Desperate Pawns (Roland Of The High Crags Book 3)

Book summary

In the epic saga "Desperate Pawns," Roland and Ursala confront their destinies in a world torn by the endless war between Dragonkind and Humankind. As renegades from both sides, they face dire prophecies and the looming question: can the course of fate be altered? This tale weaves a complex narrative of rebellion, destiny, and the hope for change, challenging the immutable truths of gods and prophecies.

Excerpt from Desperate Pawns (Roland Of The High Crags Book 3)

The night air crackled with dangerous electricity and otherworldly power. In the darkness, through the swirling fingers of drifting fog, I could see the blazing aura of power approaching me, glowing brightly through the rolling curtains of whispery whiteness.

Dragon witch.

Dragon horror.

From the Nunnery of Hahnoor.

Know, Pilgrim, all living creatures’ glow within and without the Netherworld with an aura distinctly their own. If one has the Gift of the Blood, as old sages describe those who have the Inner Eye of a wizard or witch, one can see the full spectrum of auras all around us as easily as observing and feeling the warm rays of the sun.

The more gifted with Netherworld powers one has, the more powerful is one’s Inner Eye. One can, if so gifted, see the swirling mass of colours each aura contains. One can read the colour of the creature’s emotions, tell what species each creature may be, what sex. Even from what clan they were born in.

The aura of a Great Dragon—those creatures who shared this world with Humanity and were our greatest rivals—was the same yet different for each clan. For each individual. The aura of a Dragon from the Clan Hartooth differed greatly from that of one from the Clan Marouth. Same were the similarities—yet the differences—between individual Humans. I could tell who might be from the Kingdom of Vik or the individual nomadic rider of a desert TurloMan.

Auras—all auras—glow day and night, and if one has the sight to peer into the Netherworld, one has the ability to see the auras. This night, deep in the forests far from any hamlet or village, sitting in the saddle of my Huygens bred Great Wing, Cedric, I felt and saw the approaching Dragon aura of a Hahnoor nun moving methodically through the glowing background of the living forest. She moved brazenly. Making no effort to mask her presence. An immensely powerful creature confident in her power and superiority over a lowly Bretan warrior-monk and meagre wizard that I was.

Leaping from Cedric’s high saddle, I hastily unsheathed the curved Dragon scimitar, the odd bronze-coloured blade named Helsvingar, and half turned to glance at my old friend.

“Leave, Cedric. Return to the caves and warn the others. I will be here on the morrow when you return.”

The giant black and red war bird, towering a good ten hands over my head, turned his beaked head to one side and eyed me closely. The hawk-like creature, a Great Wing of magnificent strength and agility, and I had fought all that was Evil whenever we encountered it. Human or Dragon, it did not matter. We fought all Evil which confronted and wished to savagely devour the weak and the poor, the frail and the defenceless. As the vows of a Bretan warrior-monk decreed we must do. Neither servant nor master, Cedric was an equal—a friend who remained with me and fought with me no matter what odds faced us. In him this night I could sense his unwillingness to leave my side. He could sense the power and strength of the approaching Dragon witch. He knew in the coming fight my wizardry powers would be sorely lacking. Yet leave he had to. To warn the others of a Hahnoor witch hunting in the woods for her prey was far more important than to stay and face possible destruction.

“Leave, old friend. Leave now while you have a chance and warn the others.”

In the blackness a dozen yards away came the sound of trees being uprooted and hurled to one side violently. The roar increased as I turned and waved at my old friend to flee. Lowering its hooked beaked head at me, it screeched an angry retort before leaping into the night, stretching out powerful wings, and rocketing upwards into the blackness.

In my mind, I heard the sound of a woMan laughing.

An arrogant, playful snarl of a creature who relished inflicting pain.

And then I heard her voice.

Come here, my feathered wonder! Return to your master’s side so you may die with him. Escape you shall not this night, mighty Great Wing!

Turning and looking up, my Inner Eye saw the jagged slash of corporeal energy cut through the blackness like a gigantic whip and wrap its sparking lightning energy around Cedric’s legs. With a jerk, Cedric was yanked to a halt in midair and began to slowly be dragged back toward the clearing I stood in. Screeching in fury, the black Great Wing fought mightily to free himself. He twisted and turned in the air, his wings working furiously to overcome his captor. But to no avail.

Anger welled up within me. A fury which sometimes grips me and rips from me all the training, all the years of Bretan patience and teachings which have been ingrained into me. From out of this blinding fury comes raw power. Power which—when channelled into my blood and the Netherworld gifts—seems to increase the limited magic I comMand. Screaming in rage, I threw up my free hand, palm outward, and made the gesture as if I was gripping the hissing, sparkling lightning bolt which gripped my friend. With a violent effort, I closed the fingers of my hand into a fist and then yanked it savagely to one side.

