“An enthralling epic teeming with valor, camaraderie, and searing battles.” – Kirkus Reviews
Long ago, the continent of Cynnahu was shattered by a genocidal war between native Dragonkin and invading human mages, leaving humanity victorious and the Dragonkin extinct. Now, millennia later, the descendants of those conquerors face a new, ancient enemy as a foretold time arrives—when five shall save, or fail to save, the Archipelago of Cynnahu in humanity’s Last War against the snake-folk of Nag Isle. A Traveler, Orphan, Survivor, Student, and Lord must rediscover the Elder Song—the last magics of the Dragonkin.
They are Sakura, orphaned when her family and island are slaughtered, seeking vengeance; Myrriden, a weary mage and single father; Emrys, his anxious son, doubting his worth; Volcan Darkrod, the enigmatic Fire Mage; and Archmage Hoth, the unshakable leader burdened by the fate of his people.
Guided by a newly uncovered riddle from the famed Grey Owl Aneirin, this unlikely team must race through swords, spells, and secrets. But time is their greatest enemy. Can two eleven-year-olds and three mages uncover lost truths and reunite the Song before humanity falls? Three things are certain: the past still lives, scrolls may outmatch swords, and extinction looms.
“An enthralling epic teeming with valor, camaraderie, and searing battles.” – Kirkus Reviews
Long ago, the continent of Cynnahu was shattered by a genocidal war between native Dragonkin and invading human mages, leaving humanity victorious and the Dragonkin extinct. Now, millennia later, the descendants of those conquerors face a new, ancient enemy as a foretold time arrives—when five shall save, or fail to save, the Archipelago of Cynnahu in humanity’s Last War against the snake-folk of Nag Isle. A Traveler, Orphan, Survivor, Student, and Lord must rediscover the Elder Song—the last magics of the Dragonkin.
They are Sakura, orphaned when her family and island are slaughtered, seeking vengeance; Myrriden, a weary mage and single father; Emrys, his anxious son, doubting his worth; Volcan Darkrod, the enigmatic Fire Mage; and Archmage Hoth, the unshakable leader burdened by the fate of his people.
Guided by a newly uncovered riddle from the famed Grey Owl Aneirin, this unlikely team must race through swords, spells, and secrets. But time is their greatest enemy. Can two eleven-year-olds and three mages uncover lost truths and reunite the Song before humanity falls? Three things are certain: the past still lives, scrolls may outmatch swords, and extinction looms.
Prologue: The Fall of the Dragonkin
Long ago, before time was recorded as it is now, the Elder Dragons soared the skies of Nim-Semalf – coming to roost when their wings grew tired on the tallest spires of the Skythrust Mountains which are no more. Towering beyond description, for their mountainous homes were leagues tall and wide, hatchling Elders were the size of large hills and the largest could cause earthshaking hurricanes with each wing-flap, while the Deep Magic they commanded could calm the seas, tame the winds, and, so the fables say, undo death. Yet often the mightiest fall the farthest. Some say that civil war broke out among them – the titanic energies loosed by their Deep Magic tearing the life-essence from their souls. Others say that there was not enough room in Nim-Semalf to hold so many massive creatures and that they died of starvation, their decayed bodies forming the islands of today. Yet the story the grey nobles discovered to be true is that having grown too great in numbers and size, most of the Elder Dragons flew to parts unknown.
What is known for certain is that some remained and, seeing that they could no longer flourish as they had, used their Deep Magic to break the Skythrust Mountains and cast them into the sea, creating a new continent which they named Cynnahu. Then, once again seeing that they could not truly prosper upon this lower hilly land, the weakened Elder Dragons used their Deep Magic one final time. On themselves, changing the very nature of their being. Sacrificing their massive size and shrinking to what the rest of their race would have called embarrassingly diminutive, the fire of their bellies cooled, their talons lost their preternatural sharpness and, finally, they lost the Deep Magic. What remained to them was a shadow’s shadow of their once fathomless power, which they named Elder Magic to commemorate their primordial glory.
They named themselves Dragonkin.
For aeons peace reigned and though the Dragonkin mourned the loss of their brethren and the Skythrust Mountains, they were proud of this new land they had formed and vowed to rule and protect it forever. But forever is a long time, as all things change, and none save those bearing the Curse of Immortality know the word for the lie it truly is.
At some point, no one has ever been quite sure when, after the Dragonkin had multiplied by many hundreds, the Escow came. The first humans to arrive on Cynnahu, the Histories tell of how the Escow sailed out of the East on ragged ships bearing notched swords and a desperate desire to find safety. The Dragonkin were fascinated by this new race and showed surprise when they performed acts of magic quite different from their own Elder Magic. They did not, however, like the tales the Escow brought – tidings of war and carnage across the Sea of Dusk in a land of which the Dragonkin had not heard. The Escow told that those they had fled from were also terrible war-mages, masters of Auric Magic. The King of the Dragonkin worried about the possibility of these Eastern mages coming after the Escow but deemed it too risky to send the humans back – for the Dragonkin wished to keep their land a secret – and so invited the Escow to make their home upon the fertile lands of Cynnahu. An offer the Escow gladly accepted in an event the grey nobles named The Arrival of Humanity.
