Legend of the dragon(or something like this)

Visit sharad da's blog>>> sharadsm.blogspot.com.
This is a story by him. I post the later chapters if he writes any more.....
Chapter 1: The Burning Castle

“Brevelia. A rebel fortress during the Dark Years, this prosperous village, located in the Blue Hills of Vesma, is most famous for the Brevelia School of Magic, started 53 S.A. by the wizard Alumanthil…”
-- Imperial Almanac, Vol. III

The fortress was on fire. The black smoke partially obscured the vicious wyverns circling overhead. The black-clad warriors had over-run the village and breached the castle’s magical defenses. The sound of battle and death hurtled in the air. In the north tower Drixel had just finished stuffing his backpack with whatever possessions of his he could find. He was a second-year student at the Brevelia School of Magic. Or at least I was, thought Drixel, still disorientated by this surprise attack on the school. It was the last day of school before the summer holidays, but celebration had turned into despair when the dark figures of the wyverns dropped out from the sky. These people were the Blackhand, a ruthless and mysterious organisation, led by Tsangtor, the wickedest Dark magician of the Second Age. As Drixel shot out of the dormitory doors, he almost collided with Viola, a girl in his year, who was clutching her ivory staff. She grabbed Drixel by the crook of his arm and made off for the stairwell. “Professor Hector’s told everyone to evacuate! Let’s move!” she cried as they thundered down the marble stairs. Nice to see you too, he thought. Drixel wondered where his other best friend Alex was. Knowing him, he’s probably decapitating Blackhands, he thought giddily.
As they descended, the yells, shrieks and explosions sounded clearer. When they arrived at the Main Hall, the scene that greeted Drixel’s eyes was one of utter chaos. The students, in their distinctive grey robes, were busy commandeering broomsticks and carpets, fleeing the castle. At the Great Door, the teachers were flinging hex after desperate hex. Taking the lead was a tall, elderly wizard clad in silvery blue – Hercule Hector, the Headmaster.
Without pause, Viola steered Drixel to the back door. From there, they made a dash for the stables, where they found Jeharra anxiously pawing the ground. Jeharra was Viola’s pegasus. After they had both seated themselves, Viola in front and Drixel clutching her waist, Viola dug her heels into her flank. With a shrill neigh, Jeharra broke into a gallop and then leaped into the sky. Just as it seemed that she was going to succumb to gravity, she unfolded her wings and powered her way into the sky. I’ll never get used to this, contemplated Drixel.
Viola expertly steered the pegasus, but the wyverns had spotted them. Some of the Blackhands gave chase and let loose a volley of arrows. Jeharra nimbly dodged them, but one of them sank into Viola’s arm. She shrieked in pain and Drixel quickly took the reins as Viola’s arm began oozing blood. Viola bit her lip, clasped the arrow stem and gave it a mighty wrench. As the arrowhead emerged, even more blood gushed out. Viola had gone pale and seemed ready to faint. “I…just have to…reach…,” she muttered, but before she could finish speaking she began to sway, almost unconscious. “No, Vi,” said Drixel, “I’ll get us out of here!” But Viola had swayed just too far and before Drixel could grasp her firmly she had toppled over the right. Drixel lunged for the hem of her robe, but was left fisting the air. He considered diving for her but then he saw the gruesome wyverns closing in. “I’m sorry,” Drixel whispered, and dug his heels into Jeharra to make her go faster. Warm tears ran down his clenched face.
Drixel’s heart was hammering as he raced the wyverns. I think I’m going to puke. He looked back and was surprised to find only one Blackhand following. This one felt different: the man gave off that distinctive aura of magic. This scared Drixel more than anything else: who knew what perverse forms of magic Tsangtor taught his minions?
Overhead, the sky abruptly darkened. Drixel could almost tangibly feel magical energy accumulate. A flash of blue lightning struck Jeharra’s rump. Jeharra neighed in pain as a raw, red welt appeared in the snow-white fur. Again and again the spell was cast, until Jeharra, foaming at the mouth, stopped obeying Drixel. They began careening wildly to the forest floor. “No Jeharra, don’t give up now!” screamed Drixel hoarsely; and then they tumbled into the trees. The tall pines of Brevelia forest hemmed them in. Finally, Jeharra landed heavily in a little clearing. She tottered for some time before crumpling on the soft grass, down for the count, blood dripping from her nostrils. Drixel had been tossed off by the impact and was lying on the ground. A branch had whipped Drixel’s forehead and he was sure a few ribs were kaput. As he blinked through the blinding blood, he saw the wyvern land. He again felt the warrior’s magic. The tall, strapping figure knelt next to him. Desperate, Drixel tried to use a defensive magical shot, trying to hurl him away. He wasn’t surprised when a magical shield formed around the man. The figure cocked its head, as if amused. Then, he slowly took off his helmet. The long blond hair was tangled and matted, covering the handsome, charming, boyish face Drixel and many other students loved. It was Alex. Drixel felt his mouth dry up. His head was reeling. “Does this surprise you, Drixy old boy?” said Alex. “It doesn’t surprise me, I always told you, you could use more practice on the pegasi. Anyway” – and here he bent closer – “you shouldn’t be too worried about your precious Viola. I’m sure my friends are …ah… familiarizing themselves with her. I really don’t have time to chat. Tsangtor expects me soon,” said Alex. He got up and summoned a spear from his mount. Twirling it expertly, he plunged the spear violently into Drixel’s abdomen and said, “And that’s for trying to hex a friend,” he whispered, a mad gleam in his eye.
As the wyvern’s flapping grew faint, Drixel found his vision blurring. Careful not to choke on his own blood, he painfully turned sideways. I’ll get you for that, he thought; and then he fainted.

