled Morgas’s arm, and the big man lavished his bond’s pelt with a vigorous rub. “When those who’d fought with the Dragonbonded returned to Elmsdorf, they vowed never to use elementals again. Those skills were lost.”

“Why did they stop using them?”

“I cannot answer such questions for certain, but our stories point to the Dragonbonded.”

“But the Dragonbonded were dead.”

“Yes. Which brings me to the end of my long tale. It is said that all those in the Army of the Dragonbonded swore an oath to protect those bonded with dragons. The humiliation they bore for having failed to keep their oath haunted them through their remaining days. Perhaps that is why they never used elementals again.”

Morgas stretched. “This account has been recited to every Alpslander youth, handed down mouth-to-ear for five hundred years. And each time, the youth is reminded that just as Hemera rises in spring to burn away the heavy snows of a long winter, so too will the dragons return to our homelands. And when they do, Alpslanders will be granted the opportunity to atone for the failures of our forefathers.”

 

Conner awoke the next morning exhausted. He had not slept well. As much as he tried to deny it, he was already feeling his separation from Skye. He rubbed his eyes hard, Hemera a bright ball in the east. His guide had made a point every evening before going to sleep to remind Conner that he was to be packed and ready each morning before the stars winked out. Why had Morgas let him sleep so late? Alarm bloomed into fear. He staggered from his bedroll in a panic.

Morgas was near the far end of their small camp, his eyes cast toward Hemera, Valmer by his side. “Look there.” Morgas commanded, pointing to the east.

Conner blinked, then followed Morgas’s finger. “Trees,” he muttered as he squinted. “I have not seen a living tree since we crossed the Borderlands.”

“There are other forests in the Anarchic Lands to the south. But none like that one. We are a mile away.”

Conner squinted at the horizon. “Those trees are massive. The stories of a forest a thousand paces high were not an exaggeration.” The sight thrilled him, and he quickly gathered his gear.

Morgas had stamped out the smoldering embers of the fire and was staring at Conner with an odd expression.

“What is it?” Conner asked.

“Today we reach Xylor. Let us have one last practice session.” Morgas reached back and drew his sword.

Conner jerked his head back and blinked. Letting him sleep late, not criticizing the condition and position of every garment he wore, and not fussing about needing to break camp early? It was all so out of character. “If you think it will help.” He shrugged off his backpack and slid his sword from its scabbard. He took a defensive stance. He could never tell the precise moment Morgas would start a lesson, so he had learned to be prepared early. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and get past your defenses.”

Still, Morgas did not move. “I want to tell you that I have been impressed with how swiftly you are learning to use a sword. You would make a Gorgonian preceptor proud.”

Conner considered the first time someone had tossed him a sword—Marcantos in Cravenrock. It had not gone well for him that day. “I have never been keen on fighting. But, as you said, I am not just an Eastlander any longer.”

Morgas came at him fast, bringing his sword around for a stroke to Conner’s midsection.

Conner parried the stroke, then jumped back. Something was different about Morgas—his aggressive stance, a determined gleam in his eye. Conner took a ready stance again, watching for Morgas’s signal. But none came.

Morgas came at him again, faster. He spun his sword around and delivered a backstroke that would have caught Conner in the right thigh if he had been a hair slower with his blade. The swords rang out harshly.

“Morgas! What—?” But Conner was too busy parrying each stroke of Morgas’s sword to say more. He danced and stepped to keep time with Morgas’s spinning blade.

Morgas changed the tempo of his attack. Faking a shift to Conner’s left, Morgas brought his blade down hard on Conner’s sword, deflecting it outward. Spinning, Morgas slammed the flat of his blade into Conner’s right temple.

The blunt-force strike snapped Conner’s head to the left. His body followed. He struck the ground hard, air expelled from his lungs with an oof. Except for the gravel biting his cheek, he felt nothing. He opened tearing eyes. Everything wheeled.

Morgas shimmered like a reflection on a trough of water. Drifting nearer, he stared down at him.

Confusion washed over Conner. He worked his jaw. “Why?” he croaked, then slipped into darkness.