Yet a kind offer does not always yield kind results. The Escow made Cynnahu their home and became part of what is now known as the Empire of the Dragonkin. But, possessing the Gift of Mortality, humans slowly age and, when they have done so too long, die. Hence those of the original Escow landing party grew old and their children took their place upon the farms and homesteads their parents had built. The King of the Dragonkin saw this and he, along with all the other members of his race, remembered the tales of war that the original Escow arrived with. They knew that the blood of the Eastern aura-users was in them and worried about what might happen should their children grow strong and multiply. So the Dragonkin began treating the Escow more harshly, making examples of the arrogant ones among them in great displays of physical and Elder power. The result being that, after a dozen generations, the Escow worshiped the Dragonkin as gods who protected them from the horrors of the Eastern Lands.
So did the Empire of the Dragonkin reach its zenith, with the entire continent and all the adjacent islands except Arabor under their sway and the Escow held by firm reins. To commemorate their success, the King of the Dragonkin ordered shrines to their power be built across the land. An act time would render his most important and, given its intent, most ironic deed.
For then the unthinkable happened.
Ships. Great ships with tall masts and strong sails. A fleet coming from the Eastern Lands. They were the mages the Escow had told of and fled from, and they made war upon the Dragonkin. History calls their first landing The Mages’ Conquest, for they conquered the first of the Isles before the Dragonkin mobilized, an Isle then and now named Alagor.
The resulting, apocalyptic, war changed the face of Cynnahu forever, for though the Dragonkin were primeval entities with the Elder Magic at their command, the human mages commanded the power of the Auric Speech and deep experience in war. With mere words they could rip the ground asunder or call forth lightning. Almost evenly matched, the brutal war lasted just short of a century and so colossal was the strength and will of the combatants that the very land itself, the land that the last of the Elder Dragons had made from the fallen Skythrust Mountains, was broken; and with it shattered the spirit of the Dragonkin, for though they were filled with incomprehensible rage, the war had diminished their numbers and cost them their King. So though they fought on with a vengeful fury that cost the mages countless lives, both sides knew who the victor would be.
Today the war is known as the Fall of the Dragonkin as by its end the Dragonkin were completely destroyed – the land left above the churning sea forming an archipelago of islands. It was here the mages made their home, naming their new nation Cynnahu in remembrance of the Dragonkin. Vul Island (later known as Nag Isle) was the single island other than Arabor the mages did not settle as it was little more than a putrid swampland made even less habitable by toxic gases continuously belched out by Va Volcano. But it would be inhabited centuries hence.
Chapter 1 – A Shrine falls
A scream cut across the sky – not a human scream, but rather that which hunted them.
A scream the Archmage[1] knew, steel-grey eyes hardening as he faced the horizon where the sea stretched dark and endless – the Strait of Wyrms. He had known that the Naga were coming. But this soon?
Oaken staff aglow, he threw back his hood and uttered the Spell of Tremiau, the Spell of Seeing. At once his vision soared across the waters as though borne on the wings until he saw a great fleet of black warships coming like a tide of chitinous beetles. This soon. Ending the spell and making sure what he was seeing matched where he was looking – the Archmage spun on his heels and began making his way back towards the not-so-distant circular walls that marked the Dragon Shrine’s outer defenses upon the Isle that bore its name. Shrine Isle. The westernmost island in the Archipelago and thus first line of defense against all-out invasion, a lonely place unclaimed by common folk justly fearing attacks from their hated serpentine foes across the water. Home to grass, seabirds, and its namesake’s defenders.
“Did you hear the scream, Lord Hoth?” an Order Soldier asked as the Archmage passed through the outer gates.
The Archmage nodded. “They have come. Send a message to Dragon Guardian Serro telling him to prepare the archers.”
“Yes, my lord,” replied the Soldier, saluting before hurrying off.
Archmage Hoth sighed grimly. An old yet vigorous man with a neatly trimmed beard and long white hair currently dancing in the sea breeze, the silver amulet about his neck stood stark against his blood-fire colored robes while strapped to his belt was a sheathed longsword. A weapon he would be using shortly as, though now hidden by the stone outer wall at his back, a black cord of ships appeared on the horizon.
This battle will cost us…everything here. Bitter acknowledgement worse than spoiled wine, for despite his decades of service first as a mage of the Inner Circle and now Head of the Order and Leader of the Archipelago of Cynnahu, losing those under his command always hurt.
Undeterred by the pain, he strode further into the compound. We need to make it cost them.
Clenching and unclenching his fists, glancing westward apprehensively, Captain Serro closed his eyes and willed calmness both inner and outer upon himself. The silence before a battle was always deafening. The Dragon Shrine stood to his right – a domed, spherical, columned building the inside of which was shrouded in opaque darkness despite the sunlit day. A darkness no light could pierce; only by walking inside could one see what lay within. Pity the Dragonkin did not build some arcane defenses, he grumbled mentally, green-eyed gaze now scanning the walled compound that was his charge. Then again, maybe they had… only to have them blown apart along with the rest of their civilization. And here we are today millennia later, relying on stone and steel and comparatively weaker magic.
