The Last Dragon Rider - Chapter #4 - Free To Read

Chapter Three

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Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Deep within the haunting wilds of Gahl-Raëlön, the crumbling ruins of A’velenor were nestled, forgotten to the throes of time. An ancient fortress, thought to be thousands of eons old, where the god, Hath’Raal, made his last stand.

Gnarled and withered trees stood stark in the waning sunlight filtering down through the leafless sentinels. Woody brambles, naked but for the spiny thorns, snaked and weaved around white columns that appeared more akin to stark bones. The overgrown courtyard barred entrance to those who would seek its secrets.

Bloodied battles had soaked the boggy earth with the blood of thousands. For ages past, their rotting corpses and shattered bones had lain dormant beneath the death drenched earth. Spirits unable to rest, trapped in the veil between worlds, prevented those who fell from entering the golden gates of Elysium or the hell pits of the Void.

The Necromancer Mnuvae had found this secret place. Whilst her lieutenants led her armies of Wilderlings and Revenir against the dragon riders and the king’s army, she sought a way to finally turn the tide. And now, at last, it was within in her grasp.

A smile spread across parched lips, as she slammed the heavy tome down—dust swirling into the air. For nigh on a century she had searched for a way to reclaim her birthright, and now she had the edge she needed.

Mnuvae clenched her fists, sharpened nails tearing the ancient leather of the book she still held. How dare they refuse her! Deny her what was rightfully hers.

Still!

Had a century of bloodshed not been enough?

Her father had been king, it mattered little that her mother had not been his wife. They would soon bow fealty to the bastard child they cast aside. The one whose golden hair was not pale enough, nor her gray eyes the correct shade of silver.

Her ears pricked up at a sound behind her.

Sareth’banal, Uncle. I had hoped you would come.” Her elven gaze pierced the darkness as she greeted him, and Cëladyn slipped from the shadows.

Andar’sarel, Enchanter Mnuvae, and my apologies I could not get away sooner. Though I see my notes on the Book of Souls have proven invaluable.”

She flashed him a smile. He always insisted on using such formal greetings, even with her.

Cëladyn had been there her entire life. As a child he would visit when he could, teaching her, guiding her, caring for her when the king had refused to acknowledge her as his heir. He had never hidden her parentage from her.

He had been like a father to her, and she had forever considered herself his daughter. He told her stories of her mother, how beautiful, how kind she was, and although he never said, Mnuvae knew he had loved her mother deeply. He could not hide the sadness from his voice when he spoke of her.

Her uncle had been away when Rayna, the woman who had been like a mother to her, was taken with sickness. The woman not surviving long after the illness presented itself. Rayna’s brother had taken the coin Cëladyn sent for Mnuvae’s care and education and cast her to the streets at the tender age of fourteen, still only ema’asha.

Mnuvae had found her way to the Crystal Palace. King Ehrendil would not see her, his guards calling her a liar and casting her off with a few gold coins.

Many had claimed to be Aranel’s child upon his death during a hunting accident. It had been five years before she saw Cëladyn again. The rage and bitterness had grown and festered deep within her soul in those years. It consumed her, but her will to survive had been stronger.

She shuddered against the memories. She had to do things in order to survive no one of such a tender age should ever have to do.

Cëladyn had found her, purely by chance, in one of the city’s dingier brothels. Mnuvae remembered the shock and rage in his cold blue eyes, a side of him she had never seen growing up. His fist had glowed brightly with magic, his lips curled over his teeth in a vicious snarl. He had looked very much a wild thing when he punched his glowing fist into the chest of the man fondling her, ripping out his heart.

He had then taken her from that place, healing her wounds and her heart, helping her hone the rage and bitterness inside, sharpening it to a razor’s edge.

It was Cëladyn who had promised she would sit the throne of her father, had promised her with a burning fervor.

It was he who had taught her the ways of necromancy, who had helped her raise and command an army of the undead—the Revenir.

It was he who sought out Hath’Raal’s most fervent zealots, the Wilderlings, who now worshiped her as a goddess, believing her the earth-bound bride of the god of chaos.

Mnuvae turned back to the tome before her, keeping her features expressionless and tone even.

“I know now what we need to bring us victory, Uncle.”

Cëladyn came to her side, pressing a kiss to the crown of her hair and wrapped his arm about her shoulders, just like he did when she was a child.

“And what have you found in this most ancient of places, my dear?” Mnuvae could not help but let a small smile tug at her lips from his endearment.

She stepped from his side to the tarnished window, throwing it wide and pointing toward the Symarion Mountains. The nesting grounds to the High Dragon.

