The Dragon’s Gold

  Jumpstart Duchy

  Book 2

  Stefon Mears

  The Dragon’s Gold

  Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Preview of Book Three: The Gift Castle

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  About the Author

  Also by Stefon Mears

  Foreword

  The man known as Aefric Brightstaff was not born on Qorunn. He was born on the distant world of Earth, where he went by the name Keifer McShane.

  On Earth, he knew the world of Qorunn only through The Torn Kingdoms, the setting of his favorite roleplaying game. His primary source of joy and solace, following the untimely death of his wife, Andi.

  When a Jumpstart crowdfunding campaign for the next edition of The Torn Kingdoms offered him the chance to become a duke in the world he loved, Keifer pounced on it. Imagined they would send him a patent of nobility. Ask his opinion about the non-player character who’d bear his name and title. Perhaps even allow him to include Andi as his duchess, when the books went to print.

  He couldn’t wait to become a part of the world he loved so well.

  But he mistook it all for make-believe.

  Keifer didn’t expect the great Mage of Marrisford himself, the one and only Kainemorton, to show up on his doorstep.

  Keifer didn’t expect to be transported to Qorunn, where he would start life anew as an orphan boy on the streets of the fabled city of Sartis. That shining beacon on the southern sea.

  Now known as Aefric, he grew into a powerful adventurer. Widely believed to be a wizard, he is in fact the first of the dweomerblood. It is said that magic itself flows through his very veins.

  As Aefric, he mastered the fabled Brightstaff. He fought in the Godswalk Wars, and saved countless lives at the Battle of Deepwater, in the kingdom of Armyr.

  In gratitude, King Colm of Armyr named Aefric Duke of Deepwater. And no sooner had Aefric taken possession of his duchy than he prevented an invasion by Armyr’s southern neighbor, Malimfar.

  Keifer McShane. Aefric Brightstaff.

  One man who has lived two lives.

  This is book two of his story…

  1

  Aefric Brightstaff reined in near the brown, rocky crest of the ridge where he would soon overlook the path leading down into the Dragonscar. A vast chasm, well over a hundred miles long and at least a score of miles across, the Dragonscar formed the northern border of his duchy.

  It was almost midday, and almost midsummer. A lazy, sultry day. But high on this ridge, with the vast beauty of the Risen Sea scarcely a mile to his left, the whipping wind cooled the day’s heat quite well.

  So well, in fact, that he took advantage of the pause to draw a leather thong from his belt and tie back his long blonde hair. As he did, he stared off into the sea.

  No ships in sight, and he wondered if there should be.

  His brilliant black stallion, Windsong, stamped eagerly, and snorted. Irritated, perhaps, that Aefric had reined in where he had, instead of beginning his descent into the chasm.

  An impressive steed, Windsong. He’d been a gift from Queen Eppida herself, on the day Aefric was made duke of Deepwater. And Aefric had never known a horse so eager to run. His stamina seemed endless, at times.

  But if Aefric rode down into the chasm before any of his soldiers or guards checked it out, he’d never hear the end of it. Not from Ser Beornric Ol’Sandallas, the captain of his personal guard. And especially not from his general, Ser Yrsa Azenai.

  Ser Yrsa, who still had not quite forgiven Aefric…

  Aefric had done many things right, during his first days as duke of Deepwater. But he’d committed one major faux pas.

  He’d sent his armies south to aid his neighbor, the duchy of Merrek, under the command of his new countess, Faenella.

  He hadn’t given command to his own general. Hadn’t even consulted with her. Hadn’t even informed her of what he was doing.

  And the mere fact that he hadn’t yet been to his ducal seat at Water’s End, or even known he had a general, was really no excuse.

  She’d been furious. And like the woman herself, her fury was no small matter.

  Aefric was tall. Ser Yrsa was taller.

  Aefric’s blonde hair was sandy. Hers had red undertones that always made Aefric wonder if they came from the blood of enemies that she’d just never bothered wholly washing out.

  Despite the fact that she was a good decade older than Aefric, she moved about in full plate armor with more agility than he felt in his riding outfit, which today consisted of a quilted tunic of Deepwater gray, and leather breeches.

  And she fought with those huge twin maces. Those vicious, ridged things should have been top heavy. But he’d seen her practice with them. She whipped them around like they were wands.

  Aefric had grown up living the hard, dangerous life of an adventurer. And though he relied more on his magic than the sword at his side, he knew his way around personal combat.

  But watching Yrsa on the training ground always made him feel as though he’d lived a soft life of physical ineptitude.

  Dear gods. The strength in that woman’s hands and wrists. She could probably tie horseshoes into neat little bows with no more effort than Aefric needed to lace up his boots.

  She might have tried tying Aefric into a neat little bow, when they finally met. Except that Aefric had been both sincere and effusive in his apologies.

  It probably helped that Ser Beornric — who’d gotten to know Aefric well over the previous aett or so — had taken her drinking, and had a long talk with her.