An Order Soldier marched up. “The Archmage orders that the archers be made ready,” he declared, puffed up with an importance far above his rank at delivering a message from Lord Hoth, along with the disdain some warriors feel towards archers whose job necessitates they fight from the rear and be protected by other soldiers.
A disdain and puffiness Captain Serra punctured like a pig’s bladder. “Very interesting. As you feel the need to show authority, tell the archers yourself. Then take position at the outer wall gates. Dismissed.”
The soldier paled when he heard his orders, but it was a foolish man who disobeyed Captain Serro, particularly with the Archmage here. An Inner Circle mage and thus a master of Auric Magic, Serro was even better with the longsword at his belt. A powerfully built man with long blond hair that seemed all the fairer against his dark skin, his robes were identical in style to the Archmage’s, though his were the sunset-orange of the Order’s Inner Circle.
Brows lowering in a frown, he glanced at the map in his hand for likely the hundredth time over. When preparing for a siege, no matter how short lived it might be, it is always wise to carefully plan the defenses. Not that the defenses of this Shrine were any different from any other in the Archipelago. All Dragon Shrines are guarded by two encircling walls, with the number of Order Soldiers stationed there depending on the importance and location of the Shrine. The gates of the two walls were placed on opposite sides so that should the outer gate fall the invading force would have to go all the way around to reach the inner gate, all while being shot at by Order Soldiers on the inner wall which was higher than the outer so, should the foe overwhelm the latter, the inner wall defenders would retain a height advantage.
“Has the map changed at all?”
Jumping at the unexpected voice, Serro whirled, green eyes flaring. No one was in sight; or at least none who could have spoken to him.
“Well?” it asked.
Serro jerked and looked towards the ever-dark Shrine.
“Yes, I’m here,” the voice said, “Please do not stare. I would rather the Archmage not know.” The voice of the man in the Shrine, which alone was noteworthy since nobody was supposed to be there, was a pleasant one – or would have been if not for the strained, travel-weary tone.
But more important was that it was a familiar one. “No, old friend,” Serro answered, “the map has not changed – and it would take a mighty large one to protect us from the Naga Horde.” A professional response wreathed in wryness, expertly hiding his feelings.
“Yes,” the travel-weary voice agreed, “it would. I shall help when possible, though I’ll have to avoid the Archmage. Otherwise, could you pretend I’m not here?”
“Not if it means your death by Naga.” Serro’s tone was crisp and offered no argument.
“I shall not die. Nor will I be found…at least not until the end.”
The end. Serro chose not to respond, an image of his wife, eleven-year-old daughter and newborn son swimming before his eyes. Shaking his head, he turned back to the map.
Upon both walls the archers strung their bows and, chainmail clinking, donned their red golden armor and silver-sheathed helms so that to an onlooker it would have appeared as though both walls flashed with silver mixed with the gold of the noonday sun.
Then the Archmage appeared, though his coming was not that of normal mages who, like most everybody, were limited to ships and feet for traveling. Yet once every few centuries came mages like Lords Hoth and Serro who mastered the art of translocation: an incredibly difficult and dangerous method of travel lacking a formulaic spell in the Auric Speech, requiring instead raw willpower and an intensely disciplined mind. Only the mightiest mages can do it and many die while learning. Hence even those such as the Archmage restricted themselves to small distances and only in great need.
“Ready?” The Archmage’s tone made it sound like a polite question, but every archer knew the deadly seriousness behind the word.
“Yes, my lord,” an archer Sergeant, recognizable by the red plume upon her helm, said briskly. “The Naga will not enter here if we have anything to say about it.” Even as she spoke a cry was heard across the walls as an Order Soldiers pointed seaward. The Black Fleet was now a quilt spreading across the Strait of Wyrms towards them, dark longships scaled up and built to suit passengers with tails rather than legs, fast-moving and sleek enough to maneuver into and out of the tightest corners. And there were thousands of them, the salt wind carrying guttural screams and hisses as the snake-folk poured out their loathing of humanity. The ancient foes of the Archipelago, full scale wars between the mireborn and Cynnahu were rare, but incursions by them into the Archipelago occurred every couple decades or so. Black grief, black sails, as the old saying went.
Sucking in his breath before letting it out in a bleak exhale, the Archmage turned and raised his flickering staff in a prearranged signal to Captain Serro: they have come.
Seeing the signal-flash, Captain Serro called together his remaining soldiers – those as yet not upon the walls – until rank upon rank of steel-clad warriors stood before him, their gold-encrusted helms glittering in the sunlight. “I will not lie,” he began, because his soldiers deserved the truth, “we are badly outnumbered. So remember who we are and what we are fighting for. Remember you are not just fighting for the Shrine, the Order, the Archmage, me, or even yourselves. You are fighting for the whole of the Archipelago. If Shrine Isle falls, then the Black Fleet will push forward and invade. We have always been at the forefront of the fight. So let us now send these vile beasts back to Nag Isle! For Cynnahu!”
“For Cynnahu!” near two thousand voices bellowed, swords flashed as the Order Soldiers bellowed their approval.
