Knights of Aralia Book IIII: The Conquest

KNIGHTS OF ARALIA BOOK IIII: THE CONQUEST J. S. ALLEN ALSO BY THIS AUTHOR: Knights of Aralia Book I: Remnants of Light Knights of Aralia Book II: Evil Rising Knights of Aralia Book III: The Return of Hope Sauragia Journey to the Red Mountain Woodland Tales In loving memory of Elizabeth Jane Allen-Simmons. You were the best. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Text and Maps Copyright © 2025 by J. S. Allen Cover Art Copyright © 2025 by Ilya Royz Published by Bluedrake Books, an imprint of Ash Tree Media All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data provided by Five Rainbows Cataloging Services Names: Allen, J.S., 1995- author. Title: The conquest / J. S. Allen. Description: Belton, MO : Bluedrake Books, 2025. | Series: Knights of Aralia, bk. 4. | Summary: Fordain and his knights seek new allies as Aralia prepares to take the war to the enemy. | Audience: Ages 14 to 17. Identifiers: ISBN 978-1-956619-23-2 (hardcover) | ISBN 978-1-956619-24-9 (paperback) | ISBN 978-1-956619-25-6 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Young adult fiction. | CYAC: Dragons--Fiction. | Knights--Fiction. | War--Fiction. | Fantasy. | BISAC: YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Fantasy / Epic. | YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Action & Adventure / General. | YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Animals / Mythical Creatures. | YOUNG ADULT FICTION / War & Military. Classification: LCC PZ7.1.A45 C67 2025 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.A45 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]--dc23. Visit ashtreemedia.com A grey haze hovered low over the fields near the city of Draakhaven. The chill winds of an ever-deepening autumn swept across the last of the ripening crops that would soon be harvested. Nevertheless, a steady stream of travellers braved the elements on their way to and from the busy capital of Hengoroth. Aside from these merchants, soldiers and dignitaries, two more figures rode along a ridge to the south. They travelled at an easy pace, eyes roving this way and that, yet always returning to the distant horizon where a solid grey tower moved slowly across the sky. “Looks like we’re in for a storm,” said the first, a young woman with golden hair and pale blue eyes. “So it does,” agreed the other, a solid-looking young warrior wearing the armour of a Drakonic officer with a great ash tree encircled by stars engraved upon it. He gathered up his reins in one hand and rested the other upon the hilt of his exquisite sword, Eerstekling as he remarked, “But the wind’s not blowing our way this time, sister. I think this one’s headed east.” A flash in the clouds and the long, low roll of thunder that followed sent chills down their spines. They quietly watched for a moment as nature gathered her awesome might to unleash upon the distant floodplain, silently praying for those who dwelled there. Ingred eventually turned her gaze to the northern road, where a long column of Draga marched toward the gathering storm on their way to the faraway city of Hengrius and the war that raged beyond. “Looks like a whole regiment this time,” remarked Ingred. “The first of several leaving today,” replied Béragon. “The entire Fourth Division is supposed to be on its way east by sunset.” They watched for a moment as Béragon turned his horse away. “Come now, let’s get back to the barracks, or else they’ll start supper without us.” “I understand Drakor has decided to try his hand at cooking this evening,” stated Ingred as they rode toward the city’s main gate. “Is that so?” “Yes.” “Well, be prepared to lend him your expertise.” “Come now, brother, you’ve no way of knowing whether he’s any good or not.” “Warriors are seldom chefs, sister, as I can attest to myself. The better the warrior, the worse the cook. A scrapper as skilled as Drakor has spent more of his life sharpening swords than kitchen knives.” “We shall see.” They passed through the gate under the watchful eye of several guardsdrakes, then into the bustling city streets beyond. No war had yet touched Draakhaven, and the populace went about their daily lives as though it never could. The two young knights earnestly hoped they were right as they rounded the corner onto a side street. They stopped beside the door of a tall greyish building where a young man with long, dark hair stood waiting. “Ah, good!” he exclaimed. “You’re here.” “Is something wrong, Wavae?” asked Ingred. “Not in the least,” replied their younger brother. “But the others said someone ought to stay behind to tell you.” “Tell us what?” pressed Béragon. “We’re to dine with Elder Vargon this evening.” “The Elder has