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  HYBOREAN DRAGONS SERIES

  To Dream with the Dragons

  The Dragon-Child

  Of Shadows and Dragons

  The Swords of Corium

  The Sorcerer’s Bane

  The Dragon Wicked

  HAVEN SERIES

  Amber Magic

  Sky Magic

  Shadow Magic

  Dragon Magic

  Blood Magic

  OTHER BOOKS

  Swarm

  Extinction

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  Mech 2

  Shifting

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  The Sorcerer’s Bane

  (Hyborean Dragons #5)

  by

  B. V. Larson

  Copyright © 2011 by the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

  From the Chronicles of the Black Sun:

  Seeking to rekindle the Sun over his lands, the newly-crowned King of Hyborea dared to dream with the Dragons. Therian found an interested—if not sympathetic—ally in Anduin the Black. He beseeched her for aid. The Dragon in turn charged King Therian with tasks to become her champion upon the Earth:

  “And then you must retrieve my children, as we agreed,” she said. She looked down upon King Therian’s companion, the barbarian rogue known as Gruum. “Also, young King, you must retrieve that which this jackal has stolen from you.”

  -1-

  The ice surrounding Hyborea did not begin breaking up until early summer. By that time, the people of the island were thin and hungry. Their bluish skins hung around their eyes and their cheekbones were sharp and prominent. Hyboreans were famous for surviving with little sustenance for long periods, but this last winter had been extreme. The King himself came down to the docks on the day the ice broke, and there was a celebration. The Sun, a pale disk in the sky, was clear to see and the cool radiance was deemed by all to be better than nothing.

  The celebration went through the night and into the next morn, when the tradeships from the south were expected to arrive. Everyone in Corium counted their gold and excitedly discussed the fresh fruit, meats and wines they would purchase when the ships came rolling in over the open seas. The merchants of Corium were the happiest of all. They rode out in a steady stream, heading southward with a fair wind. They would ply their trades and bring back wealth and goods for all.

  But the first days slipped by, and then a week followed. No ships came, and none of the Hyborean merchants returned. Therian ordered his war arks out to see what was amiss. A blockade was discovered. A fleet from the Solerov city-states blocked the seas between the southern kingdoms and Hyborea. When met by the Hyborean navy, they would not stand and fight. The barbarians ran from the slower war arks. Still, their blockade was effective, as there were too few war arks to protect the merchants.

  Therian called a council of war. Gruum stood in the darkest corner. He listened, and kept his face shaded by his hood. His expression was as grim as any noble in the chamber. He was not worried about Hyborea this day, however. He was worried about the King’s safety. The people were hungry and desperate. They had felt hope—then had their hopes dashed. No leader in the city was safe from the desperation Gruum saw in the dark, staring eyes of the commoners.

  “We could break the blockade with a flotilla,” suggested Scatha, a priestess who had been invited to the council chambers. She wore the traditional black robes of Anduin.

  “They would not trade with us if even if we sailed our war arks to their ports,” a priest in red immediately scoffed. His name was Feond, and he followed the Dragon Yserth.

  “Then we will force them to do so!” Scatha shouted back at her rival.

  “Do you seriously propose we go raiding?” Feond demanded. “We can’t send out our few arks and leave nothing behind to guard our coasts. That is their clear purpose, to begin a new invasion!”

  Gruum saw Sir Tovus roll his eyes and heave a sigh. Gruum agreed with the sentiment. They had all heard too much of this bickering. Therian had invited representatives from both the Red and the Black Orders, only to receive people who denounced every word the other said. Rather than being helpful, they only brought greater strife to the council chambers.

  Therian himself sat apart from the rest on a small throne covered in white snow-ape pelts. His eyes flicked around the chamber. He appeared to be annoyed with everyone. Gruum could not blame him.