The dark vessels had reached the shore, anchors flying from decks and burying themselves deep in the sand, swiftly followed by ramps flung over the bow so the fighters within could slither out. Once one ship was unloaded it drew anchor and fled, allowing the next in line to take its place.
Serro raised his staff and a great light blazed forth. “Posts!” With a roar, ten-score grim faced women and men surged toward the walls.
“Good speech,” the travel-weary voice said softly, bleakly, from nearby. “They’ll need it.” Again, Serro chose to ignore him.
But the Naga were beyond ignoring, each archer knocking arrow to string as the grotesque Naga Horde surged forward. Millennia-old enemies, neither race expected nor would show mercy towards the other.
The Archmage raised his longsword, “Volley!” A storm of arrows flew from the wall, crashing into the oncoming horde – slowing their assault as the first rank toppled, but not stopping it.
Then the Naga answered in kind – “Curruzgle![2] – with cloud of black barbed arrows arching upwards then descending to deadly effect, slamming into the defenders, several toppling from the outer wall just as the mireborn reached it.
“Defend!” Serro roared as strong ladders were hurled upward against the outer wall, parrying the blade of the first Naga warrior to swarm up it before using the Spell of Fuax to send the hateful creature back over the wall into its brethren. Dimly he heard the travel-weary voice utter a curse then, already half-drenched with sweat himself, fought on. Something’s wrong. He could sense it. He should not have been this drained already; in the past he had fought for half a day before feeling this fatigued.
“The Leaching Aura.” The Archmage’s voice, followed by himself, came as swiftly and as silently as ever, a blue glow emanating from his staff in a spell that briefly petrified the Naga as they ascended the adjacent ladders. “They have bespelled the ladders.”
“A magic that drains us of our energy,” Serro finished, mentally cursing. If they were in trouble before, it was nothing compared to now.
Then it got worse as a towering figure rose near the outer gate, a Naga so large as to dwarf the others. Twice as tall and wide with slit-pupiled eyes gleaming with hideous intelligence, he raised a staff shaped like a half-rotted tree branch and screamed a series of words. From the staff leapt an orb of pulsing, dripping power that fell upon the gate – and ate it. Chewing through iron-studded wood, stone, and the Order Soldiers atop it whose cries were lost.
The Horde did not pause or falter – surging through to the now vulnerable inner wall and the Dragon Shrine that lay within.
Famously unflappable, the Archmage, now atop the inner wall, stared at the massive mireborn sorcerer life he had seen a ghost, sucking in his breath and letting it out to form a single carefully pronounced name, “Gornag.”
Dodging a thrust then slicing off first a scaly hand then head, Dragon Guardian Serro used all the magery he dared to translocate himself atop the inner wall. Catching a glimpse of the Archmage – his sword and staff a silvery beacon effortlessly slashing and incinerating any foe that came near. The Shrine Isle may fall, but he won’t, Serro knew, then heard the cough of a familiar travel-weary voice, and hopefully neither will he. The Captain gave little thought as to his own escape. Shrine Isle was his post and his responsibility, and he would only flee if ordered by the Archmage or if, should utter doom befall them, an opportunity presented itself. But not before. An Archipelago and thus a culture of mariners, the Cynnahu folk believed in the maxim “a captain goes down with the ship or is the last to escape.” And the same applied to military Captains. How many times had he told his precious, now eleven-year-old, daughter that an officer’s duty, be they mage or otherwise, was to put the wellbeing of their troops and the Archipelago at large before themself?
Yet with the outer wall taken the defenses began to crumble, along with the defenders’ spirits, a hopeless look entering the eyes of many Order Soldiers and Serro grimaced as the self-important Soldier from before fell clutching his chest, a Naga looming over him.
Even the Archmage, though the fighting without reserve, had a sad look in his steel-grey eyes. Then a roar from the other part of the inner wall made the Archmage jerk and translocate away.
I wonder what he saw. Serro frowned then was slammed backward with piercing, brutal force. Looking down, he gaped at the arrow protruding from his chest. Strength left his arms as his legs gave way.
“Serro!” the travel-weary voice howled.
“My friend,” choked the Captain, “take care of Saku–” Lady Death’s cold kiss cut off his last syllable.
There was a pause. Then, “I will,” the travel-weary voice replied, his words thickened by grief. “You can count on it.”
A groan echoed across the Isle, heard even over mireborn shrieks, as the defenders saw their Captain fall. Tears running down his cheeks, the Archmage cursed once – then twice at the earsplitting crack that was the inner gate’s collapse. It is over. Drawing himself up, he uttered the Spell of Cadernis. A second cracking split the air and the Archmage, now looking more akin to a light-bathing god, leapt into the air and sped away, the disembodied cries of dying Naga echoing behind him.
Smoke rose in the distance. A scream cut across the sky. The Archmage, standing on a small hill and already facing the direction of the sound, stared at the ruins from whence it came. Both walls were gone, torn asunder. The Dragon Shrine was taken.
“Gornag,” he mused. “You survived.”