invited us to supper?” Ingred was at once surprised and thrilled at the news. “That’s right,” replied Wavae. “Says he’s looking forward to seeing us again.” “And we him,” said Béragon. “It’s about time we did, considering we are here to serve as his escort.” “Don’t be so ungracious, brother,” said Ingred. “You know he’s kept very busy by his office. I’m sure if time had allowed, he would have come to us much sooner.” “Perhaps we should get on with it then,” spoke Wavae as he mounted his horse. “No need to keep the good dragon waiting.” Thus, the three knights trotted through the wide, heavily congested streets of Hengoroth on their way to the Elder’s Tower, which lay near the city centre. Along the way, Béragon spotted a caravan of tough-looking Draga and nudged his sister. “Looks like we’ve got some more Independents headed out,” he commented. Independents were warriors who fought for one side or another completely of their own accord without owing allegiance to any nation or kingdom. They were considered very dangerous, and seldom got along well with others. Thus, groups travelling together like these were rare. There had been a time when, wandering in the wilderness of Northern Emprius, Ingred and her companions had briefly considered becoming Independents themselves. Their friend Drakor had been one before joining them, but his foster brother Elagor had brought him around. “Well, let’s be glad they’re on our side,” replied Ingred as they passed the party. At last they arrived in the main square, which was surrounded by the most important buildings in the city. To the left was the Draakhlin, the assembly point of Hengoroth’s governing body, and beside it the Library of Rangor. In the heart of the square stood an enormous statue of the first Draga, Drakor, in full armour with a helmet tucked under one arm. His other arm was raised to the heavens along with his gaze, as though thanking the Arden above for turning this beautiful seaside locale into the beating heart of Drakonic civilization. It was a highly romanticized portrayal, of course. The real Drakor had never set foot in the land now called Hengoroth, nor had he worn a scrap of clothing in his life, much less armour. Nevertheless, its message was clear: the Draga of this city took great pride in their heritage, and woe unto any who threatened their beloved home. Equally spectacular in both height and design was the structure standing directly across the square from the Draakhlin: the magnificent Elder’s Tower. It was, in fact, an identical twin to the one that stood many miles to the southeast on the site of the original Draakhlin, and had been built around the same time. It was truly a splendid piece of Reptilian architecture, from the wing-shaped peaks at its top to the ornate carving upon its door. The four climbed the short staircase to the entrance, where a young Draga with greenish grey scales awaited them. “Morning sirs. Milady,” he said, bowing to them in a gesture of respect among his people. “Good day, Ralor,” replied Wavae. “Were you waiting on us?” “Yes, actually,” answered Ralor cheerily. “The Elder told me to watch for you. Do come inside. The others are assembled in the parlour.” The drake opened and held the door for them as they went in. Once they were inside, Ralor entered, then took the lead. “This way, please.” “Thank you, Ralor,” said Ingred. She had always liked Ralor. The youth was shy and quiet, but exceptionally well mannered, which was little surprise considering he was the ward of Elder Vargon. He had been taken in by the kindly old Draga after his parents had been killed in service to Aralia, though they did not know the details. It was not a subject Ralor liked to talk about. Soon he led them across the main entryway to another open door. Sounds of laughter and conversation were coming from within, and Ralor stepped aside to let them through. Upon entering they found the rest of their old fellowship strewn about the room, chatting or simply reposing in the warm comfort of Elder Vargon’s parlour. Seated in the centre of the room were the philosophical Evander, the scholarly but hardy Morgan, the sea-loving Lampolo, and the unparallelled swordsman Dèscar. In the far corner they saw the red-scaled Drakor and his childhood friend Elagor in conversation with their elder brother Éogor. And standing alone beside the mantle, deep in thought as always, was none other than the stoic leader of this brave band, Lieutenant Fordain Abendroth. The rest of the Fifteenth Aralian Wolf Section promptly turned to greet their companions as they walked in. “‘Ow was your little patrol, then?” asked Lampolo. “Anythin’ new out there?” “Not yet,” replied Béragon curtly. “More columns heading out, but