The Dragons of Deepwood Fen Kicks Off an Exciting New Epic Fantasy Series

From The Dragons of Deepwood Fen

By Bradley P. Bealieu

Deep in the Holt, Korvus Julianus and his guide, Temerin, strode over the uneven ground of the forest. Korvus’s mood was light, the alchemycal survey he and Temerin had begun two weeks earlier nearly complete. If all went well, he would finish his measurements before the day was done and either confirm his suspicions that a rare sinkhole was about to form or prove them false.

Citadel trees soared a thousand feet into the air as far as the eye could see. Their bark was rough, their branches stubby. Bridgeboughs spanned the gaps between them, one tree supporting the next supporting the next. The bright sun had risen and the sky was clear, but it was early yet, and the light in the forest was dim.

Though well into springtime, a cold snap had arrived two days earlier and had yet to recede. Korvus crunched over ­frost-​­covered pine needles and the occasional patch of snow. Temerin followed a few paces behind him as they made for a shallow ridge, where they took a moment to catch their breath.

Temerin leaned on his unstrung bow, his breath pluming, and scanned the land around them. “Haven’t we come far enough?”

Master Korvus blew into his hands. “Nearly so, Temerin. Nearly so.” He adjusted the weight of his oilskin pack and continued on. Temerin fell in beside him.

The guide had curly brown hair, dark skin, broad cheeks, and ivory eyes, which were part and parcel of his profession. He was tall for a Kin, and willowy from all his rangings. A rapier hung from his belt. A quiver was strapped to his opposite leg. “It’s only, I’d like to get back to Glaeyand tonight.”

“As would I, but there’s no rushing these things.”

“I know, but we’ve walked farther than we did from the last vyrd.”

“That’s because the vyrd you just brought us to is stronger. You should know that. You’re a ferryman.”

Vyrda were henges, circles of standing stones that marked places of power, and there were many throughout the Holt. Ferrymen like Temerin knew how to unlock their power and use it to travel from place to place via the maze, which was why Temerin was accompanying Master Korvus on his survey, and why Korvus was certain the young man knew the vyrd they’d just visited was more powerful than the one before it. He was only being impatient, an affliction men of his age seemed happy to wear as a badge of honor.

They weren’t far from the Deepwood Fens, which was Red Knife territory. The Red Knives were the remnants of the people who once controlled the Holt, and a brutal lot. They considered themselves freedom fighters who hoped to liberate the Holt from the empire, its ruling quintarchs, and, above all, the Holt’s imperator, who they considered a pawn. This close to the Fens, the likelihood of a Knife flying one of their dragons overhead and spotting them was still remote, but it had risen considerably.

Korvus and Temerin hiked another mile through the forest. The bright sun rose higher and warmed the air. Ahead, midges hovered over a glade of high grasses; swallows swooped down on them, feeding on the wing.

Korvus unslung his alchemyst’s pack and leaned it against the twisted root of a citadel tree. “This is far enough, I reckon.”

Temerin nodded, strung his bow, and began his scout of the area.

Korvus crouched, tugged his pack open, and carefully retrieved his aurimeter. With a wooden base, an etched steel plate pitted with age, and a needle that rose up from the base’s hollow interior, the aurimeter looked vaguely like a metronome, but the alchemycal instrument had a much different purpose. The weight at the needle’s bottom was made of brightsteel, a metal infused with ground dragon scales, likely from an iron, but possibly a brass or a silver. The brightsteel weight, calibrated springs, and etched plate formed a gauge that allowed him to measure the flow of aura, one of two primary sources of arcane power.

Korvus set the aurimeter on a patch of level ground and used a compass to ensure it was measuring the flow due north. Then, he drew his leatherbound journal from the pack’s front pocket, laid it on the ground before him, and jotted down the aurimeter’s measurement with a freshly sharpened pencil. He turned the instrument clockwise one point on the compass rose, noted the new measurement, and repeated the process, turning and measuring, turning and measuring, until he’d completed a full rotation.

He pulled an umbrimeter from his pack. Similar to the aurimeter, it measured the flow of umbra, the second of the two sources of arcane power. Its weight was darksteel, a metal infused with the ground scales of an umbral ­dragon—​­a viridian, perhaps, or maybe a cobalt. He repeated the turning and measuring, and recorded the values.