Movement. The Archmage snapped back to full attention. Someone was coming from the ruins. A figure was walking towards him, taking great care not to be detected by the mireborn, coming ever quicker as it neared the Archmage until it resolved into the ragged shape of a man. Grasping his staff like a great cane, his sunset-orange robes seemed to glow in the actual, incongruously beautiful sunset. He was of the Inner Circle. The Archmage’s eyes widened, then narrowed to slits.
Shaggy brown hair obscuring his forehead, the man smiled was a bit guilty. “I know you didn’t want me here, but…” his travel-weary voice wavered, sounding like it might break. The Archmage continued to stare, an expression of amused annoyance creeping into features. “Serro’s dead,” the man intoned. The Archmage nodded without shifting his gaze. Finally, unable to endure the silence and unrelenting stare, the man continued, “He asked me to take care of Saku–” Yet like Serro, he was cut off.
Not by death, but by Archmage Hoth. “Hello, Myrriden.”
Chapter 2 – Boat ride
Smoke. Volcan could sense it. He rose from his rickety rocking chair and looked about, crimson eyes seeing nothing his gaze met while the fire in the hearth went from merry yellow orange to the same deep red of his eyes. A small, two roomed log-cabin filled with the cozy aroma of tea, it might have been called quaint save that the term was no description for the occupant. A tall, slightly bent figure with reddish skin and a hooked nose jutting from a face that could give cliffsides lessons in cragginess, his crimson eyes alone would have been enough to make any intruder beat a hasty retreat. Add the large dirk[3] at his belt coupled with his sunset-orange Inner Circle robes and only the most dimwitted would have dared even think of approaching uninvited. Which was why few ever ventured to the lone cabin of Volcan Darkrod on Pangur Isle’s northwesternmost shore.
Death! Out the door in a flash, crimson cloak flapping, Volcan glared out to sea. “Smoke,” he growled in that awful, rasping, voice of his. On the horizon’s most distant edge rising in thick, black columns that some associate with a wildfire and others with war. Worse, Volcan knew it to be the latter. Ankohl Isle was burning. “Mireborn,” he snarled, “I will fry Serro for letting them get past him. Light his robes the same way those buildings…” words sizzling away like steam on remembering that Ankohl Isle was Dragon Guardian Serro’s home, the Darkrod snapped his fingers in the direction of the cabin. A blackened rod shot through the wall toward him, passing through the wood as easily as if it were water. Seizing it, Volcan looked back at the sea again and shivered, but it was a motion of hatred rather than fear or chill. Drawing his cloak about him as he set off towards the water, he sent a quick auric message to Myrriden.
Pausing at land’s end, Volcan again considered the blue expanse with weathered loathing. “You chose this life,” he growled to himself. “Now you must live it.” So the Darkrod stepped onto the water, his feet not sinking beneath the breaking waves as he walked but causing a burst of steam beneath his feet. Craggy face lined with venom, his strides gradually lengthened until he was running across the water – resembling nothing so much as a moving column of steam upon the sea, a strange sight, to be sure, but familiar to those familiar with him.
Keeping an unrelenting pace, hours later he had a clear view of Ankohl Isle. “Immortal might of the Elder Dragons!” His eyes went scarlet as tears of fury and grief evaporated on his face. The smoke as he had seen it from Pangur Isle was a pale shadow compared to this. The source? What used to be a village. Volcan turned his run into a gallop and, upon arriving, found the whole of the southern village razed, the frames of demolished homes black and smoldering. Scanning the ruins, he took a step, felt a crunch, looked down and sucked in his breath in a sound akin to the embers crackling around him. Empty sockets stared up at him. “You’re late,” they seemed to say, for the skull’s former owner had clearly died fighting – and not alone either, judging by the notched sword that lay there with charred bones all about, blackened flesh still clinging to them in places. As if to further welcome him, the remains of a wall of a nearby house collapsed, revealing a family clinging to or trying to protect one another in their last despair or vain defense, a black arrow protruding from the corpse of a miraculously barely singed newborn baby, its tiny, bloodless white arms reaching for its charred mother.
The steam rising from his eyes and nearly blinding him, Volcan picked up the notched sword and plunged it into the muddied and bloodied earth with a curse that shook the air. These people had been his friends, always flocking to the beach whenever a steaming column of boiling water approached from the sea! But he had no time for grief and moved toward the smoke further inland where he found similar welcoming committees in each village and town, once happy people laying in grotesque assembly about him. Yet for all that he was moving though seared and smoldering debris, only his now-smeared sunset-orange robes showed the signs of it – his cloak and skin remaining untarnished even as his craggy face contorted with rage.
The Isle had been annihilated. Its thousands of inhabitants killed.
Sniff.
Volcan stilled. What? He could not have heard what he thought he heard. His ears were playing tricks on him.
“Mom! Please come back!”
Leaping forward like a shot, several houses down Volcan found a girl on her knees crying over a woman’s body, great heaving sobs racking her own about. “Mom! Dad! Father gone at Shrine Isle and now this! I can’t…” Weeping took the rest of it.
