Marrying the Dragon King

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

“For Draconia!”

The cheer echoed out across the blood-soaked battlefield, repeated over and over as more soldiers took up the victory cry.

“For Draconia!”

But Konrad did not shout and join in with his comrades.

Fellow dragons still circled above. They bellowed dragonfire, blazing their triumph in gold and orange across the cloudy grey sky. Meanwhile, Konrad, having already shifted back into his human form, stumbled through the broken and bloodied bodies.

The Draconian dead lay mixed with their enemies, the undead army on Necros, comprised of reanimated skeletons and corpses, who’d been controlled by necromancers. Konrad’s gaze flickered across the fallen Draconians.

Their freshly dead corpses lay on the ground with gaping wounds, missing limbs, and weapons jutting from their bodies.

But the necromancers’ army appeared anything but freshly dead. The corpses had started rotting long ago. The fetid stench of decay burned his throat. Bone peeked through half-decomposed flesh. And then there were the skeletons: their bones scattered and smashed everywhere he looked.

Konrad’s jaw clenched. It was Konrad’s first battle against the necromancers. He’d thought he was prepared for the reanimated skeletons and corpses.

But stories did not capture the genuine horror of facing an army of the undead. And he’d been airborne throughout the battle. He pitied his comrades who’d been down here on the ground during the actual fighting.

Konrad searched the bodies as the victory cheers continued. Flies circled in the putrid air.

We won. We fucking won. But Konrad could not celebrate.

When Konrad had been flying during the battle, he’d seen one of their infantry battalions overrun by the reanimated. He’d flown swiftly towards them to assist.

But it was too late.

The reanimated lacked any true fighting ability.

Most were unarmed, with only some carrying rusty and broken weapons they used with no actual skill.

But the undead could overwhelm. They’d tear at their enemies with teeth, fingers, and bone, ripping them apart, seeming not to feel the strikes and blows rained down upon them.

Now Konrad searched the dead, gaze flicking around as he stepped over the deceased.

He halted, fingers spasming.

Until that moment, Konrad had hoped Anton had somehow miraculously survived the swarm of undead Konrad had seen consume his battalion.

But as Konrad stared at the familiar face of his childhood friend, he could no longer believe that to be true.

A rusted sword lay buried in the middle of his chest. Anton’s pale-blue eyes stared, unseeing, at the sky.

With a broken cry, Konrad dropped to his knees in the mud by his friend’s side. “Anton.” The name fell like a prayer from his lips. “I’m so sorry.” His eyes stung.

How many times had they played together as boys with swords and shields, pretending they were grown up and old enough to fight?

How many times had they visited the pub where Anton would shyly flirt with the bartender?

How many nights had they sat talking by the fire, drinks in hand, whilst Anton talked of his dreams for after the war?

Anton’s dreams would come to nothing now.

Konrad reached out with a shaky hand and closed his friend’s eyes. He placed his fingers on top of Anton’s.

Konrad closed his own eyes. “Rest, my friend. You’ve served Draconia well.” His throat tightened. He could barely get the words out. “Thank you for your friendship. I will miss it.”

They’d burn the bodies with dragonfire. He would personally see to the burial of Anton’s bones. It was the least he could do for his friend now.

“I’ll write to your parents and your sister. I’ll let them know how you fought bravely for your kingdom.” He squeezed Anton’s icy hand.

Anton squeezed back.

Konrad’s eyes snapped open. Pale-blue eyes stared straight at him.

“Anton?” Konrad’s lips twitched into a smile. “You’re alive? I can’t believe you’re alive!” Then he frowned. Because it wasn’t possible. A sword jutted from his chest. “Anton?”

Anton lurched, sitting upright. Konrad gaped, stumbling to his feet.

Unsteadily, with jerky movements, Anton stood. He reached for the sword buried in his chest. His fingers wrapped around the hilt. With a croaking groan, he yanked the blade free. Red coated the metal.

Blood. Anton’s blood.

Anton pointed the bloody sword straight at Konrad.

Konrad took several steps back. Groans sounded around him. He could hear shuffling. He glanced around. The Draconian dead had started to rise, their movements jolting and unnatural.