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The air whipped past Viola. Every sense seemed magnified as the ground rushed up to meet her. Wait, that’s not ground, that’s the lake! It lay at the edge of the school campus, and was sparkling in the somnolent afternoon sunshine.
The splash drenched her loose-fitting robes: they now threatened to drag her down. Dark against the puffy white clouds, the wyvern-riders watched as she struggled again and again to stay on the surface. It was only after they had left, satisfied that the girl would drown, did Viola slowly swim to the shore. There she lay gasping amid the weeds. She had lost her wand, but at least she was alive. Her injured arm was on fire. She reached into her robes for the numerary – a healing potion— that she had pocketed before searching for Drixel. Drixel! I hope he’s okay, Viola thought. After swallowing the red medicine she felt the pain lift. She sat up and swung her arm. It was as good as new. Quickly discarding her sodden outer robes, she took stock of the situation. She could see the castle spires, not yet engulfed in the inferno that was consuming the rest of the edifice. Brushing her tangled mop of black hair out of her face, Viola decided to skirt the campus and join the road that ran from Brevelia village to Finistar, some hundred miles away.
She had been walking for a few minutes when the sound of crashing trees startled her. Through the foliage, she saw Professor Hector battle a half-dozen Blackhands. She also saw some wyvern corpses. Tsangtor’s air force was grounded. Hector had driven them from the University and was in the process of finishing them off. Viola was amazed at how rapidly his staff-hand moved. He looked utterly relaxed, but each spell shot out with potent force. His very aura lifted Viola’s spirit. Where there had been six there was now one. With a last twist of his wand he turned the last man into stone. The poor man dropped, perfectly immobile, onto the needle-strewn ground. “Ah, Ms Ismaire, so good of you to join me!” he exclaimed, giving the half-hidden Viola an impish smile. “Out of uniform? I shall have to take away that gold star from yesterday…” It was the adrenaline talking. Before he could conclude his prolonged salutation, however, a new figure emerged. He was dressed like the other Blackhands, with flowing black robes, wicked steel armor engraved with the spider seal, and a helmet that covered his face. But he exuded a magical vibe. Hector tried to make a move. Before he could, the man raised his palm and Hector fell to the floor, his chest spouting blood. “NO!” screamed Viola as she summoned her inner magic and tried to create a snowstorm, hoping that the ensuing blizzard would give her enough time to think up a stronger spell; but the Blackhand created a fireball and flung it at Viola, singeing her as she dived out of harm’s way. “Amusing,” said the figure, “I always knew you were a wildcat, Viola.”
“How do you know me, Blackguard?” said Viola more bravely than she felt.
“Can’t you guess? Let me enlighten you.” Saying this, the man flung off his helmet. It was Alex, of course. He wore a devilish smile that she had never seen before. Viola felt her world rock and she stumbled to the ground. “Yeah baby, it’s me.” Slowly approaching the now crouching Viola, he brushed her pale face with his glove. She flinched. Anger swelled up inside her and she shrieked with rage as she threw her magical force into Alex. It dissipated harmlessly against the magical shield Alex conjured up. “Bad girl,” he whispered and cruelly slapped Viola across the face. “Now stay there. I have business with Hercule there.” Still smiling, he started for Hector, who was now desperately trying to crawl towards Viola. “Geez, that old man is so pathetic. As if a silly girl like you could protect him,” Alex said scornfully. But now Viola too reached for Hector. As soon their fingers touched, the Provost winked and then Viola felt strangely tingly, as if her whole body was being sifted through a fine sieve. They were teleporting! “What? NO!!” screamed Alex. But it was too late. They had already left him far behind.
My magic will last till Finistar; it will be up to you from there. It was Hector, communicating telepathically. To Viola it seemed that the two of them were encased in a bubble, while all around them the scenery changed and distorted rapidly. Teleportation: a Gift very few could master.
They arrived at the outskirts of Finistar and Viola could smell the sea. In the distance were a few ramshackle huts. She held the Professor’s head in her arms and suddenly, she wished she hadn’t taken all of the numerary.
Hector scrabbled beneath his collar and took out a medallion from around his neck. He pushed it into her hands. It was actually a gold ring hanging from a chain. Between great gasps, Hector said, “Take this…to Relian…Promise me…” All Viola could think about was getting even with Alex. It was more than a question of honour. She had cared deeply for the man who was about to die in her arms. She also had enough sense to recognize an incurable spell, and didn’t waste time on empty words of hope.
“No one must know of this,” he continued, eyes wide and fearful. Viola had never seen the professor act this way. Viola pocketed the medallion and held his hand. “I promise,” she replied, not fully understanding what this was all about. A smile appeared on the lined face, and then the wizard went limp. He was dead. At that moment, Viola felt like the loneliest person in the world. This jolly old man had been the life force of the University. He had been more like a doting grandfather that a teacher. She swore her revenge.
Viola stood up and started yelling, “Help! Somebody help! HELP!” Through the tears, she saw someone emerge from one of the huts.