Aura and umbra infused everything, from plants to animals to the earth itself. During the day, the bright sun, Lux, shed aura upon the world. At night, Lux gave way to the dark sun, Nox, to shed umbra. Living things absorbed both, but there was much more aura and umbra than they could fully absorb. While aura tended to rise and collect in places like hills, cliffs, and mountains, umbra tended to sink and pool in places like swamps, lakes, and fens.

It was also true that these foundational principles of alchemy were unpredictable. Aura and umbra eddied like currents in a river delta, which meant Korvus couldn’t rely on a single measurement in case the instruments were merely measuring an eddy in the flow. He needed several measurements to ensure he was measuring the predominant flows. So it was that Korvus repeated the process with both instruments an hour later.

Temerin returned shortly thereafter, holding a rabbit he’d struck through with an arrow. He dressed it, built a fire, and roasted it for their lunch. By then it was nearing high sun, and time to check the instruments for the third and final time.

“Time to head back?” Temerin asked when he was done.

“Not just yet.”

Satisfied that his measurements were accurate, Korvus flipped through the journal to a map of the Holt, precisely drawn by his own hand. Near the center of the forest was his home, the tree city of Glaeyand. The Whitefell Mountains bordered the forest in a grand arc to the west. The Sea of Olgasus lay east. In between was the vast Holt, broken here and there by prairies, lakes, gullies, and the occasional mountain or ravine. Its most notable feature was the Diamondflow, the largest of the three rivers that cut east through the Holt on their way to the sea.

North and east of Glaeyand, red dots marked the vyrda he and Temerin had traveled to in the past two weeks. Near each were a pair of ­hand-​­drawn arrows: white to indicate the direction of the flow of aura, black to indicate the flow of umbra. Taking them all in, it was clear aura was flowing more or less west, toward the mountains, which was as it should be. Umbra, however, was flowing neatly toward a position east of them, a good way into the Deepwood Fens. In contrast, the surveys he’d conducted more than a decade ago showed umbra from those same vyrda being drawn toward the Diamondflow. The only reasonable explanation was that a sinkhole was about to form. It happened from time to time when umbra collected in sufficient quantities to attract even more umbra from the surrounding lands until the earth gave way to its power, causing broad swaths of land to sink all at once.

Taking in the magnitude of it, Korvus found himself smiling, then grinning broadly. He’d suspected, even hoped, he might find a sinkhole, but to have it ­confirmed . . . to be on the cusp of witnessing ­it . . . made the long treks, the weeks away from home, the sick feeling in his gut from traveling by vyrd, and the trail rations in place of his wife’s cooking all feel worth it.

Korvus tapped the arrows on the map. “Remember the sinkhole I mentioned?”

Temerin sat ­cross-​­legged near the fire, poking the embers with a stick, and took a cursory glance at the journal.

“It’s forming to the east of us,” Korvus went on. “I suspect it won’t be long before it’s triggered.”

Temerin said nothing.

“I want to go there, take more measurements.”

Temerin’s grimace might have been amusing were Korvus not so serious. “More measurements?”

“It would delay us a day at the most. I’ll gladly pay you for it.”

“You’ve extended our trip three times already.”

“I warned you that might happen.” The flows had been unpredictable at three of the vyrda. Korvus had insisted on remaining overnight to ensure his measurements were accurate.

“I want to go home, Master Korvus.”

“As do I, Temerin, but this discovery could lead to more expeditions. I’ll ask for you personally. Or if you prefer, I’ll ask that you not be considered. Just come with me now. Finding a sinkhole could mean a considerable grant from the imperator.”

Temerin drew in a deep breath, regarded Korvus with ivory eyes, then let the breath out in a noisy rush. “I don’t want to not be considered. I’m grateful for the work. Truly. But my ­wife . . . she’s expected to go into labor soon.”

“You’ll see that pretty wife of yours soon, I promise.” Korvus patted Temerin’s shin. “And I’ll pay for a dinner for the two of you at The Hog’s Head. Assuming she hasn’t gone into labor yet. Later, if she has.”

Temerin paused. With a hint of a smile, he said, “Make it The Twisted Fork and you have a deal.”

“Done!”

Temerin laughed, stood, and did a double take at the map in Korvus’s journal. His smile faded. “You want to go to the Deepwood ­Fens . . .”

“I do.”

“That’s Red Knife territory.”

“Yes, but nowhere near their hideouts.”

“Word is they were forced to move south.”

“Their old hideout was four hundred miles away. Why would they move it so far?”

“I should think to avoid being discovered again.”