Konrad shook his head, looking to his childhood friend once more. “Anton … I—”

Anton lunged.

Konrad jumped to the side, dodging the blade. He grabbed at a discarded sword on the ground. “Anton! It’s me. Konrad!”

But there was no recognition in those pale-blue eyes.

With a garbled, inhuman cry, Anton drove forward again, blade aimed for Konrad’s torso. But Konrad easily parried the clumsy attack. Anton staggered. He lunged once more.

“Anton, stop! Please!” Konrad jumped to the side, out of the way of the blade. “You know me! I’m your friend. It’s me! Konrad!”

Over the years, Anton and Konrad had sparred. Many times. Konrad knew his friend’s attacks and defences by heart. But now, Anton lacked his usual skill. He swung wildly, like an untrained youth holding a blade for the first time.

All around, Konrad could hear yells and cries as the dead rose and fought the living. A short distance away, dragonfire lit the battlefield.

“Anton! Don’t do this! Please,” Konrad begged. “We’ve been friends since boyhood. Remember?”

But Anton just swung his sword again. And again. And again.

Konrad dodged and parried blow after blow. “Anton, listen to me!” But there seemed to be no talking to Anton.

He’s gone … I have to stop him.

Eyes burning, Konrad gritted his teeth and lunged. He shoved the sword through Anton’s gut. Anton’s eyes widened.

Konrad yanked his blade free. Anton stared at the sluggish blood dripping from his wound. Then he lifted his gaze, roared, and hefted his sword.

Konrad sidestepped the attack. He swung. His sword severed bone, muscle, and flesh. Anton’s sword arm fell to the ground.

But Anton just ran at Konrad, without a weapon and missing one arm.

“Anton. Stop!” Konrad shouted. He lifted his sword. He brought it down. Over and over. But if Anton felt the blows, he didn’t show it. And he didn’t stop attacking.

So Konrad kept hacking at Anton, screaming as he struck repeatedly, until Anton was too dismembered to continue fighting.

Finally, Konrad stood shaking, puffing. His cheeks were soaked, with tears or his friend’s blood, he could not tell. His grip on the handle of the sword was slippery.

All around, the fields burned as dragons destroyed the undead Draconians. Weapons still clanged as the Draconian army battled their reanimated comrades.

Then he saw them. On horseback on a hill a short distance away, hiding amongst trees, probably about twenty necromancers.

He’d thought they’d killed all the necromancers controlling their undead army.

They must have missed these, who’d regrouped and then caused the Draconian army to rise and fight one more time.

“There!” Konrad shouted and pointed. But another dragon had already spotted them. She flew straight at them.

Something clutched at Konrad’s ankle. He looked down. Anton’s hand gripped his foot. Fingers delved beneath the bottom of his trousers, and nails scratched and dug into his skin.

Konrad reached down, grabbed the hand, and flung it away with a shout. He looked at Anton’s decapitated head. Anton’s pale-blue eyes stared back at him.

Dragons attacked the necromancers on the hillside, setting it ablaze. Konrad wasn’t certain if they’d been killed or if their focus had been disrupted. But all around, the corpses collapsed, returning to death once more.

Anton’s face grew slack. His eyes remained open, but they grew unfocused.

Konrad kept staring, body tense, perhaps waiting for Anton to rise again. Finally, he let the sword fall from his fingers. Konrad dropped to his knees.

For several moments, he didn’t move. Then he let out a scream that went on and on. It came from the very deepest, darkest part of his soul. Then, when he was too hoarse to shout, he wept.

No one deserved a death like Anton’s. No one should ever be brought back to fight those who had been their comrades and friends in life.

And no one should have to hack their friend to bloody pieces.

Konrad leaned forward. He dug his fingers into the soil soaked with blood. His tears fell to the dirt as he wept on and on.

Fuck the necromancers! They pervert the ways of death. They have no morals. No code. They are evil. Fucking. Vile. Monsters.

When his grandmother, the dragon queen, started the war, it had never been about wiping the necromancers from the earth. But if Konrad had one goal for the war, it would be to destroy and kill the necromancers. Every last fucking one of them.