Her words struck Volcan like cold water, his reddish skin paling to a pinkish hue. “Shrine Isle…” Mind swirling, the Darkrod put two and two together. Dragon’s breath! That’s how the Black Fleet got this far! Shrine Isle has fallen! Stiffening as these thoughts called up a thousand different memories and possibilities, he stared at the grief-stricken girl – then nearly swallowed his tongue, for beneath her smoke-blackened skin and scorched hair was familiar face. “Sakura?”
Up in an instant, she spun around, pearl-encrusted dagger in hand and long dark brown hair whipping across the wild-eyed expression of one who has seen death and is ready to kill. Volcan remained still.
“Fire Mage?” Stunned, she trembled, not believing what she was seeing.
Volcan’s nod was ironic. “Good to see you, Sakura.”
The girl stared at Volcan the Fire Mage as one might at an apparition until, at last, the red cloaked man sat down among the ashes and waited.
When Sakura next spoke it was in a hoarse, grief-laden whisper. “Why are you here?”
“Oh I just came to see how you were doing,” he answered with undisguised sarcasm. “I love fire, but this is a bit much. Stop playing dumb, Sakura; I came to help, and you know it.”
“Do I?” Sakura barked, her impossibly green eyes bright with suspicion. “Why help me?”
Rising now and looming over her like a blood-splattered totem-pole with living coals for eyes, crimson strove against green. “Unless I am mistaken, it is customary to rescue people from burning villages; and you are the daughter of a friend, as you well know.”
Sakura’s dagger was still raised. “How do I know you’re not a Naga spy?”
For a moment Volcan said nothing. “How hard did they hit your head, Sakura?” he asked at last, smoky voice blending with the burning all about them. “I have fought the Naga at every turn. It was because of me that the Battle of Snakes-horn was won.” Sakura still looked distrustful, but the intensity of her gaze began to falter. “Now answer my question,” Volcan growled. “How are you still alive and unhurt? The mireborn are hardly known for taking prisoners and no has ever taught them the meaning of mercy.” His temper broke and the temperature soared. “And what in the immortal might of the Elder Dragons has possessed you to make these accusations!? Answer!”
Uncertainty and tears leaking from her now downcast face as the dagger wavered in her sweaty grip, Sakura’s legs gave way and she was on the ground. “Because the Naga told me I would be rescued by a friend and then you came! What was I supposed to think!” Making a valiant effort to hold back further tears as, again, Volcan sat facing her, pity girding his craggy, unfathomable features, Sakura looked up. I will NOT cry. Not in front of him. She knew Volcan slightly, for he was indeed a friend of both her parents and a member of the Inner Circle besides, but he was also a mystery that not even the Loremasters had solved. Not just another mage. The Fire Mage. Her shoulders began to shake with fresh sobs.
Volcan placed his hands upon them. “Smoke. I can sense smoke at great distances when I try, and closer by without effort. The mireborn know this, and they know I live on Pangur Isle. So…” like smoke caught by a ceiling, he left it hanging.
She sighed in exhausted self-disgust. “Right. So they tricked me into thinking you knew of the attack but had not warned us. They knew father’s rank and let me live hoping I would tell the Archmage.” Slamming her dagger into the ground in much the same way Volcan had earlier with the notched sword, Sakura looked away, no longer sobbing but silently crying. Trickery or not, her whole family, all her neighbors, were dead.
“It matters not,” the Fire Mage growled, standing before receiving and responding to an auric message from Myrriden. “Come.” He offered Sakura a hand up which she, after a moment, accepted. “We must return to Pangur Isle. From there we shall take the Seaflame to Noridris.” Just my luck to be saddled with a passenger.
“And then?” Sakura queried, despite having guessed at the reason for going to the capital city upon Alagor Isle.
But Volcan was already striding away and did not respond.
Many days later Sakura grimaced against the ceaseless wind, the smell of salt filling her nostrils. Lifting her gaze from the swirling waters, she glanced about the boat for about the thousandth time. It was a small craft, meant for up to three people, four if needed, and was speedily cutting through the waves. The wind hammered the sail, and Sakura wondered how much of the wind was natural and how much otherwise. Pulling a dark strand of hair from her face, she looked at the ship’s captain and usually sole occupant: Volcan stood at the tiller guiding them through the choppy yet harmless waves as if they were mountain-high, his dark red cloak swirling around him in the wind as his fiery red skin seemed to glow in the sunlight. Sakura grimaced. All her life she had been told that Volcan was among the greatest seafarers in the Archipelago – second perhaps only to Myrriden – and his boat of redwood, the Seaflame, was fabled; yet she had never imagined nor ever wanted to be a passenger on it.
She also knew that Volcan was hardly a talkative person, but she dared a question anyhow. “If you dislike the water so much, Volcan, why do you take such trouble when sailing in perfectly safe weather?”
The Fire Mage turned, his crimson eyes sparkling. “It is precisely because I despise the sea that I take such trouble, Sakura. I don’t trust it. Surely your parents told you that.” Sakura glared, her green eyes full of rage and grief. It was at moments like these that she came close to hating Volcan. He knew her father, family, and home isle had been destroyed. Only the fact that Volcan had rescued her from Ankohl Isle kept her from lashing out at him, but it was a great temptation.
“No, as a matter of fact they did not,” she replied, filling her voice with as much haughtiness and rage as possible.