  That was a season ago. When Aefric had first arrived at Water’s End and met the woman who had served as his predecessor’s general for more than five years.

  But Aefric could tell he was far from forgiven.

  They were catching him up now, Sers Beornric and Yrsa. Along with the six knights of his personal guard.

  All eight of them looked irritated, though Ser Beornric, at least, looked to have some humor about it. A smile hid beneath that bushy new mustache of his.

  Ser Beornric had been a knight of the king during the Godswalk Wars, and he had the rough features and old scars to prove it. But he had been at the Battle of Deepwater, and was one of those who called Aefric that battle’s hero, and sworn he would follow Aefric into any of the thirteen hells, if asked.

  The man was maybe ten summers shy of twice Aefric’s age — this summer would make an even two dozen for Aefric — with more salt than pepper in his short hair and mustache these days. For all that, Ser Beornric was still quite fit. And even had he not been, his knowledge of Armyr, its history and its politics had proven invaluable to Aefric as he settled into his duties as duke.

  Ser Yrsa, though, saw nothing funny in the situation.

  “Might I remind your grace,” she said through gritted teeth, “that the purpose of riding with his soldiery is to keep him safe? Even the finest soldiers in Qorunn cannot protect their duke if he insists on leaving them behind.”

  Ser Yrsa had several degrees of anger, and Aefric had learned to discern most of them by watching her major scar. All of his knights had scars, of course. He had several himself.

  Ser Yrsa, though, had taken a sword blow to the face at some point. The scar left by that sword started from the middle of her forehead, and carved a shallow groove down through her left eye all the way to her chin.

  The effect should probably have been disturbing. But she wore that scar as well as she wore her armor.

  A healer had at least restored her vision, though the eye was not … as it had been. Her right eye was a dark gray, but her left eye was red. A pale red where most would have white, and a dark red for the iris.

  The pupil, at least, remained black.

  At the moment, her scar had darkened from its stark whiteness against her natural tawny coloring, but was not yet approaching purple. Aefric knew from that that she was irritated but not yet angry. And that, at least, was a good thing.

  “Ser Yrsa,” Aefric said, “you may remind me of anything you wish. In fact, I’ve encouraged you before to speak your mind.”

  “You have,” she said, while the knights of Aefric’s personal guard took up positions around them. “Many nobles say such things, your grace. Few understand what they’re really saying. Fewer still mean it.”

  “I both understand,” Aefric said, “and mean what I’ve said.”

  “Then stop being a damned fool!” she barked, making Aefric’s guards wince.

  Ser Yrsa held off further words, as the two score soldiers they’d brought along moved past them and began setting up for the lunch break.

  The soldiers were all clad in chainmail and steel half-helmets, and wearing tabards of Deepwater gray, bearing the Deepwater device: the image of a lake, with a sword sticking up, hilt first.

  The company consisted of a two dozen pikemen, a dozen archers, and four scouts.

  She lowered her voice as she continued.

  “I know you’ve been an adventurer,” she said, showing more patience than Aefric expected. “But you’re not riding like an adventurer right now, are you? Did you once check your perimet
er? Did you once worry about what might be just past that ridge ahead?”

  Aefric opened his mouth to answer. She didn’t let him.

  “No, you did not. I know body language, and you rode up here like a man out for a jaunt to the tavern, along heavily guarded streets.” She shook her head. “But we’re not on streets. Or roads. And the guards were behind you.”

  “I’m not entirely incapable myself,” Aefric said.

  “No,” Ser Yrsa said, keeping her voice low. “Which makes it all the worse. You know better. But you’re relying on your ability to counterstrike. On the speed with which you could conjure a defense, should an unexpected attack come. Which is no excuse not to be aware when that attack comes.”

  Ser Beornric drew breath to say something. Ser Yrsa raised a hand to stop him. The hammer of her gaze continued to pound Aefric.

  “We approach the Dragonscar,” she said. “A questionable place unto itself. But more than that, the border with Silverlake.”

  “Are you expecting Duke Wylyn to ride against us?” Aefric asked, honestly curious.

  “No,” Ser Yrsa said, shaking her head once without ever moving her gaze from his. “But during the Godswalk Wars, Silverlake was attacked from below by the dybbungstad and their demon twins. What if the dybbungstad established a base here in the Dragonscar? They might remain still.”

  “We’ve had scouts in the area since before I was made duke,” Aefric said. “If there’ve been warning signs, I haven’t heard of them.”

  “And none of our scouts have gone into the Dragonscar, because their primary job has been to watch Silverlake. Which they can do by spyglass across the ridge. True they reported no signs of activity in the Dragonscar, such as fires. But I’ve never heard of the dybbungstad cooking their meat. Have you?”

  “No,” Aefric said, shaking his head.

  “In fact,” Ser Yrsa said, lifting an eyebrow. “Do you have any experience fighting the dybbungstad?”

  Did he? A complex question.

  As Keifer McShane, who knew Qorunn through his Torn Kingdoms game books, his characters had faced the dybbungstad in a series of adventure modules. J1-6, collectively called What Price Honor?

