Draconis' Bane Read Free Page B

Fallon
instructed.
    The Prince rolled his
eyes, a show of disrespect that would have earned one of the other
students a sound beating.
    “My opponent is too
slow to take advantage of any opening I leave for him anyway.” He
shot, looking over the Swordmaster’s shoulder at his sparring
partner.
    There, Fallon was
forced to agree. There were few other options though as many of the
more gifted students simply refused to spar with the spoiled
Prince. Even if they did best him, the Prince was full of excuses
and accusations that robbed them of any pride they felt at their
victory.
     
    An ear ringing
explosion launched the Swordmaster across the room. He slammed
against the opposite wall and gasped as he felt ribs break with the
impact. Pain shot through his body and he felt his arm snap as he
spun through the air and collided with a support pillar. He cradled
his broken limb as he shakily pushed himself against the wall. He
struggled to breath, which only brought tears to his eyes as he
attempted to push himself up against the wall.
    A robed man stood at
the doorway with his arms outstretched, his hands glowing with a
strange blue light. After a few moments, a beam shot from his hands
and hit the Prince, who was still dazed and laying on the floor a
short distance away from the robed man.
    The Swordmaster stood
and fought to stay conscious; spoiled brat or not, he was still his
Lord’s son. He took a staggering step forward, only to have his
vision collapse in on him. He fell forward in a heap; the last
thing he heard before he lost consciousness was the sound of
sandals running away down the hall.

 
Nightmare
     
    Eight years old,
Tristan sat on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands as he
tried desperately to deal with a single unarguable truth.
    His grandfather - was dead .
    Years of his laughing
face teaching Tristan all sorts of things, at the time it had
seemed so trivial. Those memories came flowing back to his
mind…unbidden.
     
    “Remember
Tristan.”
    “Yes?”
    “A man is judged by
the quality of his work, not the quantity.”
    “But Anne gets
everything grandpa. How come I have to earn it?”
    “Because Tristan.
That’s what men do.”
    It didn’t make sense
then and it definitely didn’t make sense now as Tristan could hear
his mother fussing over the state of his younger sister in the next
room.
    “I DON’T WANNA!” His
sister yelled.
    “Anne. Please. Not
today. Just be a good girl, put on your new dress and come
downstairs.” His mother begged.
    New dress, scoffed
Tristan. Of course she had a new dress. Here Tristan sat, partially
dressed in the hand-me-down suit he’d been given two years ago by
his cousin. The cuffs of his dress pants were shorter than he would
have liked and revealed his mismatched socks. It didn’t matter
though, none of his relatives would notice. Quiet little Tristan,
never raised a fuss, never complained, always did as he was told.
The socks didn’t appear to be mismatched from a distance anyway, he
mused darkly. They were both, after all, black. One sock was a
sport sock…already making his left foot sweat in his dress shoe a
size too small. The other sock had black designs cut into it,
another hand-me-down from his cousin, Greg, who was four years
older than Tristan.
    Everyone was in fours
in Tristan’s family. His eldest cousin, Joy, was eight years older
than he, his cousin came next, then Tristan and then…much to his
irritation…Anne. Everyone in the family doted on Anne. She was the
baby; she was so adorable, so cute, and so funny.
    Mocking laughter,
another wonderful side effect of Tristan’s pathetic life; everyone
around him seemed infected by it. When Greg would pick on Tristan,
Tristan got in trouble for antagonizing him. Just walking into the
room was enough to raise Greg’s ire.
    “Hey Pud! What are
you up to!?”
    Wincing at the name Pud , such a clever and witty nickname he agonized. Not that
brains factored into its creation mind you. It