“Come now, Temerin. The chances are infinitesimal they’ll be anywhere near where I mean to visit. Besides, it won’t take long. If my measurements are correct, the location is a mere stone’s throw from the vyrd. We’ll be there and gone faster than you can fletch an arrow. I promise.”

Temerin pursed his lips and shook his head, but the man was no wilting flower. “We take one set of measurements, and we return to Glaeyand as soon as you’re done. No complaining about eddies. No writing endless passages in your journal.”

“Well, I do need to take some notes.”

“Of course, but the minor details can be fleshed out after we return to Glaeyand.”

“Fair enough.” Korvus packed his things in this pack. “Thank you, Temerin. You’ve been a valuable asset this entire journey.”

With a verve Korvus hadn’t felt earlier, he hiked with Temerin toward the vyrd. To study a sinkhole as it formed would be a wondrous achievement, the capstone of his long and accomplished career. He was all but certain the imperator would authorize an expedition to record it.

As they retraced their steps through the forest, the wind picked up and the citadels groaned. By the time they spotted the vyrd through the trees ahead, the bright sun was lowering in the west, all but hidden by the citadels’ thick canopy. The vyrd’s standing stones were tall, ­round-​­shouldered, weatherbeaten. The runes on their faces were worn by centuries of rain, snow, and wind. The broad slabs set into the ground between them were covered in thick green moss, all but indistinguishable from the land outside the vyrd.

They positioned themselves at the vyrd’s center. Temerin opened a small pouch at his belt and pulled out a lucerta, a ­silvery-​­blue dragon scale, and placed it on his tongue. Despite all the advancements in alchemy, they still didn’t know why using lucertae to navigate the maze leeched color from one’s eyes, but it did. And while most ferrymen needed to wait until the bright sun set or ­rose—​­the two times when the vyrda were most ­active—​­Temerin was gifted. He could enter the maze several hours before or after the normal times. It was half the reason Korvus had pulled in a favor to have him assigned to the survey.

Temerin closed his eyes and spread his arms. A breath passed, then two. Korvus’s guts suddenly felt like they were being drawn through his bellybutton and twisted on a spit. A brief whistle sounded, and they entered the maze.

Korvus blinked. Suddenly, they were in another place entirely. The air was markedly warmer and fetid. The standing stones around them were shorter and more ancient, their runes all but lost to the passage of time. Beyond the vyrd, the vegetation was thicker, and the citadels were spaced farther apart, likely due to the alkaline soil.

Korvus took out his compass and scanned the landscape. “This way.”

They headed north, and the stench grew stronger. They came across a deer path and followed it, and the noisome odor grew stronger still. The citadels stood farther and farther apart, and the landscape became more open.

“How much longer?” Temerin asked.

“If my measurements are correct, we’re nearly there.”

They came to a vast fen, with ponds of still water dotting the terrain. It was nearly treeless, but to their right, a series of tall black pillars stood like palisade stakes.

“Faedryn’s wicked grin,” Temerin breathed, “what is that?”

“Don’t blaspheme.” Korvus held two fingers up and moved them in a circle, the sign of Alra. “Not here.”

Temerin made the prayer to Alra as well. “Well, what are they?”

Korvus counted the glittering black pillars as he trudged toward them. There were seventeen in all. “I’ve no idea.”

Temerin followed, stringing his bow as he stepped through the long grass.

Korvus’s first thought was that they’d stumbled on an ancient artifact, something left over from the days when Faedryn walked the earth. But an age had passed since the Ruining, and the pillars looked new. Their edges were sharp; there was no lichen on their glittering black surfaces. As they approached the pillars, a faint curtain appeared between them. Squinting, Korvus saw the curtain curve toward a central point above the pillars. A great dome glittered faintly over the fen.

When he reached the closest pillar, Korvus unslung his pack, set it on a tuft of wiry grass, and threw back the flap. He’d no more reached inside than Temerin said, “Master Korvus?”

Korvus looked up to find Temerin staring at the sky. A pair of dragons soared above the citadels and glided down toward them. One was a cobalt, vivid blue with streaks of midnight running through its wings. The other was an amber, its scales the color of honey. They were umbrals, nocturnal creatures that woke when the dark sun rose and hunted through the night. The taming and bonding of such creatures had been outlawed since the end of the Talon Wars. With very few exceptions, only the Red Knives used them now, and both dragons had riders.

The dragons alighted on a nearby hillock and folded their wings. Korvus glanced at Temerin and saw he had an arrow nocked. “Put that away! And for the love of the goddess, unstring your bow!”