“Well, now you know,” came the reply. “And caution has saved my life more times that you can count on both land and sea.”
Volcan’s tone suggested something unusual, something that Sakura could not fathom. Shaking herself, she turned her head back toward the water and stared at its swirling depth for some time. Then, rallying her courage, she asked, “Why is it that people call you the greatest mariner second to Myrriden?”
“Because his skill is greater than mine,” he drawled.
Sakura rolled her eyes. Obviously. “What I mean is, how did his skill become greater than yours? I was told that you’ve been in the Order longer than Myrriden.”
“Myrriden the Traveler,” was the sardonic response. Sakura raised an eyebrow and tried to repress a smile, suddenly grateful that Emrys – Myrriden’s son and her friend – was not there. She knew he had never been fond of that title. Silence followed as the Fire Mage kept his gaze resolutely forward.
Finally, unable to endure the stillness, Sakura asked the question that she had been meaning to ask the crimson-cloaked man for years. “Why are you so silent all the time? Being quiet is one thing, but your silence is so complete I can almost feel it.”
The hooded figure’s response was slow in coming. But come it did. “To listen, Sakura, one must be silent.” Which is precisely what followed: Volcan resuming his silence, with Sakura listening to the turquoise waves splashing the ship’s hull.
Sakura must have fallen asleep, for when she awoke countless stars glimmered above. She sat up, her neck and back stiff from lying on the redwood, and gazed up into the night. She had seen this view before, of course. Her parents had taken their family on many trips to nearby Isles and Noridris, but something about this night’s view felt different to her. Sitting on the deck of the Seaflame, Sakura realized that this was the first time she had looked at the stars over the ocean without the rest of her family. A sob caught in her throat as she also realized that she would never look at it with them again. Yet she took comfort in the fact that the view, that endless abundance of gems in the sky, glittering and casting their light upon the ocean, had been and would always be. Their light shall never be extinguished. A thought that passed through and remained with her.
A long time seemed to pass, or maybe she fell asleep again, but when Sakura next returned to conscious thought a low murmuring filled the air.
“When the Naga come and doom draws near,
Hope shall stir on the heels of fear,
As a Team of Five shall rise to fight,
With Dragon Flame and Mages’ Light.
Traveler, Orphan, Survivor, Student, and Lord,
Must pry and fight the Neidr’s Horde.
In the Hour of Doom fate shall cast its hand.
And one shall fall in Elderland.”
Sakura turned in amazement to see Volcan sitting by the tiller, letting the gentle waves and breeze guide the ship as they willed. Wrapped in his crimson cloak the Fire Mage was a dark blot, like a clot of recently dried blood, against the starlit ocean background. His voice was as dry leaves cracking in a fire, yet there was a firm and steady note to it; the blend of many emotions Sakura could not identify.
“Volcan?” she whispered.
Volcan stiffened, then again relaxed. “Yes, Sakura?” Sakura was startled by the tone in which he spoke. Instead of the hard, gruff voice she was used to, the Fire Mage spoke in a soft, reflective, and slightly defensive whisper – like smoke rising from old embers.
“What was that you were singing just now?”
For the first time all that day, Volcan gave her his full attention. “The Prophecy of Gwydara the Seer.” Sakura blinked; she had never heard the name. Volcan explained, “Gwydara the Seer was a mage who lived during the First War. She fought alongside Archmage Amergin and was present when the Naga were crushed. When Archmage Amergin died, long afterward, Gwydara was asked to serve as the next Archmage. She refused.”
This time Sakura’s blink was one of surprise. To refuse the title of Archmage was almost unheard of and, as far as she knew, it had happened only four times since the Fall. “Why is she called the Seer?”
“Because,” said Volcan, his crimson eyes dancing, “on her deathbed she uttered what you just heard me sing.”
“Which was?” Sakura posed, taking advantage of this unusually talkative Volcan.
The Fire Mage gave her a steady look and continued in a matter-of-fact tone. “A prophecy telling of either the final destruction or final victory of the Neidr’s Horde.”
The word Neidr struck a chord in Sakura’s memory. “Neidr? That’s the ruler of the Naga, right?”
“That is his title,” confirmed Volcan, “Not his name. The current Neidr’s named Diras, and believe me the sight of him is enough to make you cry.”
“You’ve seen him?” asked Sakura wonderingly. As far as she knew nobody had ever met the Naga ruler as he rarely, if ever, left Nag Isle.
“Once,” said Volcan tersely. “A long time ago.”
Sakura considered this. Volcan was a powerful mage; that much she knew, but he was just as much a mystery. Nobody knew where he had come from. Her father had told her that over twenty years ago a contingent of the Black Fleet circumvented Shrine Isle and attacked Pangur Isle. The garrison there, caught by surprise, was unable to push them back and would have been massacred. But out of nowhere a mage with fiery skin and crimson eyes appeared and bathed the invaders, ships and all, in flames – causing enough damage that the remainder of the garrison could take out all the rest. Lady Na'ima, the previous Archmage, asked to see this unlooked for savior and, after a brief interview, declared him a member of the Inner Circle. Called the Fire Mage by many, this enigmatic figure referred to himself as Volcan Darkrod.
