The Lost Dragonrider of Lamar
Prologue
The bitter stench of burning sap filled Tel Roan’s nostrils as he crested the rise, each step crunching on charred bark.
Through his bond with Ingamar, he tasted a metallic tang of energy on the air.
A telltale signature of a Hyalite preparing to pierce the veil.
His dragon’s consciousness brushed against his own, a wordless warning thrumming through their shared connection.
Tel raised his gauntleted hand, golden eyes narrowing to predatory slits as he signaled his Honor Guard to hold their position.
The firestorm raged ahead, its flames dancing among the trees with unnaturally vibrant colors as supernatural power leaked through from the god’s realm.
Lightning burst through the thunderhead above in impossible patterns, a promise from the eight gods that one of them was attempting to influence events in their world.
Hyalites, the very essence of a god’s power, would be forced through the veil into Sataran, manifesting as a mystic orb.
The power it contained would bring rise to a new dragonrider.
For his King and country, Tel Roan and his dragon were here to ensure that next rider would be bound to the Kingdom of Lamar. Only…
Where is the Nordraven Army?
“There should be someone here to challenge us,” he whispered, the thought echoing simultaneously through to Ingamar. The great golden dragon rotated overhead, his scales reflecting the strange light of the divine storm.
Just then, Gavon’s voice carried up from below the rise, “Sir?” The Knight of the Vermillion Keep stood ready for his orders, his ceremonial armor gleaming despite the ash that now filled the air.
Tel stood head and shoulders taller than the average-sized Knight.
Having risen to rank of Paragon to the Vermillion Keep, Tel’s physical prowess was what every soldier expected from their leadership, a thick chest, broad shoulders, proud chin, and a regal air about him that made his every move seem practiced and thought through.
Since becoming a dragonrider, he looked more elf than human.
His golden eyes were flecked with green, his features slightly more angular, like the gods that produced them in their likeness.
With his supernatural brismil plate armor and matching sword, he gained added strength, protection, and speed.
Tel Roan’s reputation was legendary even beyond the Keeps of Lamar.
“What news of the scouting report? Where is the enemy army?” Gavon asked.
Tel’s fingers brushed the pommel of Stormbreaker in its scabbard, feeling the sword’s eagerness to be drawn. Even sheathed, the brismil blade radiated a cold that cut through the nearby firestorm’s heat. “They’re not here.”
“Sir? This is the right firestorm, is it not?”
Tel reached through his bond again, letting Ingamar’s keen senses wash over him.
The dragon’s vision pierced the smoke to locate the ribbons of divine energy rippling through the flames.
The veil between the god’s realm and their world was thinning, an indicator that this storm was no ordinary firestorm.
“Yes,” Tel said, certainty hardening his voice.
“This is the storm that will produce the Hyalite I foresaw. It will contain one of the three most powerful god’s abilities.
The rider it produces could swing the balance in Lamar’s favor. ”
“Then we are the first here…” Gavon said. “We could end this war once and for all. Lamar could finally control the Everburning Forest. Nordraven would never create another enemy rider again.” Gavon’s enthusiasm couldn’t mask the tremor of awe in his voice.
Tel’s jaw tightened, “Something isn’t right. At least one of Nordraven’s Kings should be here with an army and a dragonrider.” His hand clenched Stormbreaker’s hilt. “Hyalites don’t go uncontested. Especially not an orb containing the strongest essence of the gods we’ve seen in a century.”
Tel felt Ingamar’s muscles bunch as the dragon banked through a column of smoke. The veil between worlds was growing thinner. Tel could feel it in his bones, in the way his brismil armor hummed against his skin. The ancient dragon scale that formed his brismil armor sang with remembered power.
“Send for Venrick,” Tel commanded, already moving toward the heart of the storm.
Gavon’s voice carried a note of distaste. “Not your Honor Guard? Are you sure you want the half-breed?”
Tel turned, his eyes flashing with a dangerous light. “Question another of my orders and you’ll be holding a spear in the front line, taking orders from a squad leader well beneath your rank.”
“Summoning the half-breed, Sir.” Gavon answered through tight lips.