Temerin looked like he might argue, but he complied.

By then the riders had slid down their dragons’ shoulders to the ground. The amber dragon’s rider was Raef, one of the highest ranking members of the Red Knives, a Kin man with dark skin, downturned eyes, and intricately braided red hair. His left arm ended in a stump wrapped in studded leather. The man beside him was surely Llorn, the Red Knives’ cruel enforcer, also called “the Butcher.” He had dark skin as well and long black hair, bound into a tail. His cheeks and forehead were covered with blotchy sun marks. Sun marks were a common enough thing in the Deepwood. The sheer number on Llorn’s ­face—​­as if he defied everyone and everything, even the dark sun—​­was not.

Llorn approached Korvus and Temerin. Raef drew his longsword with his good hand and followed. Both men stopped several paces away.

“Who are you?” Llorn asked.

“My name is Korvus Julianus,” Korvus said quickly. “I’m a master alchemyst, and this is my ferryman, Temerin. We’ve come on a surveying mission.”

Llorn looked from Korvus to Temerin and back. “A surveying mission.”

“Yes. To study the flow of aura and umbra through the forest.”

“And who sent you on this survey?”

It wasn’t lost on Korvus that the question was a way of asking who might come looking for them if they turned up missing. But it left him an opening. “Marstan Lyndenfell, the imperator himself. He gave us a sizable grant as well.”

Llorn spoke slowly, deliberately. “Marstan ­Lyndenfell . . .”

Korvus nodded. While Marstan, the imperator, was a nominal enemy of the Red Knives, it was said he held some sway with Llorn’s brother and liege, Aarik, the man they called King of the Wood. Surely, knowledge of Lyndenfell’s involvement would prevent Llorn from doing anything rash. Surely, the punishment for trespassing on Red Knife territory would go no further than their being ransomed back to Glaeyand. The men might even set them free with a mere warning.

Llorn pointed at the pillars. “Does Marstan know about these?”

Korvus paused. If he lied and told Llorn that Marstan knew, it might enrage him. But telling the ­truth—​­that Marstan knew nothing about them—​­felt like a death sentence. “Of course he does. How else would we have known where to go?”

“So, to survey the crucible, your benefactor, Marstan Lyndenfell, sent an alchemyst”—​­Llorn looked at Temerin again, longer this ­time—“and a ferryman deep into our lands with no additional protection?”

Korvus’s heart was beating so fast it felt like a herd of elk passing through his chest. He knew the lie he’d just told could easily spin out of his control, but what choice did he have now? “That’s right.”

Llorn’s cobalt dragon issued a rolling growl. Beside it, the amber craned its neck, making its barbs rattle like a spill of bones. Korvus knew little of the bonds men like these had with their dragons, but he knew enough to know that the dragons’ reactions were likely echoes of their bondmates’ feelings.

Llorn smiled. “I think not, Master Korvus.” He tilted his head at Raef and unsheathed his longsword.

Raef gripped his sword and stalked toward Temerin.

Temerin stepped back. “No, please! I have a wife! Our child’s birth is only days away!”

Knowing what was coming, Korvus focused on ­Llorn—​­only Llorn, but from the corner of his eye he saw Temerin try to draw his rapier. Raef swung his sword in a horizontal arc and sliced through Temerin’s neck. The guide collapsed to the ground, gurgled, and lay still.

The cobalt dragon crept forward, flicking its massive tongue at Temerin’s bloody corpse, but Llorn raised a hand, and it backed away.

Raef wiped his sword on Temerin’s cloak, sheathed it, and walked back toward his dragon.

Korvus pointed to the pillars behind him. “Tell me what it is, at least?”

Llorn stared at the gleaming black pillars. “I’ll tell you this much. One day, great power will flow from the crucible. When it does, control over my people’s destiny will be returned to us, once and for all.”

Korvus shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

Llorn raised his sword. “Then pray your wisp quickens before that day comes, so you can witness it from your second life.” He jammed his sword into Korvus’s chest, twisted the blade, and jerked it out. Pain speared through Korvus, and he collapsed to the earth. He raked the wiry grass with his fingers; blood bubbled across his chest, warm and slick beneath his shirt. His vision filled with stars, and a ­high-​­pitched ringing filled his ears.

Korvus knew he should pray to Alra for mercy, but he couldn’t. He was too riveted by the black pillars. He stared at ­them—​­at the curtain that flowed between them and the dome they created above the ­fen—​­and wondered at their purpose.