“High Dragons have the ability to speak to lesser dragons, control them if that is their will.”

Cëladyn’s brows knit together in apparent confusion. “Are you forgetting, my dear? You are no dragon rider.” He stepped closer to join her, peering out the window.

“I have no need to be.” Mnuvae indicated the dusty tome behind her. “In that book, there is a spell.”

She paused for effect. His eyes went wide with anticipation.

“A spell to bind a High Dragon, to meld my mind with its own. ‘The heart of dragonkin’ is the key.” Her smile was wide with maniacal glee. “If I do this, I can bring them down, bring them all down.”

“Victory will be ours,” Cëladyn whispered. The realization dawning.

“You clever girl.” He drew her into a fatherly embrace, words of praise tumbling freely from his lips, then released her, brushing a loose tendril behind her ear and cupping her cheek in his palm.

“You look so much like your mother.” A touch of sadness reached his eyes as it always did when he spoke of her mother. The cool demeanor he presented to the world slipping only slightly, as he drew her once more into his protective arms.

He was everything to her, and she cherished moments like this, where his pride in her shone through so brilliantly.

****

Flintathriël sat on the stone bench in the training yard, working his scimitar along the whetstone. He watched in admiration as Sairalindë rode Sivath high above the grounds.

The creature’s white leathery hide shone like diamonds as the failing sunlight bounced off its scales. The dragon’s immense wingspan almost translucent whilst in flight. Blue-black horns curled back from the beast’s head, and smaller blue-black spines ran the length of its neck to the tip of its tail, where six large spikes formed the tip.

Sivath was indeed a magnificent creature, though Flintathriël would never admit it. He watched as Sairalindë guided the animal to a flawless landing, slightly intimidated by the streaks of blood staining the giant teeth protruding from beneath Sivath’s lips.

“Good hunting?” He shouted across the yard as she leapt from the dragon’s back and began unhitching the harness straps. She turned to him, dropping the harness at her feet.

Gods, she was glorious, fresh from the battlefield. Flyaway strands of coppery hair framed her face, loosened from her braid in flight. She swiped the back of her hand across her forehead, smearing blood and grime across her pale skin, golden eyes still bright from the high of being in battle.

“I took down three dozen undead and one of the witch’s lieutenants, just south of Valdell.”

Flintathriël gazed with gripped fascination as Sairalindë rounded to rub Sivath’s snout, whispering and cooing to the dragon like one would a child. The dragon’s sapphire eyes closed, and the beast let out a contented breath.

He watched the gentle sway of her hips as she moved. She was a wonder, this woman of his. He could no longer fathom the reason he had fought against the match all those wasted years.

Druidess, mage, warrior, and a spitfire between the sheets. He loved this woman with a fierceness that at times frightened him with its intensity. Watching her with Sivath caused a pang of jealousy to rip at his heart. Though he would never let her know how much he hated that there was a part of her life he could not share with her. To know she told the creature all her innermost secrets…

“Wait…South of Valdell? In the Gahl-Raëlön wilds? Why were you even there?”

Sairalindë’s hands stilled.

He dropped his whetstone and strode toward her. Gripping her arm slightly harder than he intended, spinning her toward him, accusations in his eyes. The Gahl-Raëlön wilds were nothing but dead marshes. No one had trod that earth in thousands of years. It was strictly forbidden. Hath’Raal had been the last elf to set foot on that sodden piece of earth.

“I had my orders.” Sairalindë snatched her arm from his grip, avoided his gaze, and pushed past him.

“Whose orders?” Flintathriël took off after her. She was lying. “Saira, whose orders?” He shouted after her.

“Commander Theron,” she called back.

He caught her by the shoulders and spun her toward him once more.

“Theron does not command the Dragon Riders.”

She glared up at him, golden eyes blazing.

“Saira, na’vahleth, why are you lying to me?”

“Not here.” Taking his hand she led him along the corridors to her quarters. She went straight to her desk, unlocking the drawer and rifling through the copious amounts of papers.

“I have been researching, or more specifically, continuing my father’s research. He had pieced together information over the years about a tome, a book of spells, rumored to have belonged to Hath’Raal when he was mortal.” Her hand landed on the parchment she sought, pulling several sheets from the drawer, then closing it with a bump of her hip.

“The Book of Souls?”

“You know of it?” She raised a brow, incredulous.

“I know my history. No need to look so surprised.” Flintathriël smirked, leaning against the bed post, his hair falling across his brow.

“My father believed that it might help bring an end to this war, and your uncle was always keen to get his hands on it.”