“And Gavon,” Tel’s voice stopped the Knight before he could retreat. “Take the Honor Guard with you when you return to the troops. Disperse yourselves among the flanks and rear. Be ready for an ambush. Nordraven could be planning to block us from returning to Astral City.”
As Gavon’s armored footsteps faded, Tel strode into the firestorm.
His brismil armor was forged from dragon magic, naturally turning aside any effects of the fire’s heat.
Lightning flashed overhead as the veil stretched paper-thin, ready to tear.
At any moment, one of the gods would send down their gift: the Hyalite orb containing the essence of divine power.
The air crackled as a bolt of lightning tore through the firestorm, striking the ground with a thunderous impact that Tel felt deep within his bones. Ingamar recognized it and shared in the moment when the boundary between mortal and divine realms grew gossamer-thin.
In the smoking crater, a blue light pulsed like a newly formed star.
The Hyalite lay nestled in a bed of white-hot coals, its rough-hewn surface catching the storm’s light in ways that hurt Tel’s eyes to look at.
Celestial power radiated from it in waves that made his teeth ache and set the scales of his brismil armor humming in a harmonic response he had no control over.
“The Hyalite,” Tel breathed, disbelief coloring his words. No challenger had appeared to contest this prize.
The snapping of a branch split through the inferno, sharpening Tel’s senses to a razor’s edge. “Venrick,” he called, expecting his Squire’s familiar presence.
Instead, he found himself facing a mountain of blue-skinned muscle and primal rage. The Morsythian towered fifteen feet tall, its elongated ivory tusks gleaming in the light of the flame. Red eyes blazed with unnatural intellect, and black tribal tattoos writhed across its arms like living shadows.
“Morsythian,” Tel named it, his tactical mind already cataloguing the wrongness of its presence.
These northern orcs weren’t known for their interest in magical artifacts.
They were not agents of Nordraven, merely an independent tribe that remained neutral in the war.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, more to himself than the foreign creature.
Their kind couldn’t even channel magic. Yet something about this one made Ingamar’s consciousness recoil.
Tel extended his arm, calling Stormbreaker into being.
The brismil blade materialized in a cascade of smoke and shadows, its dark blue surface drinking in the surrounding light.
Power radiated through the weapon, a residual effect drawn from its origin as a dragon claw.
The sword was massive, four hands thick and six feet long.
Despite the size, it felt perfectly balanced in Tel’s grip, like an extension of his body.
The Morsythian charged with a roar that shook dead limbs from burning trees.
Tel leapt aside, his brismil-enhanced muscles carrying him an impossible distance.
His fingers brushed the Hyalite’s surface.
A divine energy exploded through him. The world spun; Stormbreaker vanished in a trail of vapor.
Though the sword was not gone. He knew it would reappear in that instant, sheathed in the scabbard attached to Ingamar’s saddle.
As long as he wore the brismil scale armor, all he needed to summon Stormbreaker was to will it to appear in his hand.
Tel’s eyes narrowed as he rolled to his feet and studied his opponent.
The amulet around the Morsythian’s neck was out of place.
It held no sigil or crest from any Kingdom in Sataran.
It glowed with an eerie crimson light that felt wrong in ways Tel’s magical senses couldn’t quite define.
No ordinary trinket could grant a savage the power to challenge a Paragon of the Vermillion Keep, let alone a dragonrider.
The orc moved with impossible speed, snatching the Hyalite in one massive hand.
Tel pursued, drawing on his bond with Ingamar to push his enhanced abilities to their limit.
Trees shattered around him as he vaulted through the burning canopy, twisting in mid-air to land between the Morsythian and escape.
Stormbreaker sang as Tel struck, expecting to taste flesh, but deflected by that impossible crimson light. The amulet flared brighter, and Tel felt his magical senses twist sideways, his perfect control over the brismil blade suddenly uncertain.
Their battle escalated, each exchange revealing more impossibilities.
The Morsythian’s strength matched Tel’s.
The crimson amulet continuing to warp the orc’s natural flow of magical energy.
Only when Tel employed his centuries of tactical training, feinting with one hand while manifesting Stormbreaker in the other, did he finally gain advantage.
The blade materialized through the orc’s arm at the elbow, severing it in a spray of dark blood. The Hyalite tumbled free, and Tel snatched it from the air, feeling divine power pulse against his palms even through his armor.