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When Drixel awoke, he found himself lying in a strange bed. His head had a patch on it and gently ached. He remembered the spear and quickly reached down to his midriff. It was heavily bandaged, but did not hurt. Miraculously, his broken ribs seemed whole again. Drixel sat up and drank in his surroundings. The room was small and had plain but cozy furnishings; the mahogany beams overhead, the understated elegance of the furnishings, and the thickness of his quilt were all indications of a gentleman-farmer’s cottage. Through the net curtains to his right, buttery sunlight revealed a beautiful country garden, and ripe fields of rye beyond that.
A refreshing breeze twisted in and made a bamboo wind chime tinkle. At this, Drixel caught a movement to his left, and found a tiny pixie-woman, about as tall as his palm, staring up at him from the roughly hewn wooden chair she had been dozing in. The pixie extended her dragonfly wings and began to hover at eye-level. “Oh, you’re finally awake!” she said, speaking in a shrill, warbling voice. “My name’s Mercy. Please wait, I’ll call someone.” Without waiting for a reply, she disappeared through the door near Drixel’s feet. Her wings made a pleasant buzzing noise as she flew. Some muffled conversation drafted in, and in a moment the pixie called Mercy reappeared at the doorway with a young girl. She looked around sixteen and had red hair in a ponytail that gelled well with her immaculately clean farmer-girl apron. A pleasant grin emerged on her face as she said, “I knew you’d come around sooner or later. Mercy was so worried that you wouldn’t make it. Xaioyu’s my name. You’re from Brevelia aren’t you? You were in a terrible state when we found you—you’ve been asleep for two days!” Two days! Drixel knew he should be thankful he was still alive, but all he could think about was Viola. She had fallen into the lake, but was she still alive? Or had she been murdered by the Blackhand? That last thought was too horrifying for him. He broke from his thoughts when he realized that Xaioyu was waiting for some species of response. For a moment, Drixel was lost. Then he remembered his manners and said, “I’m Drixel Emm. Where is this place?”
“This is the village of Crossbone. This is my father’s house but he’s out right now. We found you in the forest nearby, and thought you were dead. Goddess be praised, you’ve managed to pull through. It was all due to Mercy’s healing powers”—and here the diminutive pixie blushed—“You must be weak, please don’t strain yourself,” said Xaioyu as she wedged in an extra pillow behind Drixel’s shoulders. As she spoke, she flitted about the room, never at rest. She came to the doorway and said, “You should stay here for a few more days, and then you’ll be well enough to ride to Finistar. After that you’ll know what’s up. News is rather thin in these parts.” But Drixel’s mind was already made up, and started to get out of bed. Before Xaioyu could contradict him, he assured her that he was perfectly fine and that it was imperative that he get to Finistar immediately. “If you’re really up to it, I’ll ask father; meanwhile you can come into the kitchen—you must be starved,” she said.
Xaioyu gave him some of her father’s things to wear. They were too big for him, but he managed. After Drixel had suitably replenished himself with a cold ham sandwich and a glass of fresh cow-milk, Xaioyu took him to see Jeharra. She was buried at the base of a broad oak tree. “I’m sorry we couldn’t save her. She was just beyond help. I’ve kept a few feathers for you to remember her by,” said Xaioyu. Drixel felt cheerless because he knew that Viola’s most prized possession had been Jeharra.
The oak was set in a clearing which overlooked the village of Crossbone. It looked like a thoroughly no-nonsense agricultural town. Reminds me of home, thought Drixel. To the south, fields of golden harvest stretched till the horizon; to the north were the forested hills where Brevelia lay and where Xaioyu has first noticed a wyvern chasing a pegasus. If she hadn’t been out hunting rabbits that afternoon, Drixel would probably have died a painful and lonely death.
Crossbone had about twenty families. They were mostly labourers on Xaioyu’s father’s farm. When they met Drixel, they were quite awed and kept their heads bowed; wizards were rare in this rustic spot.
Returning to the cottage after their jaunt, Drixel found a tall, thickset man of about forty waiting for them in the sitting room. “Daddy!” exclaimed Xaioyu and flung her arms around the gruff man. His rather violent beard tickled her and he set her down. He turned to Drixel and offered his hand. “I’m Jasket, good to see that you’re up and about.” Over dinner, he agreed to let Drixel go tomorrow. He could travel with the local carts travelling to Finistar to deliver the farm produce. The only one upset by this was Xaioyu: she had wanted Drixel to herself for a few days more.
As Xaioyu led him back to the bedroom, she surprised Drixel by asking, “Who’s Viola, by the way?” Drixel stopped walking, mouth slightly open. “Sorry, it’s none of my business,” she continued, blushing after an awkward pause, “but you whispered her name a few times when you were unconscious.”
“She…was a friend in Brevelia.”
“Was?” replied Xaioyu perplexed. She gazed at Drixel’s face for a moment and turned to leave.

