Draconis' Bane

David Temrick

Smashwords
Edition

First Edition -
August 2011

Copyright © 2011 by
David Temrick

Disclaimer: This book
is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between the characters,
places or events and any other work of fiction or fact are purely
coincidental and in no way reflect real people, places or
events.

This novel has been
long in the making. I began jotting down short stories in the world
of Amesdia after reading a novel my father bought me for my sixth
birthday; Treasure Island. It’s amazing what you can remember when
you think back to the parts of your life that led you down a new
path.

I’d like to thank
everyone who had the patience and forbearance to read this novel as
it was developed and in its draft form. You all have no idea how
valuable your input and suggestions were. There are too many of you
to mention, though there are two who were with me from the start of
this epic journey.

Thanks go to my wife
who had to listen to my ideas flow without the benefit of
narrative. Love you Ashly!

Secondly, thanks go
to a true friend for receiving hundreds of emails and fielding
thousands of my questions, ideas, wandering thoughts and
grumpiness. Thanks Robb! I really appreciate your help and
friendship.

Finally, thanks to
all of you who purchased or downloaded this book. My stories had
always been for my own personal enjoyment and I hope you find them
as fun to read as they were to write.

Be sure to check out
my personal website at www.davidtemrick.com

Thanks again to you
all.

Cheers.

“That’s enough!”
Swordmaster Fallon shouted.

Tristan had barely
broken a sweat by all appearances, though his sparring partner
could scarcely claim the same small boon. Mixed in with the sweat
that was pouring down his face was his own blood, which was also
pouring freely from several wounds the Prince had inflicted on him.
The combination was soaking his white tunic, making the wounds look
that much more horrible to the untrained eye.

“If Jason can’t keep
up Swordmaster, that’s hardly my fault.” Tristan goaded, casting
his opponent a baleful look.

Jason Yunis was a
cousin of the Princes’, being the third son of one of his uncles,
Samuel. His uncle had sent the lad here to learn swordplay from the
masters the King employed. However, from the moment the young man
had arrived, he’d been bullied about by the Prince. It wasn’t that
Jason was a poor swordsman mind you, he was quite gifted in fact.
The Prince though, had been training under several masters since
he’d been old enough to hold a blade.

The King had hoped
that learning a skill would funnel the young Prince’s more
questionable behavior and give him focus. Before, he was merely the
King’s middle child. He was an impetuous and spoiled brat of a
monarch. Now though, he was a spoiled brat who could best most of
the soldiers and masters in the country. There were only three
people he couldn’t regularly beat in a sword fight; his older
brother, the Swordmaster and his little sister.

Eurydice Vallious was
one of the very few people in the palace the Prince didn’t bully
around. In fact, he was very fond of his little sister and doted on
her, as did most everyone who met her. The little one’s love for
life and bright heart lifted even the most jaded people to
joviality. Even so, Tristan’s pride wouldn’t let him give less than
his all in a swordfight, even with Eurydice. Her speed bordered on
the supernatural and while she wasn’t as gifted with the blade as
her brother…she was fast enough that it didn’t matter on most
occasions. There were times however when the Swordmaster was hard
pressed to distinguish between the two of them. Tristan’s own
natural ability with the sword and his own speed often created
contests between the two of them that most found difficult to keep
track of.

The main reason the
Prince was in such a foul mood today was that word had obviously
reached him that Jason Yunis had been paying an exorbitant amount
of time with the young Princess. The Swordmaster could clearly see
that the spoiled Prince didn’t approve; an understatement that
could become fatal if they weren’t separated. The instructor called
the two young men back to the center circle to begin again.

“Bow.” The instructor
ordered sharply.

Both young men barely
moved their heads in each other’s direction, causing the instructor
to sigh and shake his head in disgust. Things were coming to a head
with these two, Swordmaster Fallon decided. It was probably time to
send young Jason back to his father, he mused, before the lad was
sent back in a brier.

“Engarde!” The
instructor shouted and then quickly stepped back to his appointed
place.

The boy’s sabers
crossed, each of their forearms flexed with effort as they each
sought to push the other blade aside. An act of defiance and anger
as they both glared at each other with open rage.

“Duel.” The
instructor called.

Jason feigned high.
Tristan brought his blade up and the pair met for the briefest
moment. Jason snapped his wrist and brought his blade across the
Prince’s stomach. Tristan leapt backwards, barely avoiding the
blow. Jason closed in on his off-balance cousin with a clumsy
thrust which caught Tristan in the right shoulder.

The young Prince
gasped as he backed away, bringing his blade up to defend. He
needn’t have bothered though, as Jason had stopped his advance with
a self-satisfied grin on his face. Tristan reached up to his
shoulder, feeling inside his tunic. He drew his hand out and rubbed
his fingers together as his face went red with rage.

The wound was a
superficial one at best, perhaps merely breaking skin. The damage
to Tristan’s ego was palpable in the room. Other combatants stopped
their sparing and turned to watch the enraged Princes’ bout
closely.

Fallon was sure that
all of them had wished at some point for at least this small wound.
However, the Swordmaster was already worried about the backlash
from the clumsy and misplaced strike. The instructor called for
both young men to come back to the center. Tristan’s breathing was
deep and deliberate and he balanced his weight on the balls of his
feet. Fallon thought about intervening to stop further bloodshed,
but thought better of it. These lads were going to work their
frustration out eventually and it might as well be where he could
keep them from killing one another.

“Engarde!” The
instructor shouted again and quickly stepped back.

