March was so stunned and confused, and welling with grief, that he couldn’t form a cohesive thought. For a long me, he was silent. Finally, he asked the elf the only ques on that would come. “You can save him?”

“You can save him,” the elf replied, “but only if you hurry.”

“How?”

“Use the medallion to call your dragon. When it comes, it will know your heart and use its magic to restore the life of your companion.”

“There are no dragons around here,” March looked around. “If there was, why would a dragon do such a thing?”

“There are no elvish in this valley either I’d guess,” the elf shrugged. “Either way, you should get to calling your wyrm before it’s too late for him.” The

elf nodded at Bren’s corpse.

“What’s this Conflic on you speak?” March asked as he crawled to his feet and pulled the medallion out of his shirt.

He was feverish, and the world was swimming in and out of focus, but somehow he knew that this was no fever dream. He was about to pledge his life to something he didn’t understand so that his friend would be saved.

“It cannot be explained,” the elf sighed. “There will be more of you. There will be five dragoneers in all. Some are already trying to bond with their wyrms. But they are far from here, in another land that lies across the sea.

It is a place that your people do not know of. You must call your dragon, and then go to them. Together the five of you will stand against the storm.”

The elf glanced up at the sky as if he were searching for something. The light of dawn was only a few breaths from breaking the horizon.

“Don’t let the sun rise and burn his soul away,” the elf nodded at Bren again. “Do this thing. Call your dragon. Go find the dragoneers and face the des ny you’ve chanced upon. It will be a great one, I think.”

The stag pawed the ground and snorted his agreement. It lted it’s antlered head slightly and gave Bren a look that conveyed volumes.

Inexplicably, March suddenly knew that he had to do this. There was no other choice. “How?”

“Take the Medallion in your hands. Yes, like that.” March cupped the silvery disc as if it were a precious egg.

“Kiss the tear stone,” the elf instructed. “Now pledge within your soul to fight the coming Conflic on. Only then will your dragon come.”

“I don’t care about the dragon,” March mumbled. I’m doing this for Bren.

As soon as he kissed the tear shaped jewel, and told his heart that he would see this thing through, he felt a chilling ngle flu er through him.

His skin prickled and his mind began to clear. He had made the right decision, and he knew it. His blood was turning into liquid fire and his breathing grew erra c.

“That is the Dour that makes you feel that way,” the elf grinned. He pa ed the stag on the shoulder and leaned toward its ear. “You were right my friend. This was the one.”

“What’s Dour?” March asked. Whatever it was, it felt fantas c in his veins, as if he were full of lightning.

“It will fade. That dragon’s tear is old, the amber Dour has been leaking from it for a century or more. See how clear it is? The dragon that let it fall died long, long ago.” The elf lightly heeled the stag into a turn and looked to be about to trot away.

“Wait,” March pleaded. “What about Bren? What about my family?”

The elf gave a nervous chuckle. “Your dragon is coming, and you were going to leave anyway. Just go.” The stag shivered and looked to be growing nervous. “I’ll not want to be bumbling around when your wyrm gets here. A er you’ve gone, I’ll return and keep the scavengers from badgering your friend. I’ll make sure he gets where he needs to be.”

As the stag bounded away, March heard the elf chuckling.

March looked at Bren and dropped his head. He hoped he hadn’t been a fool. He hoped—

Suddenly, the trees swayed violently. A near silent blast of air wa ed across the camp. Before a thought could form, another gust came, this one kicking up leaves and sending a dusty whirl of debris into the thicket. Then the dragon was there, directly behind March, looming it’s long neck up over the camp as it pulled in its leathery wings. The connec on happened instantaneously. They bonded, and a single shared consciousness was born.

The dragon’s name was Balazerahdadicol and he was the rarest form of pure blooded High Dracus that existed. Since March’s human tongue couldn’t pronounce the name correctly the dragon spoke a single word into his mind. “Blaze.” Blaze was a pure blooded fire drake. March somehow knew this, and other things that he never imagined one could know. It was overwhelming.

March turned to take his bond-mate in with his eyes. He found that save for its neck and head, the dragon was nearly invisible in the pre dawn shadows. What he could see was nothing more than a sinuous crimson silhoue e in the lightening sky. The dragon was not huge, nor was he small. Substan al was the word that March decided upon, probably twenty-five paces from p to tail. Through the bond they shared, a wealth of knowledge was opening up and star ng to flood into March’s eager mind. Had it not been, his ins nct to flee would have already taken hold.

