The Dragonblade Forge: Book I

Edexa had lost all concept of time, doing nothing but eating the meager rations given him by the Raulkumi Jhielors who changed their shift every six hours, trading footsteps back and forth so methodical and so often that he barely noticed the subtle changes in their rose and indigo scales. Every face looked the same as he peeked at them through the bars, an unkempt shagging beard concealing his disdain. The tones of voice, which Edexa once found so melodic, now became grating discord – the perfect metaphor to this inhumanity. At least they didn’t leave him naked. They weren’t the fine silks he was used to, but they did keep him warm and dry, despite making him look like a common plebian in the streets. He didn’t have to worry about his launders, either. They were washed on Ventiphor – week’s end – and the following Oendiphor – midweek. All prisoners were given four changes of the same dreadfully drab outfit: Fur breeches, a matching vest, and fur gauntlets and gloves to help stave off this Amnerexian chill. It was either that or the perpetual dampness that seemed to hang in the air like a thick, poisonous fog. It crept down the walls at night, splattering upon Edexa’s forehead while he tried in vain to sleep under the fur throw he’d been given upon arrival. This only proved to saturate the furs in ick. He had to sleep sitting up in the corner of his cell near the small clay brazier placed there so he wouldn’t freeze. Like all people of the forests, even The Deathbringer hated the cold. He hated being alone even more. Solitary wasn’t kind to him at all – mentally or physically. Despite being let out for most of the morning to do his chores, the once muscular warrior was unable to practice his martial forms thanks to the shackles on his ankles, and therefore lost tone. Being in the dark for the last half of the eighteen-hour days was destroying his sight. The one good eye he had left was starting to cloud with an ashen film. Having very little light, he had to squint when reading the tally marks on the walls. He had to do something to maintain some ground in his mind. One…two…three…four…five…six…. Edexa counted each square he carved into the stone next to his “bed.” One week – one line. When the moon changed its phase, Edexa slashed a line diagonal through the square, symbolizing the end of each month. The last square was blank. The Eye of Ice would rise tonight. The thought brought on images of Black Method – the white dragon of Nolskum Edexa charged with the upbringing of his son while he was locked in the Axyium Towers. Six months in this place only pushed him further into the maw of madness. Why hadn’t Cresantile answered his prayers? Why hadn’t she mated with him so he could father a truly divine son? All Edexa wanted was a son with a more noble blood than even his own. Was that so much to ask? After Araxious’s birth on the twenty-eighth day of Diamrex – his beloved Junix died in her sleep. Some blamed the servants for ill-prepared food that caused her liver to explode, thus spreading corrosion to all her organs. Some blamed Axym’s Drollocine, Khaster Moi, and petitioned for his execution. Edexa himself even addressed the crowds of people with tears in his eyes, as he blamed the local Brood of gang rape and dismemberment. Obviously, they turned their backs on him. It was the first time the word ‘Mad’ was used in public records. The people would believe anything those Kriituns passed around. Those slimy pamphlets were a scourge on his soul. And that’s exactly as he wanted it, equal parts grieving husband and martyred king. A scowl painted the Mad King’s face. It morphed into a rusted, bloody smile. The Eye of Ice was rising slowly to its zenith. Edexa let the periwinkle glow wash his face and force his eyes shut with a palpable ecstasy. “Happy Birthday to Me. Happy Birthday to Me…” He hummed the rest of the song to himself. It truly was his birthday – albeit it an unnatural one. The day Junix’s body went “missing” was the happiest day of his life. He was free! The thought of being free bought a deliciously salty quiver down his spine. He glared at the last guard as he passed his cell to the Superior Jhielor. “I shann’t be here in the morning, Kinnothe. I suggest you remember me as I am now.” The guard rolled his eyes, visibly tired of this charade. “Oh? And how’s that?” Kinnothe had heard this same line, spoken in the same maniacal tone, every Last Pass for the last six months. For some unknown reason, Edexa only said this on the day of Thotiphor – the day that marked the end of the working grind. “A…Pah-can-thee-an…” Edexa drawled out each piece of the word Pacanthian as if he were a jester telling the greatest joke ever written, followed by a deep laugh that had some…oddfellow quality to it. “Tell it to the Hormese, you loon.” Kinnothe snorted, his features overtly derisive. “Perhaps they’ll be smart enough to hoof the rest of the insanity out of your corpse!” The Superior turned on his heel, his rose armor smooth and deadly in the soft yellow mute of the torches. Striding out the door, he turned his head over his shoulder. “Good day to you.”