I felt the power of the witch’s lightning burning my hand. I felt the strain of it as I ripped it away from Cedric’s legs. In my mind, I heard the witch scream in fury as my old friend, suddenly free, screeched his delight in the blackness of the night and disappeared into the inky void entirely.

Augh! Monk! You will die a long and horrible death for that insult! You, a mere Human, think your magic is greater than mine? I have hunted for you for weeks, Roland of the High Crags. Hunted for you and that whelp of a child called Ursala!

I smiled and nodded. Gripping the ancient blade firmly, I faced the approaching horror and laughed.

“I am here, witch. I am here.”

There was no chance my Bretan wizardry could withstand the onslaught of Hahnoor witchcraft. Netherworld power—that infinite energy that comes out of the dark world which lies neither here nor in the supernatural—is the source of the power wizards and witches possess. With each gifted with the blood, the power varies. The nuns of Hahnoor were the most powerful of all. Legend said no Human wizard nor witch could equal the power dark Dragon gods bequeathed to their cherished servants. The fight would be short and quickly decided. I knew my time allotted to me in the Outer Realms, this world we call reality, had come to its end.

But I was Bretan.

A warrior-monk first in training. I took vows to face and confront Evil. Evil in all its forms—and never back down. Countless times I faced overwhelming odds and somehow survived. Some fights I won. Some I lost. Yet I lived. I survived to fight again. This fight would be no different. Bretan wizardry facing Dragon Hahnoor witchcraft. My training… my powers… my luck would avail me not. By all reckoning, I should die this night. But if I did, I was determined to die a Bretan warrior-monk. I would die confronting Evil.

Oh, silly child! You hope that a miracle will happen and something from out of the blue will save you? You think a mere sword will deliver you from your destiny’s fate? Your ancient blade is powerful, monk. But only in the hands of a master who knows how to control its awesome strength. You, dear Roland… you are just a skilled swordsMan. Like times before, you wield the blade like no mortal should. But you are not the wizard who can unlock its true powers. Helsvingar will not save you tonight!

Helsvingar.

I lifted the curved steel in my hand and gazed at the odd-coloured blade. Hammered steel of the ancients. Rumoured to be forged by the gods themselves. Odd in its bronze colour. Tonight, it seemed to glow in a dull sheen, the light blue writing of the ancients running down the full length of the blade blurring. Moving—yet not moving. Helsvingar, in the Dragon tongue, translated into ‘Killer of All Evil.’ Legend had it as something more than just a blade. Legend said that someday the wielder of this blade would come who could unleash all its power. A power so terrible the worlds, both in the Outer Realms and in the Netherworld, would be forever changed.

Apparently, in past lives, I had possessed this blade often. It was my destiny. Yet destiny was but a vague disturbance in the River of Time. In the Netherworld, all things alive flowed in the River of Time. This river stretched backward into the dimmest reaches of the dawn of both Dragon and Mankind. It flowed into infinity. It never ended. From here, concepts like destiny and fate were but temporary measures. The currents within the river churned and twisted in endless eddies and patterns. These changes constantly altering and reforming one’s destiny.

The witch appeared from out of the fog draped in a dark cloak that seemed to shimmer and sparkle in its darkness. A hood covered her face. But she moved with a sensual animal grace almost hypnotic to watch. Yet if she was truly from Hahnoor, she would possess this sensual quality about her that would be both deadly attractive and decidedly menacing.

Like a beautiful multi-coloured viper gliding through lush verdant grass.

“I am called Sheba. Priestess of the Hartooth baron’s private sanctuary. I have been sent by the baron. I have been instructed by him to extract all the secrets you possess concerning the child before I kill you. It will be a long and painful process, monk. One I will take much pleasure in, I assure you.”

A hand shot out from underneath a billowing robe, and she pointed a long, sculptured finger at me. From the tip of the finger came a massive bolt of lightning! Throwing a hand up, I barely had time to create a defensive shield which deflected the bolt away. The blinding bolt glanced off the shield like raindrops ricocheting off rock and roared past me. Trees exploded behind me and burst into flames as I staggered back from the powerful blow.

But in my sword hand, I felt Helsvingar begin to vibrate ever so slightly. I started to glance at it, but Sheba brought up both hands to aim toward me. Leaping to one side, I rolled onto a shoulder, sliding just underneath a white cloud of blinding flame that passed over me, and came to my feet in one swift motion.

Sheba lifted her head and laughed. A sound of amused pleasure at my useless antics.

“You move swiftly for a Human, monk. But you cannot run from me. You cannot run from your destiny. Tonight, I will destroy you. As your fate decrees. As the god’s deMand.”

She whipped her hand like the tip of a leather whip, and out flew four bright green coils of massive energy. A Dragon witch’s trick I had heard about but never before witnessed. The coils of energy were like the iron rings barrel-makers placed around freshly constructed wooden barrels. They were meant to swirl around me, pin my arms and legs tightly together, and then coil around my chest and begin the process of squeezing the life out of me.