The Last Dragon: Book Three Read online

  THE LAST DRAGON-Book Three

  LeRoy Clary

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  The Last Dragon: Book Three

  1st Edition

  Copyright © 2018 LeRoy Clary

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover Design Contributors: Bigstock.com

  Cover by: Karen Clary

  Acknowledgments

  Good books are written by several exceptional people, all of whom have my thanks.

  My beta readers, Lucy Jones-Nelson, Laurie Barcome, Dave Nelson, Paul Eslinger, Sherri Oliver, Pat Wyrembelski and Gale Smith, all found lots of things for me to correct, and to improve. Thank you all. I want to publish the best books I can, and they are certainly better with your help.

  My wife puts up with me and deserves extra credit for her help with the covers and her ideas—and she gives me the time to write.

  And my dog, Molly. She sits at my feet and watches me write every day. If I’d get done faster, we could go out and play.

  Books by LeRoy Clary

  The 6th Ransom

  Blade of Lies: The Mica Silverthorne Story

  Here, There Be Dragons

  Cold Knights

  The Light of Another Sun

  The Mage’s Daughter Series

  The Mage’s Daughter: Discovery

  The Mage’s Daughter: Enlightenment

  The Mage’s Daughter: Retribution

  Dragon! Series

  Dragon! Book One: Stealing the Egg

  Dragon! Book Two: Gareth’s Revenge

  Dragon Clan Series

  Dragon Clan: In the Beginning (short introduction)

  Dragon Clan #1: Camilla’s Story

  Dragon Clan #2: Raymer’s Story

  Dragon Clan #3: Fleet’s Story

  Dragon Clan #4: Gray’s Story

  Dragon Clan #5: Tanner’s Story

  Dragon Clan #6: Anna’s Story

  Dragon Clan #7: Shill’s Story

  Dragon Clay #8: Creed’s Story

  The Last Dragon Series

  The Last Dragon: Book One

  The Last Dragon Book Two

  The Last Dragon Book Three

  TABLE OF CONTENT

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Contact Information

  Contact LeRoy Clary at [email protected] or message him on Facebook at: LeRoy Clary's Facebook Page if you have questions and/or suggestions.

  You can “follow” LeRoy Clary on Amazon by going to: LeRoy Clary's Author Page. Amazon will then notify you about new releases.

  If you’d like to receive earlier notification of LeRoy Clary’s latest novel releases, books in progress, or other cool stuff, please sign-up for his mailing list by going to: leroyclary.com. Your e-mail address will never be shared, and you may unsubscribe at any time.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Damon

  After the battle on the mountain pass between Trager and Vin, we were bound and taken to the desert where the fat Slave-Master growled in my direction, sounding tired and twice his apparent age, “You. The pretty one standing alone. Your name?”

  “Damon.” I used my polite voice and offered a weak smile as if that would help my situation as his newest slave ready to be sold on the blocks of Kaon. I ignored his comment on my pretty looks because objecting was like saying I’m ugly.

  “Family association or former occupation?” he snapped as he gnawed on a skewer of braised meat and fruit.

  I hesitated, then answered as truthfully as far as I knew how, in an imperial tone to let him know I was not his regular slave, “I labor for the royal family of Dire as one of the two personal servants for Princess Elizabeth. You would do well to release me or face her wrath.”

  A huge man stood at the Slave-Master’s side, a Kaon warrior by his dress. He snorted angrily and began slowly drawing his blade from where it was tucked inside his wide blue sash. The action was more than an idle threat. The long, curved blade was too massive to swing quickly or with agility, but one two-handed swipe would split an opponent into equal parts to bury. As a defenseless slave who had both of his feet tied together and held no weapons in his bound hands, I had little question as to the outcome if I didn’t soothe him.

  I spoke quickly as I spread another false smile on my face, “Perhaps I should have said that I used to work for the princess and I’m certain she would appreciate my release or pay a small ransom. Now, of course, I belong to you and am at your service until you decide what I’m to do.”

  The sword returned to its normal position in the colorful sash at his waist without any change in the Kaon warrior’s expression. He stood and glowered as before, his face a crosshatch of scars. I ignored him and kept my attention focused on his overweight boss.

  “Negotiating ransoms is tedious and rarely profitable enough to waste my time. Have you any skills of value?” the Slave-Master asked me in a tired tone as dead as his eyes. “Skills that might allow me to sell you for more silver than these other wretches will bring at the auction blocks?”

  That was a question worth thinking about—if my remaining time alive permitted. The skills that first came to mind included me skulking around Crestfallen Palace searching for tidbits of palace intrigue or rumors of interest that might be used to blackmail or sway royal opinion to agree with Princess Elizabeth.