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Chapter 2: Things get complicated

The water surrounded her, threatening to drag her down into the unknown, lightless depths. She struggled against the weight of the water, tore with her fingernails; but she kept sinking, and her lungs filled with the salty taste of tears…
Viola Ismaire awoke with a start. Her nightclothes were moist with her sweat, and she was shivering in the warm summer night. It was two days since the attack on Brevelia, and for two nights now, she had been haunted by the same dream. While her ragged breath gradually returned to normal, Viola’s thoughts went back to past events. Hector was dead, Drixel was dead. Two days of waiting had throttled any glimmering hopes she had had of Drixel surviving.
She had, however, kept her promise to Hector. No-one knew of that mysterious ring he had given her, and which was now safe (at least for the moment) in the lowest drawer of her dressing table. She had told the police about Alex though, as well as how Hector had died. Viola got off her bed and sauntered to the large bay window that looked out onto the port of Finistar. The sky was still deep blue for the most part, but a thin strip of violet on the horizon told her that it was nearly dawn. From her second-floor room, Viola had quite a good view of the harbour. Even at this odd hour, the port was a hive of activity, with the white sails of the trading ships shining faintly against the dark waves. In the distance, Viola could see the spires of the city temple. Hector’s funeral would take place there, in another two days’ time. Heaving a despondent sigh, she decided to start dressing for the morning.
As Viola brushed her long black tresses, her pale grey eyes fell on the almost-healed scar on her cheek, and she thought of Alex—since when had he been Tsangtor’s servant? She remembered all the times he had embraced her as a friend, or taken her arm during the college dances: now, each of those casual contacts seemed a poisonous barb, making her unclean, tainted. Had no-one, not even Hector, guessed at his true identity? Was Tsangtor’s magic really that powerful? And who on earth was this “Relian” that she was supposed to give the ring to? Viola’s mind was as mystified as when the city police had asked her their questions. After the police had questioned her, she had observed the ring. It was made of some hard silvery substance Viola couldn’t identify. The stone glowed red, and gave off a faint magical sensation. Viola thought of the tearful, hysterical wails of the mothers and fathers she had seen that day, waiting for their beloved son or daughter to return from Brevelia. Surprisingly, most had survived, even the teachers. Apparently, Alex had not massacred them when Hector escaped his clutches. The capital was rife with gossip and rumours, some even foretelling the eventual rise of the Dark One, who had been Tsangtor’s overlord in days long past. This attack is a clear indication of the increasing power of the Blackhand, said the citizens.
Viola chose an uncomplicated red-and-silver dress she could put on without her maid’s help, and matched it with a hair clasp of silver filigree. Giving herself a last look-over, Viola walked out of her bedroom and made for her father’s library. Who was Relian, anyway?
So engrossed in her thoughts was she that she failed to spot the translucent ghost-like creature hovering outside her window eaves, peering into her room.