nothing else.” “A beautiful sight, isn’t it?” remarked Wavae. “Who would have thought the Draga would ever get themselves organized for war at the rate they were going?” “Well, we’ve certainly given them long enough, haven’t we?” spoke Drakor, shaking his head impatiently. “‘Bout time those lazy sots got their tails motivated to fight.” Although he was himself from Hengoroth, Drakor felt no special allegiance to his countrymen as a general rule. “Though I’ll be damned if they get back into it before we do.” “What’s the matter, Drakor?” spoke Morgan. “Don’t you consider our rest well deserved?” “Not hardly! A short respite, maybe, but not a full rest. Only when Algoron’s dead and his empire in ruins will I consider it time to rest. As it is, we’ve gone a month and more now without any action at all!” “And Heaven knows you can’t go that long without a fight,” said Wavae. “Not without killing something, anyway,” muttered Drakor. No one replied. They knew the drake’s bloodlust in battle—they had all witnessed it first hand. “I agree heartily,” said Elagor with his slightly rasping voice. “The hunting is no good here. This is farm country for miles around.” “Mayhap not,” said Evander, “but this city’s certainly got plenty else t’offer. I can’t see no reason t’rush back to the fray too quickly.” “Yes, but just remember, the war is still going on out there,” Dèscar spoke up. “And if we do not ride out to meet it of our own accord, it will find its way to us.” “Always the spoilsport, eh, Dèscar?” remarked Wavae. “Nevertheless, he is right, Wavae,” spoke Fordain at last. “We’re knights; not sightseers. A week or two for recovery is good, but too much of this easy living can soften the body and dull the mind.” They could not argue with that, mainly because Ralor now re-entered, having left the guests for a moment to check on things upstairs. “Pardon me, knights, but Elder Vargon awaits you all in the dining chamber,” he announced. “If you’d just follow me, I’ll show you up.” “Lead on, Ralor,” spoke Fordain. “Now we’re all here, there’s no need to keep the Elder waiting.” So, up they went, ascending the zig-zagged staircase to the second storey, where the doors stood wide open. Ralor once more entered ahead to announce their presence, after which he gave a sign that it was all right for the knights to come in. Before them stood the Elder himself wearing his long, formal dinner robes. “Welcome, Aralians, to my humble table,” he said. Elder Vargon was an impressive specimen of a Draga. He was ancient, even by his own kind’s standards. But despite the wrinkles in his fading grey scales, he leaned very little on his trusty oaken staff. He was a well-built Draga, rivalling even Drakor in size, though his toothy smile was that of a youthful innocent. The only real sign of his age that Fordain could ever detect was in his eyes. The deep wisdom tucked behind those pale grey orbs bespoke one who had seen much sorrow in his life, but who had refused to let that sorrow keep him from experiencing the many joys it had to offer. “Thank you for inviting us, Elder,” replied Fordain as they all bowed respectfully. “It is good to see you again.” “Indeed! It has been far too long, Lieutenant Abendroth. I am sorry I did not ask to see you sooner. But I have been quite busy of late, and truth be told, I was unaware of your presence in town until just a few days ago.” He paused. “Well now, I do believe there are some of us who’ve not met before.” His gaze rested on Dèscar. “What is your name, sir?” “I am Dèscar Dagion of the Kingdom of Cairaga,” replied the dark-haired young knight with a courtly bow and a flick of the cloak hem. “Aah yes, the famed sword master of Aralia.” Vargon nodded sagely. “I am honoured indeed.” “As am I, sir.” “And you, my lad?” “My brother Éogor, sir,” Ingred responded for the reserved young man. “I thought he had the bearing of a de Haas. So pleased to see your family united once more, Captain.” “Thank you, Elder,” said Éogor. “Lampolo Terentius Aretto of Emprius, sir,” spoke the next knight when asked. “Do I detect a native of the Coral Coast?” “Aye, sir. I was raised in the village o’ Sole near Lutra.” “Beautiful country, the Coral Coast. Would that I could have done more boating in my time, but alas.” Drakor then stepped forward without waiting to be asked. “Good afternoon, sir. I’m...” “No, don’t tell me! You’re Krakon Vos’s boy, aren’t you? Drakor, is it?” “That’s right,” replied the drake, astonished at the Elder’s astuteness. “I thought you looked familiar. Something in the curve of your horns, I think. I knew your parents quite well in the old days,” explained the Elder. “Alas, I was sorely aggrieved to hear of their passing last year. Though, I daresay their spirit