  I also poured wine for the princess at official gatherings, always keeping her goblet full but not overflowing, and watering it enough so she wouldn’t be affected by the alcohol while negotiating. I also functioned as her bodyguard. And truthfully, I was a foil for her wicked sense of humor in private, her messenger, and often a friend. None of those were likely to increase the price a new owner would pay for me.

  There was also the matter of performing small-magic, parlor tricks such as changing the spots on blocks to those more favorable when gambling, splashing wine on a lap across the room to embarrass an enemy, making a floor slippery, so someone fell at the appropriate time causing them maxim
um humiliation. There were other magic tidbits, most of which were little more than tricks, and some that were simply clever sleight-of-hand. I’d keep the newly acquired mental communication with the waif Anna to myself.

  Were any of those skills of value to the dead-eyed Slave-Master or to a potential buyer? If sold, my new owner would have to make that determination without knowing about those magic skills. If I were ever sold, was the operative phrase. I contained my humor while the man with the dead eyes and his minion with the large sword assumed a sale of me would happen at the slave auctions in Kaon. They were probably wrong—if I convinced them of my value, so they didn’t kill me in the next few moments.

  “I asked you a question,” he growled.

  “Sir, as a former personal servant to a princess, I was educated nearly as well as any royal, and better than many. I am adept at reading, writing, math, history, and the other usual subjects a buyer might enjoy. My real skills lie in providing services to those born above me in social rank.”

  “Would I be one of those? One born to a higher social rank?” His double-chin lifted as if encouraging my answer to be positive and praise him.

  But there had been the slightest movement around his cold eyes, a twitch at the corners, either amusement or threat. It was hard to tell. My normal rule was never to lie unless I knew for a fact someone didn’t know the truth—and wouldn’t find it out. Getting caught in an obvious lie causes a distrust that is never fully repaired. Not that I was against lying—I was against getting caught. The Slave-Master was getting impatient for my answer.

  “Sir, I regret to tell you that no, you are not highborn,” I said, then quickly added, “To your credit, you rose high above that humble birth-station to the exalted heights you now enjoy, probably due to your hard work, ambition, and perhaps a bit of luck.”

  To the surprise of all, he threw his head back and roared with laughter.

  I managed to take a deep, relieved breath. The stench of his unwashed body gagged me as much as that from the chained slaves at my sides. Fortunately, he believed I had joined him in the laughter, and that made him laugh all the more as his men, and the other slaves looked on in confusion. The two slaves nearest me edged away, probably fearing the worst and not wanting to suffer whatever punishment might come my way, or get blood splattered on them.

  The Slave-Master settled himself after our shared laughter and adjusted the long tan robes that perfectly matched the color of the desert behind him. If he chose, he could tuck the red scarf inside his tan robe, move off a few steps and all but disappear against the rocky desert background, a tactic long used by people of the Brownlands. It was said that the Kaon could disappear at will, but most considered it more of a skill than magic. He leaned closer and examined my face closer, then spoke as if puzzled, “You do not fear me.”

  It was a flat statement and the manner in which he said it was its warning. I responded with respect, “I do fear you but hope you will not harm a valuable slave and cost yourself a purse full of silver.”

  His eyes shifted from me to another slave, one down the line from me who began to chant in a strange language. The man was emaciated, filthy, and sores covered his skin. A guard arrived at his side and ordered him in the Common language to be quiet. The slave lifted his chin high, exposing his neck and prayed aloud in Common for death, raising his voice even louder instead of stopping.

  His prayers were swiftly answered. The massive sword moved far faster than I’d believed possible. The guard wiped his bloody blade on the man’s clothing, which didn’t help much because of the filthy shirt the slave wore, and the blood soaking into the material had turned it wet-red. A few steps away the head of the slave had rolled to the base of a tree and lay there looking at us with blank eyes. The guard grabbed the next slave in line and used his shirt to clean the blade further, leaving a red smear across his chest and ignoring the corpse at his feet.

  A metalsmith arrived to pound the locking pins from the iron leggings and wrists of the dead slave. Iron and copper are expensive and not to be wasted. Free of the chains, he rolled the inert body aside with a callous kick as if it was a bundle of worthless straw.

  Beyond the metalsmith stood a familiar figure, shoulders slumped, fists balled, and our eyes locked. My friend was called Flier, a former cripple who had been captured at the mountain pass with me. Before that, he’d been a messenger in his King’s Army. When we first met days ago, an arrowhead embedded in his knee had made walking almost impossible. It was an old wound, but an operation and my intervention with small-magic had removed it, and he now moved almost as well as when he was young and served the King of Vin, a minor province in Kondor.