  Scatha, her eyes wild with passion, opened her mouth to make another snarling statement toward Feond, who stood with his arms crossed and a smug expression on his face. Gruum wondered at the health evident in their bodies. Neither the priests nor the priestesses ever seemed to go hungry. They were not fat, but neither did their skins hang from their limbs as was so often the case with the common folk.

  Therian lifted his hand. Everyone in the chamber fell silent.

  “We have no need of wine,” the King said. “We have no need of fine cloth. We only require foodstuffs. These, I can provide.”

  “How sire?” Feond asked.

  “Do not insult our monarch by asking how,” Scatha scolded him. “What King Therian says he will do, will be done. I would only dare ask when, sire?”

  Therian stared at them. Gruum read a weary annoyance in his eyes.

  “It will be done now,” the King said. “I require the presence of both of you, to help me with the ceremony.”

  “Are you sure, milord?” Scatha asked. She cast a disdainful glance in the direction of Feond. “I’m not sure that the true Dragon would appreciate—”

  “Let us walk down to the edge of the sea. Both of you will accompany me.”

  Muttering amongst themselves, the councilors stood and formed a group. Their assistants carried various items of comfort, including extra cloaks, goblets of wine and hats with plumes too voluminous to be comfortably worn indoors.

  Therian made a slight gesture. Gruum stepped to his side, recognizing his master’s summons.

  “Yes sire?” Gruum asked.

  “Bring me my belt and swords, will you?”

  “Of course, milord,” Gruum said approvingly. “One can never be too safe.”

  Therian glanced at him. “Quite.”

  Gruum hurried to a locked box and opened it, the hinges creaking. He brought Therian his swords and soon they were buckled into place. The other councilors took note, but said nothing.

  Marching through the palace, the group’s approach sent every servant scurrying out of the way. Guardsmen stood tall and snapped salutes. Maids rushed to drag away scrubbing buckets so the nobility would not trip or complain. The councilors took no note of these lesser people, and instead argued amongst themselves. A large number leaned toward a raiding strategy, but a stubborn contingent demanded their navy hug their shores to face any new attack. Among the factions, the most vociferous were the priest and priestess.

  Therian marched them down from the palace and out into Corium proper. Guardsmen ran ahead of them, shouting: “Make way for the King!” All traffic was halted and any unfortunate left behind in the cobbled streets was kicked harshly aside. Beggars, cartsmen, the elderly and errant children were herded away with equal disregard.

  At last, they came to the end of the High Street. The gates stood open and beyond them was the dock district. Blackened and scorched, the gates had been undergoing repairs since the brief siege of Corium
. New timbers had been slow in coming down from the mountains due to the heavy snows.

  A strange figure stood in their path as they reached the yawning portal that led outside the walls. It was a woman, and she was gaunt and pale in the extreme. She held a child’s hand. Gruum was startled to see the woman was Nadja’s handmaiden, and the girl was none other than the princess herself.

  “Sire, may I speak with you?” asked the handmaiden, who Gruum knew was named Ymma. She seemed barely able to stand upright.

  Therian halted. The group halted behind him. None knew how their King might react to this interruption of his plans, so they wisely kept quiet.

  “What is it, Ymma?” Therian asked.

  “Your daughter, milord. I can no longer care for her.”

  Gruum looked upon the girl. She had grown taller over the last few days—a phenomenon he was no longer surprised to see. She resembled a child of nine years of age, if he were forced to guess. She had long tresses now, hair which hung in two braids of shiny black. Impossibly, her hair was a foot longer than the last time he’d met her in the Necropolis. Gruum and the councilors around him tried not to stare at the two females, but failed.

  Therian stepped forward and looked at Ymma, who looked back with round, vacant eyes. He nodded once, curtly.

  “Gruum,” Therian called.

  Gruum hurried to his side.

  “Take this maiden and guide her gently. She will come with us. She can be among the first to benefit from the feast I plan.”

  “Yes, sire,” said Gruum, taking Ymma’s hand. He soon found he had to encircle her waist with his arm and lift her slight weight so she could keep walking. As he marched after Therian, he wondered that the King would so starve a personal servant.

