Dragons & Ravens: (A Draev Guardians novella) Read online

  DragonS

  &

  RavenS

  Draev Guardians 1.5

  By E.E. Rawls

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Titles by E.E. Rawls

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  Curse | of

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Twin | Ravens’

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Thank You

  Get the FREE prequel bonus stories to Strayborn:

  OTHER BOOKS

  Beast of the Night

  Madness Solver in Wonderland

  Portal to Eartha

  How you can help

  About the Author

  Strayborn

  Titles by E.E. Rawls

  Earthaverse:

  Draev Guardians series

  Strayborn (1)

  Storm & Choice (0.5)

  Dragons & Ravens (1.5)

  Strayblood (2)

  Alteredverse:

  Portal to Eartha

  Beast of the Night

  Madness Solver in Wonderland

  COMING SOON:

  Frost

  Straypath (3)

  Find out when the next book is coming by following Rawls’s newsletter:

  eerawls.com/newsletter

  www.eerawls.com

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  STORM & CHOICE

  To those who never stop believing,

  even through the fiercest of storms.

  DRAGONS & RAVENS. Copyright © by E.E. Rawls 2020

  All rights reserved

  Cover art by Rachael Ritchey

  Associated logos and art are trademarks of author E.E. Rawls. Draev Guardians and all related characters and elements are trademarks of author E.E. Rawls.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN paperback 978-0-9985569-2-5

  www.eerawls.com

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  First edition, March 2020

  Curse

  of

  Fire

  ~

  Chapter 1

  The past forms me. The past binds me. It is a curse I can never be rid of.

  Eight-year-old Hercule adjusted the white cravat around his neck until his reflection in the mirror was perfection. Seated on a plush stool in his grand bedroom, he waited for Nana to enter and announce that his personal tutor had arrived and was waiting in the third private study room for him.

  Lord Renald (his father) insisted that noble persons never be seen waiting for those of lower status; let the lesser people wait for them to arrive. And so, Hercule wasn’t in the study, ready to begin the day’s lessons, but here in his bedroom.

  School. Hercule wondered what normal school would be like; a place where you interacted with other kids the same age. He had playdates with relatives and children of nobility, now and then, but it was usually when their parents were coming over for a dinner party or some fancy event at the mansion. Those aristocrat kids were... difficult. The boys had different ideas of the definition of “fun,” and the girls weren’t much better. He didn’t like the girls—they were too much like his overbearing, chatterbox of a mother.

  Badminton and such games that aristocrats played were lame. And his boy cousins’ pranks with frogs and slugs to scare the girls made him turn his nose away in disgust. Father always said a nobleman’s son should never behave like a dimwit, nor do any wasteful, silly thing. He wanted to prove to Father that he was better than them.

  So, he kept mostly to himself. Hercule’s idea of “fun” was...was...

  He frowned at himself in the mirror. “Tch! Who cares what fun is? It won’t get me anywhere in life. It has no purpose. Only dimwits waste time having fun.”

  “Come in,” Hercule replied to a knock at the door, and Nana entered.

  “Your tutor has arrived and awaits you, milord.” Nana flashed a smile. The woman who had been his nanny for years cared more about his title—the only son of House Dragonsbane—than she did about him, and how it elevated her status to be associated with one of the great Noble Houses.

  “My, I see you’re looking especially handsome today,” Nana pretended, bending down eye-level to view him in the mirror. Hercule’s golden eyes reflected back at him. “Are you ready for your birthday celebration? I hear it’s going to be quite the party!” She held her smile, waiting for his response. But when Hercule stared blankly back at her, the smile twitched.

  Nana straightened back up, holding the smile tighter. She swallowed. “I can hardly believe you’re turning eight years old. You seem so mature for your age! There’s a rumor going round that you’re to get an extra special present this year. Aren’t you excited?” she tried again.

  Hercule looked away as if she hadn’t spoken, getting up and exiting through the paneled door. He heard Nana muttering under her breath: “Miserable child. You’d think he would be happy on his birthday—happy for at least one day a year!”

  Marching down the hallway’s silk rugs on the second floor, Hercule made his way to the private study assigned for his schooling.

  The morning dragged on: Hercule recited the Multiplication Table, read aloud memorized old poems of Draeth literature, aced a quiz on geography, and so on. Until at last the tall grandfather clock in the corner bonged the noon hour and signaled the end of schooling for the day—finishing early because it was his birthday.

  The tutor, a tall, thin man with round spectacles on a pinched nose, gave him a bow as he departed. “Have a good birthday, milord. May there be many more to come. I shall look forward to this evening’s party.”

  Hercule gave a small, disinterested nod.

  The head butler appeared to him briefly and said, “Your father wishes to see you in his study.”

  Hercule’s frown tightened.

  Inside Father’s grand study room, Hercule stood before the dragon-legged desk with its chiseled scales. Father looked down his nose at him. The old portraits of their ancestors to Hercule’s right also seemed to be staring down at him.