lives on in their remaining son.” “Thank you, Elder Vargon,” said Drakor, bowing his head. “Well! Now that our introductions are made, please be seated and partake of this sumptuous array that Ralor and I have made.” He stepped aside, revealing the fully decked dining table. It was a marvellous sight to the young Aralians, who relished the thought of digging into every fine, savoury morsel. “You made all of this by yourselves?” exclaimed Wavae. “Well, of course,” said the Elder as they took their places. “We are the only ones here, so naturally we are the ones who do the cooking.” “But you are the Draga Elder,” said Dèscar. “Surely one of your station would find it a bit...degrading to do such menial work.” “Hm. I find it neither menial nor degrading,” replied Vargon. “There is no shame in honest labour, whatever it may be.” “I am sorry, sir. I meant no offence.” “None at all taken, dear boy.” Elder Vargon smiled broadly. “And of course there are those who would gladly perform all my services for me merely on account of the prestige they would find in such work. But then, what would that leave an old dragon and his ward to do with themselves, hmm?” No one had a suitable answer, so they began eating at a wave from the Elder. The food was absolutely spot on, as the knights were sure to tell Vargon and Ralor on several occasions. Drakor’s earlier disappointment at not getting to show off his own cooking skills soon dissipated as he realized anything he made could not possibly compare. Conversation was lively throughout as Elder Vargon got to know his new guests better. When at last they had finished, he invited the Aralians up to his den for afternoon tea. They heartily accepted, and joined him after they had assisted Ralor in clearing the table. “Do make yourselves at home,” the Elder instructed as soon as they had closed the door behind them. “I shall go and get the tea ready.” So, the eleven knights keenly explored their new surroundings. Elagor, ever the scholar, investigated the many volumes that lined the den’s walls. He selected an old tome about the Vildegraad of the High North—his ancestors—and seated himself next to Evander, who had engaged himself in the first of a six-volume series titled A History of the Reptilian Races, penned by none other than Elder Vargon himself. Morgan and Dèscar stood by the window gazing onto the streets far below and talking softly to one another. The rest sat around the central table and waited for the Elder to appear, bearing a wide metal tray with twelve teacups and a pair of full carafes on it. He set the platter down on the table and nodded toward it. “Do partake, one and all,” he said. Nevertheless, they waited for him to take the first sip. “This is quite good,” spoke Ingred for the rest. “Where did it come from?” “The eastern reaches of Cairaga, if I’m not mistaken,” replied Dèscar. “But how on earth did you manage to obtain such a luxury?” “I’ve been keeping this batch for a couple of years now,” replied Vargon. “It is among my favourite variety, but this is the last of my store. I doubt I will be able to get any more for a long time to come, what with Lord Caritus’s cessation of all commerce with the West.” “Caritus no longer feels the need to bargain for that which he can simply take,” said Dèscar. “As I recall, before he severed ties with us, Cairaga was the West’s main source of tea.” “Quite so, quite so. Lord Caritus has diverted much of his labour force from other sources to sustain his war effort. The kingdom does not produce as many luxury goods as it once did, and certainly not for the purpose of sending abroad.” He sipped his tea and added, “Even if he had not turned his might against us, I doubt we would see much of this coming through.” “Caritus has always wanted to conquer the West. This war was inevitable from the moment he took the throne.” “Hm. Indeed,” said the Elder with a grim look. “This young upstart is a far different man than his predecessors. There is no denying that he has accomplished astonishing feats in his short reign. Terribly destructive, of course, but nonetheless astounding.” “But how strong are the Cairagan forces?” asked Fordain. “Do you think we’ve truly made an impact on their war effort yet?” The Elder took another sip as everyone looked to him for the answer. “There is no doubt that our many victories over the Cairaga have had an effect,” he replied with great certainty. “Yet, Algoron continues to grow stronger every day his ally holds us at bay. It is his power that drives the war effort against us; not that of his Human protégé.” “What are you saying?” pressed Morgan. “I am saying that if we do not act now, all we have gained so far may still be lost forever and more besides.”