  Nadja came skipping after the two of them. “Hello, Gruum,” she said.

  “Hello, princess.”

  “Do not drop Ymma! She has been so sweet to me.”

  “I will not,” Gruum assured her.

  Ymma, for her part, stumbled along like one in a trance. She blinked up at the Sun now and then. A thin, shadowy smile played over her lips as she gazed into the sky. Everyone in Hyborea smiled at the Sun whenever it bothered to show itself. No matter how weakly it shined, its thready warmth was always welcome.

  Gruum frowned at Nadja and she smiled back at him. His eyes slid to Ymma’s pale body. Surreptitiously, he tugged at the cloth of one of the woman’s sleeves. A length of blue-white forearm was revealed. His breath caught in his lungs. There, upon Ymma’s arm, he saw a dozen scabbed-over punctures. Gruum turned toward Nadja, thinking to admonish the princess, but then he eyed Therian who marched just ahead. He sighed and held his tongue.

  -2-

  When the party reached the docks and the beaches themselves, Therian walked out upon the sands and stood there. The cold waves surged up to him, but the water did not seem brave enough to dare touch his royal boots.

  “Scatha,” the King called, “stand to my left. Feond, to my right. I require the benediction of both Dragons this day.”

  Pleased to be included, the two he summoned hurried to stand beside the King. Gruum, for his part, stood back with Nadja, Ymma and various nobles. Gruum and Sir Tovus exchanged worried glances. Neither knew what their monarch had in mind, and neither was at ease.

  “On this day, I seek to heal the hurts of fair Corium,” Therian said in the tone of one reading a prayer. “I ask both of you, Priest of Yserth and Priestess of Anduin, to worship your Dragon now. I wish you to praise it, to call upon your masters and request divine aid.”

  Scatha shot Feond a venomous glance, which was returned in kind. Both of them produced burners of sweet incense which they set alight. They began chanting. Scatha’s voice rose high in the scratchy, quick-worded crooning of the Black Order while Feond rumbled in the deep, slow and sonorous droning of the Red Order.

  When Therian at last began to speak, the voices of the other two were quickly drown out. Harsh words, hurtful words split the air—syllables no human throat should be able to produce and which no human ear should ever hear. Scatha and Feond winced and grimaced, but kept chanting their discordant screeds all the while.

  The skies reddened overhead, then shivered with a fresh, brighter blue light. The people of Corium, who had gathered around and up upon the walls to watch, gasped and cowered. They feared the proceedings, but could not resist the temptation to view them. Children leaned against their mothers and peeked through the fingers that covered their eyes.

  The sky slowly drained of odd colors, and seemed to spill these colors down into the sea. Soon, the waves were red and black rather than slate-blue. The water roiled, the top layer turning into a cold froth of bubbling liquid. None knew what was coming, but none could turn their eyes from the sight.

  “Kneel before the Dragons!” roared Therian suddenly, in a voice that was not his and not human. All who heard him felt their knees buckle, as if they did not possess the strength to support the weight of their bodies.

  Ymma went down first, Gruum simply could not hold her upright. Others around him, Gruum noted, knelt as if felled. Some kept collapsing, until they lie prostrate upon the sandy beach. Sir Tovus went to one knee, then finally gave in and knelt fully. Gruum felt his knees tremble, but he also felt the urge to resist. He stood erect.

  The priest and priestess both knelt on either side of Therian. Still they chanted, their voices almost inaudible in the din of the roiling sea and Therian’s sorcerous booming. Finally, Gruum could hold out no longer. His knees sank down to join the rest and he knelt on the sands. He looked to his side and saw with mild surprise that Nadja stood free and smiling. She did not look to be under the slightest duress. She did not kneel, and in fact didn’t feel the urge at all as the rest of them did. Looking around, Gruum saw that only she and her father still stood upon their feet.