  Being newly captured at the Vin Pass only last night, Flier and I still wore ropes on our wrists and ankles instead of irons. Our captivity had lasted from the middle of the night until this morning, all of it spent marching to catch up and join the caravan of other slaves. Despite the short time we’d been with them, I’d had about enough of being a slave.

  My sister, Kendra, and the two orphan girls, Emma and Anna, that we traveled with had escaped capture because the dragon Kendra freed in Mercia had managed to get between them and the slavers. It protected them, and not even slavers wanted to fight a legendary dragon. The slavers had settled for taking Flier and me. They had lost several of their people in the battle to capture us and didn’t want to lose more in a fight they couldn’t win.

  With the flick of a mental touch to Anna, I confirmed the women of our group were safe, thanks to the intervention of the dragon, and it was almost time to return to them. The Slave-Master before me would disagree, but we had different agendas. He wished to sell me for profit. I wished to learn all I could about this new land we found ourselves in, and he was to be my teacher.

  The Slave-Master turned his full attention back to me and said, “Convince me you are trustworthy.”

  He kept pushing me for the truth—or to tell him a lie and provide him an excuse to punish or kill me. He was testing me. Probing. My problem was that I didn’t know which he wanted of me, a lie or the truth. No, he was smarter than that. He expected me to lie, as the other slaves would. But he seemed to want the other. That settled my approach, risky as it might be. “I am sorry to inform you that I’m not trustworthy. Not in the least. If you remove my ropes, or if I manage to free them, you’ll never catch me again.”

  The guard at his side reached for his sword again. He didn’t appreciate my repeated impertinence. The Slave-Master laid a hand on his wrist to restrain him. “If our situations were reversed I would do the same, but I’d lie about it, so I didn’t piss off my new master. Are you very smart or stupid?” He turned back to the guard, who now attempted to harm me with his fierce stare after being rebuked by his boss, no matter how gently.

  The Slave-Master saw the flush of anger in the look the Kaon warrior sent my way and said to him, “This one may be worth a dozen others at the auction block, maybe more. Hell, I might keep him for myself. Guard him with your life—for if he dies or is harmed in any manner, the same fate will befall you.”

  The guard didn’t seem thrilled by the task assigned to him. His scowl deepened. I decided to cheer him up with a friendly little wink, just between him and I. The Slave-Master saw me do it and laughed again as he stood and sauntered towards a huge tent where three beautiful young women dressed in sheer, revealing, clothing anxiously waited with false smiles that were on their lips but did not reach their eyes. Another guard walked a single step behind the Slave-Master, his hand on the hilt of his sword. I suspected his hand was never far from it.

  At the touch of my mental urging, the guard tripped over his own feet and lunged ahead, his shoulder striking the back of the Slave-Master, who spun and growled, “Clumsy oaf” for all to hear.

  That action meant my small-magic was working, which further meant the last dragon alive was somewhere nearby. Without the Essence provided by the last dragon, or to a lesser degree by the Wyvern, magic wouldn’t work. If the d
ragon was near here, Kendra and the girls were with it, all of them probably situated high in the wooded foothills where they could watch Flier and me without fear of discovery. I resisted the urge to wave at them and turned my attention to the other slaves at my sides. They wore only enough filthy rags for minimum modesty and scant protection from the sun.

  All were dark-skinned like me, adapted to the Brownlands. Our black hair was worn long and thick. Our features were thin, our eyes dark. We were people of Kondor, as any could plainly see.

  Of course, my sister Kendra and I were raised in luxury in the Kingdom of Dire and considered it our home, where we served Elizabeth as her servants. We hadn’t even known of Kondor a lunar month ago, so didn’t consider ourselves one of them, despite the obvious connections. The guards and the Slave-Master were even darker-skinned than those of Kondor, their bodies heavier and more muscular than our thin and willowy frames, although we tended to be a little taller. Also, since my capture at the Vin Mountain Pass the night before, we traveled with Kondor at our backs, the opposite way we wished to go.

  With my small-magic intact, that would present few problems if I chose to leave. I was no mage but convincing a guard at night to fall into a deep sleep presented few obstacles to one with my abilities. Concentrating on using my magic while untying the knots on my wrists would be easy. The leg irons would be hardly more difficult.

  Not that I didn’t want to escape, but the problem was that I had no plan for staying free. Escaping and being caught again was far worse than not escaping at all. The guards carried whips and swords for a good reason. The time would come to leave but on my terms.