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A brilliantly bright day; all around, the bleak dunes of a desert hummed as the wind blew in from the north; but it was a malevolent squall, and on its wings rode Evil.
Drixel Emm awoke with a start. He tried to grasp the details of his dream, but it was like trying to clasp a palmful of water. It slithered into the forgotten crevices of his brain, and he couldn’t reach into them. Shrugging off his drowsiness, Drixel flung on his shirt and trousers and went into the garden. It was just dawn, and a pleasant chill still clung to the air. No one seemed awake. The house was built on a ridge overlooking the countryside, and the corn glowed orange in the new day. Drixel took a desultory walk in the garden, arranging his thoughts of the past twenty-four hours, and slowly ambled toward the edge of the garden. A large pond occupied the south-eastern corner, and from it came the muffled sound of splashing. He slowly parted the tall reeds that enveloped the pond and found Xaioyu bathing.
She was humming quietly to herself, and Drixel couldn’t help noticing her attractive figure. But as she turned her back toward him, a chill ran down his spine. Covering much of the back was a tattoo of a spider, head downward. It was the Tsangtorean seal, itself adopted from the image of Dark One, who had terrorised the land in spider form for a thousand years and who had ultimately been captured two centuries ago. Tsangtor, who had been her lieutenant, now styled himself the new Dark Lord. Why on earth would Xaioyu have the tattoo? Unless—and here Drixel took a sharp breath—she was a member of the Blackhand. At this moment Xaioyu whipped her head around and caught Drixel’s face. She was silent for a full minute and then began to speak slowly, “You must think I am Tsangtor’s minion. But nothing could be farther from the truth. You see, I am a Cursed Child. Yes, that’s right: those who lose their souls to Tsangtor when they die. You know the story.”
Indeed, Drixel did know it. About twenty years ago, a band of Vesma’s greatest warriors waged a vain war against Tsangtor. Although they won, Tsangtor left a curse on them before fleeing—that they and their progeny would serve him for all eternity. They did not understand the curse at the time, and had children. It was later that the true nature of the curse was discovered: when they died, their souls were not received by the Goddess, but wandered the land until they found their master Tsangtor, and did his bidding. Thus they serve him for eternity. Drixel had studied it as a fine example of perma-curses, but he had never expected to meet one of the Cursed Children in real life. He sat at the edge of the pond and said, “I thought you were banished from Vesma?”
“We have, nearly. My father went into hiding after I was born. My mom died giving birth to me. We have been living here in secret for the past fifteen years. The villagers don’t know about us, and it’s better that way.” Xaioyu finished drying herself and began dressing. She suddenly beamed and said gaily, “But we all have to live, don’t we, somehow? So don’t go about feeling sad for me, you hear? I’m a match and more for you!” She winked at Drixel and called out to Mercy. Unnoticed by Drixel, the little pixie had been watching the whole affair, perched precariously on one of the reeds. Now, she buzzed toward Xaioyu and gave Drixel a sad smile.
“You should bathe too, it will take us two days to reach Finistar,” said Xaioyu over her shoulder, before she left for the house.

