The First Of The Dragon Kings

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
Syrilin, the Dragon King, faces against the forces of the Assarei Empire, after a long war of independence. The Dragon King is vastly outnumbered, but he has a weapon that the Assarei could only dream of.

Submitted: November 01, 2011

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Submitted: November 01, 2011




Syrillin watched as the forces of the Empire took their formations on the field across from him. The Assarei had ruled the lands of the March for hundreds of years, and only now were they beginning to weaken. The Dragon King had preyed on their weakness like a starving wolf, growing and swelling in strength from the first day they began to withdraw their troops. Syrillin was tall and lean, with a fevered expression made all the more insidious by the gleam in his cold, turqoise eyes. The Assarei still outnumbered him nearly ten to one, but they had their backs to the surging wrath of the Green River. Slowly, he slid his sword from it's sheath; a single edged sabre, with a gold-cast dragon coiling and roaring from the crossguard to the pommel. The Wyrmsword. He whistled loudly, and as one, his five thousand spearmen charged forth. The Assarei would be lucky to see them, for they would be facing into the wrath of the evening sun. Syrillin emitted a strange, unnatural growl that swelled over the field, as the Assarei formed a wall of spears and shields. And as one, five dragons burst from the cover of the clouds, and began to tear the lines of the Empire apart.

The Dragon King broke into a run, unnaturally fast, far faster then even his own troops. A squad of bowmen were taking aim to his left, and Syrillin whistled in their direction. A sinewy, red wyvern with eyes as dark as the bowels of hell, spiralled into the archers. It's barbed tail slashed through armour and bone, and soon nearly a hundred Assarei were los in a whirl of blood and flame. Syrillin was so close to the braced spearmen, close enough to see the fear and the horror in their eyes. He stopped, and stretched his arms out. A dozen scores of arrows immediately took flight, whistling at him, but they became swallowed up in hellfire as a purple skinned dragon  obliterated them at Syrillin's will. He could hear their voices whispering in the back of his mind, five coarse roars hiding only malice and hunger. He called them back to him, and the five landed around him with a ground shaking thump. Each dragon was only ten feet long, but their scales were stronger than steel, their teeth were sharper than obsidian, and their fires could melt anything in their path. The Assarei commander made a crushing error. Tired of Syrillin's games, he ordered his men to charge.

Syrillin did not move as the bursts of brick-red fire jetted past him. Entire columns of spearmen became stripped of flesh and life, but the Assarei had men to waste. The Dragon King waited until his army smashed into the right flank of the larger army, before charging headlong into the enemy lines. He was a blur, his sword visible as nothing more than a stream of silver light trailing after his arm. He was far too fast for the Assarei to handle. As one spearmen levelled a spear to gut him, he rolled over it, and cleaved through the man's thick neck. His helmetted head fell to the ground with a metallic clang. The dragons took to the air with massive wing-beats, buffeting the troops on the ground with the force. Syrilling slid to one side as his next opponent became engulfed in flames. The stench of burning flesh overwhelmed the stink of refuse and blood. The mid-summer grass was dry and short, and caught alight with ease.

Syrillin outpaced even the flames, hewing and cutting down the Assarei with impossible agility. A step to the left, a quick whirl, a flick of his wrist, a slow sweep, and four less Assarei would be returning to their families. The Dragon King cared nothing for their loss; he was in his element, his fervent visage slick with blood. The bitter, coppery taste was like honey on his lips. One spearman struck at him, but he ducked beneath, and slashed across his thighs. The Assarei warrior doubled over, luckily avoiding the ball of roaring fire shooting towards him. The red flames careened into the two men behind him, engulfing them both in a shrieking mass of roating meat. Syrillin leapt through the flames, too fast for them to catch on his leather armour. He disarmed another, and rammed the spear through his throat. A emerald dragon stooped and crashed through lines of Assarei, ignoring their spears and arrows as though they were nothing but flies. A score of men were knocked into the air. With teeth and claws, it ripped and devoured, tearing away clumps of glistening red flesh half the size of a man.

On the right flank, Syrillin could see his five thousand were struggling. He called upon the tumult of roaring voices in his head, and ordered two of his dragons to aid them. They did so with horrifying ferocity. The Assarei turned away from the sunlight, only to be faced with the deep red light of pure hellfire. The Dragon King kicked a man in the chest, before dancing behind him and drawing the Wyrmsword across his throat. Everywhere the Assarei were being stung with the flames of dragons, the hunger of monstosities, and the seeming invulnerability of Syrillin. Foolishly, the left flank began to turn away, and the trickle of fear turned into a flood, a full-blown rout. The dragons could sense Syrillin's rage, and he was so blood drunk he could not stop himself from giving chase.

Now, the Assarei did not even see him coming. All they would hear was the swish of steel passing through empty air, before the Wyrmsword hammered them down and tore them from reality. The bellowing and triumphant roar of his dragons filled the sky as the Assarei became trapped between them and the Green River. The right flank tried to flee, but the two dragons there massacred them as they ran. The battlefield was filled with pockets of rapidly spreading wildfire as the dragons breath set the ground alight. Syrillins own troops would have to retreat, he noticed with regret. They would have to miss out. The Dragon King roared and bared his teeth, all logic and humanity lost in the adrenaline and the rush of battle. His dragons were unstoppable, and near starving. He had not fed them for days, just to prepare them for feasting on the Assarei. The Green River played it's part; it was too fast flowing and powerful for the armoured spearmen to have any chance of swimming across. Hundreds drowned, just to escape Syrillin and the wrath of his dragons.

The Dragon King noticed one of those who remained. His tall, plumed helmet and immaculate armour marked him immediately as the commander of the Assarei. The governor of his homeland, the March. He sprinted over, leaving his dragons to finish off the routing army. The commander saw him coming easily, and dropped behind his shield. Syriilin leapt, and flipped over the shield. The Wyrmsword caught on the commander's plumes, and wrenched the helmet off. Syrillin was too close and too fast for a spear to be of any use, so the governor of the March whipped a longsword from it's sheath. The collided with a clang of steel on steel, but Syrillin moved faster. He stepped out of range, darting back in to test his opponent's reflexes. Soon enough, he saw an opening. He fiented a open slash at the governor's now bare head, and when the Assarei reacted, the Dragon king hammered the dagger like pommel of the Wyrmsword into his gut. Wrenching the barbed end loose, he stepped back to cleave the commander's head from his shoulders. He did not fail in that, but the governor of the March reacted as well. Before the darkness took him, he stabbed blindly, and Syrillin had been too blood drunk to witness it.

He stared at the gaping wound between his ribs in disbelief. He tried to call for help, but the sword had pierced a lung, and he struggled to even draw breath. Only a few thousand of the Assarei remained, but he would not live to see them fall. He would not live to see his work completed, and the March united. As the adrenaline faded away, he felt the sear of agony pump through his chest. He fell to his knees, and far above him, his dragons screeched and roared. Their thoughts slipped away from him one by one, until even his own abandoned him. Syrillin, the first of the Dragon Kings, collapsed onto the bloody and burning field. The Assarei had been crushed, but the man who had crushed them lay dead on the field of victory. The future of the March was far from certain.

© Copyright 2018 Daniel The Golden. All rights reserved.

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