“Not this again, Saira, Cëladyn is harmless.” She waved her hand dismissively, shoving the papers into his hands.

“Regardless of Cëladyn’s intentions, if the book could potentially put a stop to over a century of war, should we not look into it?”

“So you took it upon yourself to go mucking about in Gahl-Raëlön?” He scanned the research in his hands. It was certainly thorough.

“I found its location Flint. It is there, in the ruins of A’velenor.”

“So where is this book?”

She avoided his gaze, glancing about the room, scarlet bloomed upon her cheeks.

“Sivath would not take me down.”

Flintathriël could not stop the laughter that rumbled up from his chest. “The great hulking dragon was afraid to enter a haunted marsh!”

“Please, Flint, na’vahla, we must go.”

His laughter died in his throat. She wanted him to take her into that gods forsaken marsh. The place the gods had literally forsaken.

“Do not be daft, woman.” He held up his hand when she made to protest.

“No! You will stay here. I will go, you, na’vahleth, will stay here where it is safe.”

Her golden eyes narrowed, and she leaned back against her desk, her fingers drumming an irritated tune against the polished oak. “Stay behind? You must be joking?”

Flintathriël shrugged, tossed the papers on her bed, and stepped away from the bedpost. It was worth a try even though he knew she would never agree to stay behind. He stopped before her, and her features softened as he cupped her face between his palms, brushing away the dried blood smeared across her skin.

“Flint, I am careful. I did not go charging into Gahl-Raëlön unprepared.” She always saw straight through to that part of him that worried, that feared the day all warriors in the darkest reaches of their soul did. The last day. She always saw.

He pressed his brow to hers and closed his eyes, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her. Wildflowers and sweat and blood. Flintathriël reached for a loose strand of coppery hair, letting the silky strands slip between his fingertips, feeling the flecks of dirt brush across his skin.

“Saira—”

She felt the tension in his body as he leaned against her, his breath warm against her cheek, his eyes still tightly closed. “If anything were to happen to you—”

Sairalindë reached up and brushed the silver-white veil from his face. He slid one hand up the back of her neck, gently tracing the contours of her cheekbone with the other before sliding his fingers down to work the fastenings of her riding armor.

“You are my everything.”

“Flint—” He pressed his lips to hers, silencing her with a soft and gentle caress, peppering her face and throat with tender kisses, lingering to suckle at the hollow of her throat and pushing the vest from her body, the thick green leather falling to the floor. His teeth nipped at her bare shoulder, his tongue swirling across her flesh, worshipping every inch of exposed skin. She was clay in his hands, melting against him, desire pooling low in her belly. He released her only long enough to yank her tunic over her head, his heated gaze upon her as though she were already naked beneath him and not still clad in half her battle raiment and breast band. His lips and hands returned, Flintathriël’s kisses turning hard and biting, his fear turning to raw passion. It was his way, always the same when she returned from the battlefield.

Flintathriël’s hand slid down her side and over the curve of her hip, unfastening buckles and tugging at the laces that held her captive within her leggings, his grip tightening on the nape of her neck as two long, calloused fingers slipped into her breeches, delving into the wet heat between her thighs. Stroking and curling his fingers against her inner walls, circling his thumb lazily over the sensitive nub. She writhed and bucked against the building pressure, grinding her hips.

Sairalindë grasped his hair by the fistfuls, pulled his lips to hers, and forced her tongue into his mouth in a fight for dominance. Flintathriël groaned into her kiss, his cock pressed hard against her hip, grinding herself against his hand. Her breath came in hard gasps, and she cried out his name as she exploded around his fingers. They were both panting, chests heaving, when he stepped away. She watched a mischievous grin cross his lips, eyes dark with lust, his hand hovering over the hilt of his dagger. A finely sculpted weapon of pale blue crystal tipped with silver, a gift from her, one of a pair. Slowly he unsheathed the blade, dragging the point up along her ribcage, tracing the silver tip across her torso. The cold metal penetrated the bindings covering her breasts. Her nipples hard and erect as he traced around each stiff peak. In one swift movement, Flintathriël cut the binding, freeing her breasts, the gauzy fabric falling to the floor. The dagger tossed carelessly aside.

He drew one orb into his hot mouth, tongue swirling, gently biting, teasing her nipple whilst his free hand pinched and palmed the other until she was moaning loudly beneath his touch, writhing against him, pulling his head to her breasts, stoking the flames of her arousal once more.