“Is there anything else?” asked Volcan sardonically, breaking her caravan of thought.
Gathering her courage, she broached a topic that she felt would mean something to the hooded figure before her. “Nag Isle had a different name once, didn’t it?” Despite the wording, it was not a question.
“Vul Isle,” the Fire Mage confirmed.
“Where did that name come from?”
A rare smile twitched upon his craggy face, “Vul Isle got its name from the Dragonkin who dwelt there.”
“Dragonkin!?” Sakura was honestly surprised.
“Yes. A strong one. He went by the name of Vuglrath and lived on the Isle before the mireborn came. He was one of the last, possibly the very last, Dragonkin to fall.”
As she heard this tale a dim bell of familiarity rang in her mind. Sakura knew basic history and was well aware that the Naga had arrived when Neidr Noson brought the Black Fleet from the Southlands to soon-to-be-renamed Nag Isle approximately five centuries after the Fall. Plenty of time for a Dragonkin corpse to rot away in the swamps.
Volcan turned away, the sounds of the sea and light of the stars once again dominating the night.
Splash! A great wave loomed over the Seaflame and came crashing down. Volcan swore and urged the ship forward. “Curse this wretched sea.” A whoop of coughing erupted behind him and, sparing half a glance, the Fire Mage saw his young companion retching up seawater – her hair a salty mess and her leathers soaked through. A smile touched his lips.
Choking on the taste of sea-salt, Sakura looked through the tangle of hair and saw Volcan’s evident amusement. “What’s so funny?” she snarled, spitting her words as well as seawater.
“You,” answered Volcan, voice dripping with repressed mirth. Sakura choked again, though whether from seawater or fury the Fire Mage could not tell.
Trying in vain to untangle her hair, Sakura glowered at the Fire Mage, wishing with all her might that a great wave would send him sprawling. Then we’ll see who’s laughing, she thought vengefully. Volcan turned back to tiller and Sakura could have sworn she heard that rasping chuckle of his. Cursing silently, she went back to trying to straighten her hair.
It was a long while before Volcan came to her aid for, despite popular belief, as he put it, he was not utterly ruthless. She first noticed his help when she realized she felt warm. Having been soaked to the skin and with ocean winds blowing about her, Sakura knew that she should still be chilled, yet she was not. A comfortable warm radiance, as if from a blazing hearth, was slowly enveloping her; drying off her leathers and removing the salty stiffness from her long hair.
Sakura glanced over at Volcan. As usual, the captain of the Seaflame had his head turned away from her with both hands grasping the tiller; only this time they were glowing bright scarlet. “Thank you,” she said softly and a little a defensively. Volcan smiled. She didn’t see it, but she felt that he had.
“I’d cut that hair if I were you,” he said after a while. “Cutting is a lot easier than managing.”
“No.” Her parents had loved her long hair and she vowed never to change it. Volcan shrugged and muttered something under his breath. Immediately, the remaining tangles fell away. Startled, Sakura did not respond.
[1] Pronounced “Ark-mage.”
[2] Assume that this is the Naga word for “volley”.
[3] A long thrusting dagger.
The Last War by Ian E.S. Adler is the first book in The Dragonkin Legacy, an immersive fantasy set in a world you’ll want to get lost in. The story begins with a chilling warning: the Naga Empire is rising again, and a final war is on the horizon. As the threat intensifies, hope rests on an ancient prophecy and a group known as the “Team of Five." Two of the group members, Emrys and Sakura, may be kids at first, but they’re about to get swept into something way bigger than they ever imagined. As everything begins to fall apart, they—and the rest of their team—must uncover old truths, revive forgotten magic, and find the strength and courage to protect the only home they’ve ever known.
The world-building in this story stands out and is truly remarkable. Adler brings the settings to life, like when describing Cynnahu: “Constructed from marble and flamestone, the city presents a stunning view, its high buildings rising with a dignity that commands respect and pride from both residents and newcomers. Atop each [tower] flies the banner of the Order—a vivid red flame on a blue background, bordered by four golden dragons.” These vivid descriptions anchor readers in the story’s sense of place. It’s not a quick read and demands your whole focus—and perhaps a second reading—as Adler delves deeply into topics like prophecy and ancient magic. Still, the depth pays off.
Character development is another strength. Emrys and Sakura are thoughtful and determined, despite their youth, and grow more as the novel progresses. They may live in a fantasy world, but their struggles—like figuring out who they are, feeling the pressure of expectations, and trying to find their place—are universally relatable. The fight scenes are also another strength and are exciting! Plus, who doesn’t like a good fight scene? They’re easy to visualize, as seen throughout the battle in chapters 33-34. It's intense, fought between the human defenders of the fortress of Cynnahu and the invading Naga, who were savage and described as serpent-like creatures that came in using huge, long boats known as the Black Fleet. These action-heavy moments are well-paced and balanced with quieter scenes that let readers connect more deeply with the characters.
The Last War is an ideal pick for fans of immersive fantasy grounded in rich legend. I’d recommend it to anyone who enjoys coming-of-age tales wrapped in magic, mystery, and high-stakes adventure.