  Words still bubbled from Therian’s mouth. They had become vaporous now, and grew impossibly. A flowing carpet of red and black smoke drifted in every direction. The words did not rise, but fell to expand out over the beach, hiding the sand and waves from view.

  Gruum frowned as the unknown spell reached its zenith. He thought to hear some of the words, to know their meaning, to understand them as one might learn to pick out certain barbarous syllables from long contact with the language. He thought the King was calling something—or someone.

  Then Therian flashed out his twin blades and held them aloft so they caught the gleaming light of the Sun. Therian chanted the words of convocation, words which consigned the passage of souls to worlds unseen. The Dragon Speech was unfortunately very familiar to Gruum. He knew what must follow.

  The twin blades flickered. Seeker plunged into the throat of Scatha, while Succor drove itself into Feond. The accompanying chants ceased, and a quiet gargling began. Scatha’s hands came up to her ruined neck and grasped at the edge of Seeker, slicing away her own fingers on the blade. The sword never moved a fraction, despite her efforts.

  When their souls had been removed completely, Therian withdrew his two blades. His victims slumped down, rather than pitched forward. They were like empty leather wine sacks, forgotten on the beach after a night of carousing.

  Therian lifted the two bloody swords high into the air and cried out fresh words, painful words, words that commanded the sky and the sea below it.

  The ocean waves stopped coming to the beach. Instead, the water turned into a thick soup, and dripping shapes arose within. They appeared at first like unidentifiable lumps in a peasant’s stew pot, but then they stood, showing their strange forms. Wading forward, hulking creatures shambled upon the dry beach. Gruum blinked at these abominations, wondering if they were his doom coming for him at long last. Dozens of the creatures approached. They were slick, shiny and covered in—leaves?

  Each had a dozen arms, or tentacles, with vine-like connections to periodic nodules. They stood at various heights: some were ten feet tall, others over thirty. They marched up by tens and then by hundreds. At last, Theri
an’s throat stopped producing vaporous Dragon Speech and Gruum’s mind cleared. He was able to speak. Around him, people wept in terror.

  “What are they?” Gruum heard himself ask aloud.

  “Don’t you know?” Nadja asked. She still stood beside him and bent to hiss in his ear. “They are seaweed, silly!”

  Gruum saw her words were truth. These strange monsters were masses of moving, living seaweed. Ropes and twisting loops of it, moving of its own accord. Therian sheathed his twin swords and turned back to look upon Nadja.

  “Such a smart child,” Therian said, smiling. Nadja beamed at the rare praise from the father.

  The seaweed creatures shuffled off into the surf, which had returned to its normal relentless pounding of the beach. The creatures labored at weaving their own bodies into sheets of tangled strands. Gruum watched with fascination as the sheets began to resemble nets. The leafy creations built the nets from their own ropy bodies then dragged them through the waters. Gruum watched for hours as they hauled up thousands of fish to the docks, where the Hyboreans fell upon them and dragged the flipping, silver bodies away to storehouses. The storehouses were soon overfull, and the fish kept coming. The streets were covered with them. There was nowhere one could walk without stepping upon a slippery, flopping fish. Most of them were arctic cod, but there were other varieties as well.

  Gruum’s stomach growled to see them. He had supped fairly well over the winter months, being part of the Royal Court, but it had been a long time since he’d tasted fresh food. Hyborea’s own fishermen had been hard pressed to bring up a good catch in the frigid waters.

  Therian made a show of offering a large cod to Ymma. The fish’s mouth worked the air helplessly.

  “For your sacrifice, fair woman,” Therian said. “I give you food to strengthen yourself.”

  She took the fish gratefully, although she was too weak to carry it home. At a nod from Therian, Gruum helped her. After leaving her in a tiny cottage, Gruum quickly returned to the King’s side. He found upon his return that Nadja had vanished. He sniffed and refused to worry. The girl could take care of herself well enough.