With a frustrated growl Sairalindë pushed him from her, her eyes watching him from beneath her disheveled mane. A roguish smirk spread across his lips. Her own smile met his as she stalked toward him, shoved him roughly into the chair and straddled his strong, taut thighs, settling over his narrow hips.

Gripping his tunic by the collar, she ripped the fabric clean down to his navel, brass buttons scattering across the floor. Her hands slid over the broad, firm muscles of his chest. She ran her tongue up his neck, tracing the scrolling vines of his tattoos and marking him with hard, biting kisses.

She rolled her hips, grinding down against his cock, which strained against the confines of his breeches.

Flintathriël threw his head back, his guttural moans music to her ears, his hands gripping tightly at the side of the chair. A sharp thrill rocketed through her as she watched his control unravel, fraying at the edges. She knew it was a struggle for him to relinquish control, the wolf in him always fought against it.

Her tongue traced the shell of his ear, drawing the sensitive tip into her mouth, grazing it with her teeth. Pressing her naked breasts against the broad planes of his chest, her skin burned against his. Her fingers began stroking his cock through his breeches, his breath hitching in his throat when she grasped him firmly.

“Falannas na,” she purred, licking the length of his throat, the crude words like honey on her tongue, dripping with lust, shattering Flintathriël’s fine thread of control. The wolf inside snapped and snarled, desperate to get free.

The Nuvian in him growled, a sound so animalistic and bestial her eyes widened in shock. Lifting her from his lap, he carried her across the room, slamming her against the wall hard enough to knock the breath from her body. A smirk twisted across her ruby lips, and her golden eyes narrowed, the coppery strands of hair falling across her brow.

“There is a perfectly good bed right there.”

Flintathriël grinned and pinned her hands tightly above her head, his whole body pressed flush against hers, pushing her hard against the wall.

“Later.” His lips crashed down upon hers in a kiss, ravaging her ruby lips. Her sighs were like a melodious harmony in his ears, a song sung only for him, savoring each salacious moan escaping her lips, his heart, his na’vahleth.

Reluctantly he released her, her eyes wide and dark with desire, an impish smile playing at the corners of her mouth as his fingers moved toward his weapons belt.

The sound of buckles and daggers hitting the floor only fueled her desire, wet heat slick between her thighs. He tore her leggings from her, his hand slid down the back of her knee, bringing her leg up to wrap about his waist, doing the same with the other. She hooked her ankles behind his back, anchoring herself against him. With one hand he pinned her wrists above her head once more, his other hand gripping her ass tight, long fingers digging into the tender flesh, holding her in place. He lowered his head to burn scorching kisses along the tops of her breasts, allowing her to draw the tip of his ear between her teeth. She reveled in his groans.

“Ena bal’na em?” Flintathriël whispered against her, tightening his grip on her ass and wrists.

“Sana!” She hissed between gritted teeth, Yes! She wanted him inside her, the tip of his cock already pressing against the wetness of her folds.

“Ir ra vashti, seranna’ma ena, Flintathriël.” She was his, now and forever.

He pushed inside with one thrust, filling her, sheathed to the hilt. Flintathriël began with short sharp thrusts, increasing the tempo with each snap of his hips, until he was pumping furiously, setting a punishing pace. She met his every thrust. His grip tightened painfully as she squeezed him between her thighs, pulling him deeper. Her moans grew louder, his growls grew more chaotic and sweat beaded their bodies and their pleasured cries filled her chambers.

Sairalindë opened her eyes, wrenching her hands from his grasp, nails digging at the flesh of his shoulders, clinging to him, as she watched the lines of his tattoos and lean muscles ripple with each thrust.

She summoned magic to her finger tips, eliciting small lightning shocks across his skin that pulsed through them both. Their eyes met, his breathing was ragged, jaw clenched, an arm tightened about her waist, while his fingers dug painfully into her flesh. Her own breathing grew frantic, her body shuddering against him as she hurtled toward her peak. Electricity enveloping and thrumming violently across their skin, she pushed her aura into him, waves of magic thundered through them both.

He thrust as hard as he could, spilling inside her and buried his face in the curve of her throat, biting down on her neck. A feral growl vibrating against her throat as they careered over the edge with the intensity of their orgasm.

Flintathriël rested his forehead against hers, stifling a small laugh as they slid to the floor to regain their breath. She raised a brow in silent query as they drew apart, sweeping her mussed hair from her face.

“Very well, if you insist, you may accompany me to Gahl-Raëlön.” He exhaled shakily, still trying to regain his breath.

By the ancestors, he thought, he must really love this woman.

He laughed, and she smiled, playfully shoving him from her.

He kissed her again, dragging her to her feet and toward the bed.

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