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“Imperial Almanac Volume XX” was printed in gold letters on the leather-bound book Viola now had open on the small writing desk in her father’s library, with a candelabra placed near. Revolution of 122…Reformationist Movement…Regency Act…but there was no “Relian”. Where it ought to have been was an entry on Relianzadi:

“Relianzadi. Queen of the elves since 0 S.A. The widow of King Alaquizadi, she has opened her lands to trade with humans.”

Viola wondered if this could be the “Relian” Hector had mentioned. If so, things were getting far more complicated than she had expected. No doubt, the ring was some arcane magical artefact; this was what Alex had been after…is after. Viola decided to keep it on her person from now on.
Before Viola could do anything else, someone in the dark said, “What are you doing here?” This caused her to jump out of her seat. Whoever was in the dark started laughing gently and came nearer. It was Viola’s brother Cello. “What are you doing?” he asked again, with a puzzled smile on his face. To avenge her fright she replied, “I could ask you the same question. Don’t you usually take breakfast at around noon?”
“I am afraid, my dear little sister, that we have been called to arms” said Cello, planting his customary morning kiss on her cheek. “As men of the 25th Royal Cavalry, it is my job to deal with this new attack by the Blackhand.”
“Really?” said Viola incredulously. “I used to think your “job” was to booze and schmooze!”
This light-hearted banter masked both siblings’ worries. When the summons had come yesterday morning, the entire household was devastated. Who knew how powerful the Blackhand truly were? Their mother had tried to pretend everything was alright by acting extra-sunny. The 5th Baron Ismaire had simply looked grumpier than ever.
“I was just reading up on professor Hector,” Viola lied, “he was a great man.” In truth, Viola already knew more about that man than she wanted to. For one thing, he had some sort of secret agreement with the Elf Queen.
“I came in because I thought you were hunting for your birthday presents!” said Cello, as he sat down on a comfortable armchair. Viola audibly groaned. She had completely forgotten that her birthday was just three days away
Viola was quick to recover: “Better not be a doll like last time!”
“It was a voodoo doll, Vi, from one of the desert tribes of Archalia.”
Viola pretended not to hear that. She had more important things to consider, like how to reason with dad that it is perfectly normal for a teenaged girl like me to seek out an elven peer group. She needed to plan her journey to the elven lands carefully. They were known for their secrecy, and their suspicion of humans.
This worry had obviously showed, because Cello asked her if anything was the matter. “Oh no, I was just thinking I need a break from the city, go to the countryside.”
“Excellent idea! Why don’t you run it over dad later? You know he can never deny you anything for your birthday.” Without waiting for a response, Cello made for the door. “I’d better go; don’t want to be late for the inspection.” Viola spun him lightly by his shoulder, and hugged him with all her strength. Although she often ridiculed Cello for his laziness, he was her pride and her strength. Some rich nobles paid for their sons’ induction into the royal cavalry, but Baron Ismaire had made sure that his only son got in on sheer merit. “Don’t get soft, kiddo, and keep your nose clean,” Cello said with all the bravado that came naturally to a strapping 25-year-old. “You too,” was all Viola could answer, her cheek pressed against his chest. “Take good care of them”, he said, “them” of course meaning their parents. “Look, I hate goodbyes, so I’ll just leave now. Besides, I might be back in a few days, who knows!” As he quietly let himself out of the teak front doors, Viola felt so miserable she couldn’t help herself:
“It was SO NOT a voodoo doll!” she shouted out after him, laughing and crying at the same time. A few moments later, the hoof-beats were gone.
Upstairs, the Cursed Child, now shimmering faintly pink in the rising sun, waited patiently for Viola to return.

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