  But from his lived experience here in Qorunn…

  “No,” Aefric said. “I’d almost come to regard them as myth, before the Godswalk Wars. And I never got far enough north to fight them.”

  “Nor did I,” she said, with a nod. “And I do not wish to learn about them through the death of my duke.”

  Aefric felt as though she’d thrown cold water in his face.

  He nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “You were caught up in the gorgeous skies and the wondrous sight of the sea,” she said, that raised eyebrow now carrying some accusation to it.

  “I was,” Aefric said. “But I was also giving Windsong his head for a bit. I didn’t want him too excited when we start the descent.”

  “Fair enough,” she said. “But what would I have asked of you, had you sought my opinion first?”

  Interesting. She didn’t ask what he should have done, but what she would have asked him to do.

  “To at least warn you and Ser Beornric, so the two of you could ride with me.”

  “Thank you, your grace,” she said, bowing her head. “Now, if you will excuse me, I shall make sure our men don’t slack in setting up their perimeter.”

  “Of course,” Aefric said. “And thank you.”

  Ser Yrsa frowned a moment, on hearing Aefric thank her after the way she’d taken him to task. She snorted softly, then shook her head.

  Finally, just before riding off, she looked back over her shoulder and said, “I heard about the tactics you employed while working with those eldrani archers, down in Kesh. That was good work.”

  She turned and rode off then.

  “Was that a compliment?” Aefric asked, astonished.

  “I believe so,” Ser Beornric said. “Perhaps she’s finally warming to you.”

  “I just had to let her know she could yell at me?”

  “Only when you do something stupid, your grace,” Ser Beornric said with a quirked half-smile.

  “So, what,” Aefric said, “I should expect her to yell at me now once or twice an aett?”

  “I’d never have suggested such a thing myself, your grace,” Ser Beornric said. “But I wouldn’t accuse you of being wrong about it.”

  Aefric had to laugh at that, and when he did the knights of his personal guard joined in.

  They were laughing with him, though. At least, he hoped so.

  They were still laughing when the warning whistle came.

  The sound of the warning whistle cut through the whipping of the sea winds.

  Danger nearby, not yet imminent.

  Aefric swore. Ser Yrsa had been right. He’d been getting too used to the softer life of a duke. The day’s beauty had lulled him into foolishly assuming he was safe. A mistake he resolved not to make again.

  All seven knights around Aefric — Ser Beornric included — donned their helmets, and closed their visors. They drew their weapons and closed ranks about their duke.

  Aefric drew the Brightstaff from the sling attached to his horse’s saddle. Carved from a six-foot branch of white thunderwood, the powerful staff had a brown, leather-wrapped grip, and a yellow diamond embedded into its top.

  Up ahead, he could see his soldiers taking up positions along the brown rocks of the ridge.

  The dozen archers were already on down on one knee, arrows ready to draw. They sighted their longbows down the path into the Dragonscar.

  Behind them, the soldiers with pikes formed ranks, while Ser Yrsa, still ahorse, took a report from two of the leather-clad scouts.

  “Let’s go,” Aefric said, impatiently.

  “Your grace,” Ser Beornric said, “proper form says we should wait for word from Yrsa.”

  “But—”

  With Ser Beornric’s visor down, Aefric couldn’t read his expression. Yet somehow that visor spoke volumes.

  “Fine,” Aefric said, letting out an explosive sigh. “But if any of my people get killed, when I could have prevented it, she’ll find out why she should worry about my anger, for a change.”

  Ser Beornric said nothing. Only nodded once.

  And Aefric had to fight down the tension that was locking up his shoulders and churning his empty stomach. He never did well, trying to hold back when action was coming.

  No. That wasn’t true. He could set an ambush and wait with the patience of a hunting cat.

  But that was waiting with a plan. This was waiting for others to bring him into the plan. When he didn’t even know what the threat was, yet. Could have been soldiers. Could have been bandits. Could have been dybbungstad, for all he knew.

  And for him to sit, waiting, felt most unfamiliar. And most unfair.

  The yellow diamond atop the Brightstaff began to glow. Not because Aefric deliberately called forth light, either. Which meant that he was leaking magic a bit.

  He’d never met anyone else who’d had that problem. But then, he’d never met another dweomerblood, either.

  He forced his mouth closed tight, and flared his nostrils in deep breaths of sea air. Focused on the whipping wind against his face.

  He could wait. He had to wait. He hated it. But he would do it.

  Finally, the scouts gave Ser Yrsa the battlefield salute — the right fist, palm side forward, raised to shoulder height instead of to full extension as a normal salute would be — and trotted back to Aefric.

  They gave their duke the same salute. He returned it.

  “Your grace,” the lead scout said. She was a wiry woman, and both she and her partner had smeared their tanned skin, their short-cropped hair, and their leathers with brown dust to blend in better against the rocks. “Unknown armed party at the bottom of the pass. They have lookouts watching the approach, but I do not believe they spotted us. Two of our number remain below, keeping watch.”