  “I trust you will behave properly at the party this evening, yes? No running, no silly games, and no dirt on your suit? I know the other noble children can be rambunctious, but you are this House’s heir, and must always be seen as perfect.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And mind how much you eat—I refuse to have a son who gains weight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now go shower and get yourself ready.”

  Hercule had already showered but left to do so again.

  The first half of the party began early that evening, outdoors with a spread of savory appetizers and specially crafted strawberry shortcakes. The back courtyard of Dragonsbane Mansion became all decorative tables, silver utensils and painted porcelain sets, the chairs topped with red ribbons. Servants and slaves of the House were dressed in red livery with the embroidered Dragonsbane crest on the breast: a dragon, with a sword through the heart. They meandered through the crowd of lords, ladies and aristocrat youngsters, serving tea and cannoli on glittering trays.

  At least one mem
ber from each of the twelve Noble Houses was present, as was tradition for the heir of a House’s birthday. But each had their own agendas, pretending to be friendly while scheming behind backs—the ongoing game between Houses vying for power.

  ‘Why don’t they have anything better to do?’ Hercule thought while watching them, his frown twisted to one side.

  He made his way through the oppressive throng of people dressed in silks and laces and embroidered cuffs—suits and cravats stiff, clean-cut; ladies’ feet tiptoeing on impossibly high-heels beneath pleated dresses. There were a few extra puffy skirts and petticoats that made the wearers resemble walking bells.

  A few elaborate hairstyles hurt his eyes to look at, but none could compare to the ridiculously fantastical hair of Mother: a cone-spiral, three feet high, coming to a point above her head where a red rose sprouted and let its petals fan out; several carnations poked out around the sides of the cone to add complementary colors. It was a miracle she could walk, let alone stand, with that weight on her skull.

  Hercule groaned; he could hear Mother’s voice chatting away at a group, loud enough for everyone in the crowded yard to hear without trying. How she loved to stand out and brag! Especially for the young men’s attention. Most were wise enough to keep their distance and make excuses to slip away before she could corner them like prey. But one man hadn’t been so lucky: Mother was hanging on his arm, giggling and flashing flirty glances, pretending to pat his shoulder while feeling his muscles. He tried in vain to escape.

  Hercule continued his way out of the crowd and away from the courtyard, toward the open field that fringed a pond. Kids of the guests were playing croquet on the lush grass, or something like it. Mostly it looked like boys bad-mouthing and teasing girls, and the girls then chasing them and waving sticks in threats. He turned his nose up and found a seat on the pond’s edge. The water sparkled like jewels in the hot summer sun. Spotted and long-fin koi swam the waters like the imprisoned decorations that they were. He could relate to those fish right now: trapped in a pond, swimming in circles with no hope of ever living their own lives.

  Two hours into the party, and before the red-icing birthday cake was to be served, his mother Chatsalott brought Hercule to a long table stacked with a mountain of presents. He had no desire to unwrap this year’s load, but he had no choice in the matter. The gifts that guests brought him were only for show—they could care less about what Hercule actually wanted. This was an unspoken contest for who could give the future heir of Dragonsbane the most impressive gift; each House trying to outdo the other.

  Young Hercule found himself stuck in the middle of their twisted game every year, opening bags and boxes taller than himself. This year’s gifts, he vaguely noted as he tore open wrapping paper, were tall porcelain pieces, exotic birds, a new portrait of himself paired with matching tapestries, a grand supply of rare earl heavensing tea, and other items he didn’t bother keeping track of. He had to thank each guest in turn. He kept his face an expressionless mask so no one could determine which gift had amazed him more, and therefore which guest had “won” the contest. Hercule was an impartial statue, while the nobles’ gazes flicked haughtily back and forth, chins raised, approving or disapproving of each gift.

  By the time Hercule finished unboxing the last present, daylight was fading, and the first course of dinner was to be served. He felt exhausted but refused to let it show. Renald, his father, took the seat at the head of the indoors dining table, Mother on one side, Hercule on the other. He’d barely said a word to his son the whole party; that was the norm he was used to. So it was a surprise when he suddenly spoke.

  “There is one last gift for you, from your mother and I, now that you’ve grown from a toddler into a boy.”

  Mother’s face lit up and she was practically bouncing in her seat with excitement, her head of cone hair bouncing precariously with her. “Oh dearie me, yes! We’ve both agreed that you’re old enough. I received my first when I was your age.”

  Hercule cocked his head, wondering what on eartha it could be.

  “We’ll be taking you tomorrow to choose...” Father continued, after frowning at his wife’s interruption, “your own personal slave attendant.”

  Chapter 2

  The emerald leaves glistened warm and mysterious beneath the sunbeams penciling through the dense canopy. Young Marigold shielded her eyes as she blinked up at the golden arrows of light slanting down to the mossy forest floor, and then turned her attention back to the flowers that speckled the knobby root of an ancient oak. She picked one flower here, three blue bells there, a purple mushroom here...