A pulse of magical energy rippled through the fabric of the world and March knew in his heart of hearts that Blaze had just filled Bren’s body with powerful healing Dour. Bren would wake soon and the elf would watch over him un l he could make it down into the valley. March, however, knew that he had to go. The land he and Blaze were going to was

far far away. It would take them a full season to fly there, most of the journey over the sea.

Blaze leaned down and created a step with his fore claw. March hurried to his bedroll, grabbed the pack, his bow, and a quiver of arrows. Then, a er saying a silent goodbye to his friend, he climbed onto the wyrm. He le the sword and the gold for his friend. He wished he could stay and explain what he was doing, where he was going, but he wasn’t even sure about those things himself.

Blaze took an awkward lurching step. Then a few neck yanking, exhilara ng wing strokes later, they were above the forest and flying.

The first of the dragoneers had bonded and the wheels of des ny had been set into mo on. The saga of the dragoneers had begun.

Thus ends the prequel novella:

The First Dragoneer by M.R. Mathias

Enjoy the following free preview of “The Royal Dragoneers” It is available in ebook and paperback formats. To find out how to get your copy or to see the map of the land where March and Blaze are headed, then please visit: h p://www.mrmathias.com/Dragoneers.html

The Royal Dragoneers By M. R. Mathias Copyright 2010

Part I

The Fron er

Chapter One

Jenka De Swasso peeked through the thick leathery undergrowth he was hiding in. The forested hills were lush and alive with late spring growth. The birds and other small creatures were busy making their symphony of life. It was a welcome cacophony, for Jenka was on the hunt, and it masked the noisy sound of his breathing.

Jenka was trying to see which way his prey was going to move. The ancient stag, once a beau ful and majes c creature, was now past its prime. One of its long, mul -forked antlers was broken into a sharp nub near the base. The other antler was heavy and looked to be weighing the weary creature’s head over to one side. All around its grayish-brown furred neck were scars from the numerous ba les it had fought over the years defending its harem from the younger bucks. A fresh gash, a dark trail of blood-ma ed fur leaking away from it, decorated the stag’s shoulder area.

Since there were no does moving about, Jenka figured this old king of the forest had lost his most recent ba le, and his harem as well.

Jenka was sixteen years old, and he moved through the shadowy glades - between the towering pine trees and the ancient tangle limbed oaks - with the speed and dexterity of well-fit youth. He was dressed in rough spun and leather, brown and green, and when he stopped s ll he blended into the forest like a bark-skinned lizard on a tree trunk. His face was well-sooted and the shoulder-length mop of dirty-blond hair on his head looked more like a tumbleweed than anything else.

Like any good hunter who aspired to be a King’s Ranger, he was determined to get close to his prey, to get a good angle, and to make sure that his arrow went deep into the stag’s vitals. A creature as undoubtedly experienced in surviving as this one could probably travel for a day or more with any lesser wound. Jenka knew that if he didn’t make the right shot the creature would bolt away and not slow down. If that happened it would end up ge ng dragged down by trolls or wolves long before he could catch up to it.

Jenka shivered with a mixture of excitement and sadness. If he could kill the animal, then he and his mother could eat good meat for the rest of the spring. He could also get a handful of well-needed coins for a shoulder haunch from the cooks at Kingsmen’s Keep. It was a be er death for the noble creature than to be stalked and shredded by hungry predators anyway, at least that was what Jenka told himself as he drew back on his bow to take aim.

The stag stopped in a small canopied glade carpeted in lush, green turf. The area was well illuminated; several slan ng rays of dust-filled sunlight had managed to penetrate the leaves and branches overhead. The stag wearily bent its head down, pulled a mouthful of grass from the ground, and chewed. A pair of ny, lemon-yellow bu erflies flu ered away from the intrusion, their wings flashing like sparks as they fli ed through one of the golden sha s of light.

Jenka had the stag perfectly sighted in. He was about to loose one of his hard-earned, steel- pped arrows when the old animal looked up at him. Their eyes met, and for a flee ng moment Jenka could feel the raw indignity the creature felt over having lost its herd to a younger male. The