The stain on the
shoulder of Tristan’s shirt began to move down the sleeve. Again
the sweat mixed in with the blood and made the wound appear to be
quite serious. It was easy to tell that the Prince wasn’t in the
least bit injured as he flexed his shoulder and forearm, pushing
Jason’s blade to the side as their dangerous and childish by-play
continued unabated.

“Duel!” The
instructor’s voice cracked ever so slightly, betraying his
fears.

Fallon knew the
instructor was loath to call an end to the contest. Tristan had
seen more than one instructor of the blade fired from the palace
staff. This appointment, despite its charge, was what most masters
of the blade aspired to after all; the King’s Palace.

Jason came in high,
attempting to feel out any stiffness on Tristan’s part. Fallon
chuckled in spite of himself thinking that even if the Prince was
injured enough to become stiff, his ego wouldn’t allow him to show
it. Tristan’s sword was quick as lightning; batting Jason’s aside
and followed by a left cross punch, sending his cousin to the
mat.

“Hold!” The
instructor shouted, shaking the fear of keeping his job with the
total lack of swordsmanship from the Prince.

Neither young man
heard him of course; both had now been shamed in the eyes of their
peers and each other. This would need to be settled here and now,
or at least so their young code of honor told them. Fallon leaned
back on a pillar behind him and sighed theatrically as Jason wiped
away the blood from his split lip. His eyes took on intensity that
Fallon had never seen the young man exhibit before.

Showing false shaking
in the knees, he used his sword to support his weight as he got
back to his feet. Tristan, being too wrapped up in his own
emotions, snarled as he closed in on his opponent. The Prince used
a backhanded swipe designed to decapitate his opponent. Jason was
ready and raised his sword, taking the blow near the pommel. He
used his leverage to draw Tristan’s sword around in an arc to the
opposite side, effectively trapping the blade and forcing the
Prince forward and off balance. The Prince grunted as the tip of
his sword made contact with the mat. Jason used this perfect
opportunity to drive his right elbow back into Tristan’s face with
an audible crack.

Fallon flinched,
knowing that he’d likely broken the Prince’s nose. Tristan stumbled
backwards, bringing his sword instinctually up to defend as another
blow rang on his blade. Some small sense of survival must have
sprung up in the Prince as the ball of Tristan’s right foot
connected with the mat and he pushed forward, regaining his
balance. He grabbed his cousin’s right forearm and drove his head
straight into Jason’s face. Another audible crack echoed off of the
chamber walls as several onlookers groaned in sympathy. Jason
stumbled backwards shaking his head in an attempt to clear his
mottled thoughts.

The instructor had
long since given up trying to control the two lads and had run out
of the room, presumably to fetch a pair of soldiers to help him
break up the fight. Swordmaster Fallon was secretly enjoying the
contest though. He still held to his belief that these two boys
needed to iron out their differences here, rather than in some
tawdry gambling hall down by the docks later. He had no delusions
over the meaning behind this ridiculous charade. Both young men
were fighting for the same girl. Tristan fought for the honor of
the sister he doted on and Jason for the young woman he was
beginning to fall in love with. The Swordmaster was just musing on
which young man he sympathized with most; the one thinking with his
crotch, or the one trying to protect his sisters, when the
instructor burst back into the room with two men-at-arms flanking
him.

Each soldier looked
at the fast young men unleashing a hell of a battle on one another
and then looked at each other before settling back against the wall
on either side of the door.

The instructor was
beside himself.

“What are you waiting
for!? Split them up!” He shouted anxiously.

The older guard
chuckled darkly.

“And how would you
like us to do that, sir?” He asked.

The instructor turned
and watched the lightning fast parries and strikes for a moment
before looking back at the soldiers, even more disheveled than
before.

“I don’t know! Tackle
them?!!” He shrieked.

The younger soldier
looked at his superior.

“I don’t know about
you Tom, but I’m not taking a saber to the head trying to get
between those two.”

Tom chuckled
loudly.

“Too right Jimmy. Too
damn right.” He turned his head towards the instructor. “They’ll
tucker out soon enough, sir.”

Fallon Hawkings,
Swordmaster of Metao and the Royal Family of Vallious for over
thirty years, laughed in spite of himself as the instructor shakily
wiped the sweat from his brow and looked nervously from one soldier
to the other before turning around and forcing himself to watch the
Prince and his cousin fight each other unhindered.

Each of the young men
bled quite freely from their noses and various other slices all
over their bodies. They were a patchwork of cloth, leather, steal
and blood. Fallon was deeply impressed at any rate. What had begun
as a haphazard sparing match, where Tristan clearly had better
form, had boiled down into game of survival. Each of them used
their fists, elbows and at times feet to try and gain the
advantage. Tristan’s tutelage had been purely based on form and
tradition; he rarely let his anger show when he was dueling. Whilst
Jason had clearly been taught a more mundane and infinitely more
suitable form of sword craft where one used any means necessary to
survive.

Tristan blow came in
high; Jason deflected his cousins’ blade and used his forward
momentum to push the Prince off his feet and closed in. He flipped
his blade in his hand and readied himself to strike down into the
Princes chest. Tristan kicked Jason’s left knee out from under him
and was rewarded with his cousin’s scream as he dislocated his
knee.

Tristan was back on
his feet in seconds and closing in on his cousin. In desperation,
Jason used the bell of his pommel to drive his thigh back into
alignment with his lower leg. His face went white as a loud snap
could be heard around the chamber. The knee was more or less back
in place. Fallon grimaced in sympathy.