  She moved along, barefoot, enjoying the feel of squishy moss beneath her toes. Several forest faeryn older than her were a distance back, chatting as they paused for a quick meal on their way back to the village in Magica Forest. She could faintly hear Papa’s voice. She fluttered her luna moth wings behind her back.

  Marigold hummed to herself, finding a periwinkle flower, when a sudden cry of alarm came from the group behind her.

  She looked back over a shoulder at the noise, and that was when a thick sack came down over her head, turning the world dark.

  Strong hands bound her wrists, lifted her up and balanced her on a shoulder.

  Marigold shouted for help, kicking, but running feet pounded the ground, and screams from the faeryn grew distant. The body of the shoulder she was draped over moved, stealing her away...

  When Marigold regained consciousness, the world was still blinded, and she could feel metal binds digging into the flesh of her wrists and ankles. The voices of her captors rumbled around her, a coarse joke here and a laugh there.

  ‘What’s going to happen to me?’ she thought and shuddered. The man carrying her had entered someplace crowded, judging by the squeak of doors and a new ruckus of voices. The sack covering her face slid down bit by bit as her torso bumped against the man’s shoulder, until it finally dropped off and her eyes were able to take in the scene around her.

  A grimy hall, full of vempars, came into focus: some of them armed guards, some bearing capes with a winged fang crest, all mingling and drinking as if after a hard day’s work. The sour stench permeating the air curled her nose.

  Ruthless gazes from a few of them watched her as she passed, and their fanged mouths smirked. She trembled, trying to shrink on the shoulder she helplessly dangled from. She couldn’t even flap her wings—the man had them pinned down under his arm.

  A cold draft hit her bare legs as the room was blocked from view and her captor entered a stone corridor. The solid floor dipped unevenly while he ambled down a long set of stairs. At the bottom, they passed filthy enclosures of stone and bars.

  What was this vempar planning to do with her?

  Behind every set of cell bars were people. She couldn’t make out much in the dim lantern light but gaunt bodies: either worn out, or on the verge of death. Their sunken eyes stared blankly, watching as she was carried past. A few who were livelier kicked at the floor and walls as if driven mad, their skin pale and blood vessels stark from lack of sunlight.

  Marigold recalled the stories older faeryn told of what happened to those caught by vempars: Some were put in a life of slavery, destined to grovel at the feet of a master who might end their life any moment on a whim. Others were locked in dungeon cells, and had their essence drained from them day by day to fill the vempars’ food supply, until their aged bodies could be drained no more.

  Fear coursed through her in tremors, making her teeth chatter together and limbs shake uncontrollably. She recalled Nonna’s distant words: “Beware the fanged ones who lurk in the shadows. If you wander too far from home, you risk becoming their prey.”

  But she hadn’t run off on her own! She’d been with her papá and other faeryn. She’d only wandered a few yards to pick flowers, that’s all. And yet...

  Her bottom lip trembled. What had happened to Papá?

  An alarmed gasp tore from her throat as the vempar carrying her hoisted
her off his shoulder and tossed her like a doll onto the cold floor of one of the dungeon cells. Landing hard on her bottom, Marigold scooted backwards on her hands and bare feet away from the man. His shadow cast by the glowing lamps on the walls swallowed her tiny form. He eyed her up and down, evaluating his day’s catch like a piece of meat, lips curled in a sinister grin as if he found her fear amusing.

  “I got me a fine catch!” he cackled. “Somebody’ll pay a pretty coin for you, if you’re lucky. And if not, your essence‘ll make a sweet addition to our food Reservoir.” He laughed at the look of terror she failed to hide, then bolted the barred door shut and left.

  Alone, she felt a little relief. No more fangs glistening through a twisted grin. She shivered, rubbing at her bruised arms. Every inch of her body felt bruised or scraped. She gingerly touched a painful lump on her scalp, then rubbed at her ankles where shackles continued to dig into skin, the flesh there raw and bleeding. It was the same for her wrists, but thankfully the shackles weren’t as tight since her arms were unusually thin. She didn’t know when the binds had become shackles; everything about the last day seemed foggy. She stretched out her wings and they slumped back, as if the life that made them work had been sucked away.

  Marigold guessed it must be night, with how the air became steadily colder. She tried to fall asleep on a small pile of hay in the corner. There wasn’t much else to do; she couldn’t claw her way through stone and escape.

  The floor and walls of the confined space felt frigid as ice on her bare legs and feet. She tried to fit all of herself on top the hay. Bangs and loose strands from her thick braid tangled about her face and shoulders. Rips and grime had ruined her once pretty leaf dress. She tried to tuck her freezing feet and shins up underneath the skirt, but it wasn’t helping much to keep warm.