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Son of Dragons by Andrea R. Cooper
Legends of Oblivion Book Two

In a time of false peace, the dead rise as soldiers for the Warloc’s scheme. For thousands of years he has stood ready for the final battle. Though the witch and her cursed Elvin have destroyed his physical body, but now with his protégé, he has honed a new way to wage war.

Shunned by her own people, and weary-hearted from centuries of lost loves, Elvin warrior Mirhana scours the land to silence the undead. Her heart has turned as cold as the sword she wields, until a Prince seeks her aid.

Never has Prince Landon met a woman like Mirhana. Both beautiful and deadly she haunts his dreams. The battle at hand becomes more enchanting than fighting to remain true to his unseen betrothed.

When a traitor emerges, new alliances are tested and the only remaining hope is to follow the prophecy and find the ... Son of Dragons.

Genre: Paranormal Romance
Content/Theme(s): Fantasy, Vampires, Shifters, Magic, Elves, Witches
Release Date: April 28, 2014
Publisher: Crimson Romance

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Excerpt:
Mirhana stood over the body, shaking her head. Even with her poisoned-tipped arrows embedded in the creature, and pus dripping from his wounds, the corpse did not stop trying to flee.

For all of Mirhana’s life, the witches had trained her against the undead: deadwalkers, vampyres, wraiths, and more. She knew their sound. Their voices rasped like the wings of beetles. They killed anyone in their path. She glanced over her shoulder. The man she’d saved from this deadwalker’s clutches lay unmoving beneath the base of a nearby tree, his slain horse beside him.

Her gaze narrowed on the corpse once more. His hands clawed the dirt as he dragged his mangled body away from her.

She unsheathed her sword and stomped her boot down on the back of his neck. “Tell me, demon.” She dug the tip of her blade into his tattered tunic. “What is your purpose here?”

“To do the will of my master and none other,” he choked out.

Mirhana sneered. If the creature saw her, he would no doubt tremble at the sight. “Who is your master? Who has summoned you out of your slumber?”

When he did not answer her, she dug the blade into his back. “Careful, or I’ll sever your spine with another twist. Would your master appreciate the delay of your crawling? Or will his wrath do more damage than mine?”

The deadwalker’s feeble attempts at escape stopped.

“Good. Now, tell me who sent you.”

His silence brought her blade deeper into his decaying flesh. Mirhana wrinkled her nose. The creature reeked of fish guts and sickly sweet rotting meat.

“W-Warloc,” it finally spat.

She frowned. “The land heals,” she said. “All signs show the Warloc’s dead.”

Warloc meant “oath breaker.” For millennia, he’d systematically joined then betrayed covens of witches and wizards across the thirteen kingdoms, turning them over to the witch-burning monks to gain more magic and power.

“So am I. Yet here I am.”

Taken aback at the truth of his words, she pondered their meaning. With the Warloc’s death, these deadwalkers should also be gone, for it had been he that raised and controlled them. But how could the Warloc not be dead?

Her ancestor, Nivel, had told her that the Warloc was killed at Beltane. And the changing state of the kingdoms had been further proof. No more did winter lock them in its frozen embrace, and the blight ravaging the land had disappeared as well. “Speak truth, the Warloc is dead.”

“His body is no more.” Drool oozed from the creature’s mouth. “But he lives on in another form. His orders filter through his protégé to prepare the way for his return.”

“Tell him to stay dead, where he belongs.”

Then a woman’s voice rose out of the creature. “For every one of my followers you kill, I will infect three times the number of innocents.”

“And you are?”

“Sorceress, progeny of the Warloc, successor to his kingdom. And I will claim my inheritance.”

“Then come and fight. Why send your ghouls here?” Mirhana shuddered from the gooseflesh that danced along her skin. Even if she did not have magic strong enough to reanimate the dead— nor did she wish for it—she recognized the taint of evil curling up from within this deadwalker. A movement caught the corner of her eye near the dead horse, but when she glanced back the fallen human lay still. It must have been the wind.

“I seek Landon of Fafniron. Give him a message for me.”

Suddenly Mirhana’s arm jerked of its own accord, ripping her sword out of the creature and turning, propelled by the Sorceress’s power until the blade pressed against her own throat. Mirhana clasped her other hand over the hilt, straining to keep the edge from sinking too deeply into her skin. The tingle of her blood oozing from the cut stung.

“Tell him each night I will bring more creatures from the grave like this one, until he succumbs to me. Tonight, four besides this one, hunt. Tomorrow, six, and so on. Until they saturate the land. All humans they infect, living and non-living will also obey me.”

“So your kingdom will be a race of corpses. Hope you don’t mind the stench.” Mirhana gagged at the thought of the stink that would blanket Fafniorn.

“Tell the ancient ladon to come out of hiding, or none will be left alive in Fafniron.”

The kingdom of Fafniron was a two-day journey from here. There were bigger and richer realms closer. Why Fafniron?

The magic controlling her arm ceased. With a grimace, she touched her fingers to her neck. Thankfully, no part of the undead had contaminated her.

Without remorse, she raised her sword and lopped off the creature’s head. Her legs trembled. This Sorceress was stronger in magic than she. If the Sorceress spoke truth about the Warloc and deadwalkers, then the battle still raged, despite what Nivel said.

Mirhana had hoped, with the coming of spring after a harsh winter that lasted nearly twelve moon cycles, that these deadwalkers and wraiths, at least, would be gone. If that were possible, she would only have to worry about witch-burning monks and vampyres and an occasional necromancer. She could handle that. It might even give her time to have a life—maybe find someone to love and have children.

It should have been an impossible thought, with all the death she’d seen in her life, but Mirhana couldn’t help hoping for a future. For now though, she could only make this world safe for that future—not just for herself and her possible offspring—but for everyone else as well.

That thought alone brought her a measure of comfort.

She cleaned her blade with balsam fir resin, then rinsed it with water from her waterskin and shook off the excess, and sheathed her sword. To prevent its friends from tracing her, she removed her arrows from the beheaded creature. She would burn the body ensuring no smell of the creature would carry across the river.

She looked back to the creature’s victim and scowled at him. What kind of foolish man would be out in the forest in the middle of night? And how had he ended up tangling with a deadwalker?

With her weapons sheathed, she raced back to the willow where his body lay. Her Elvin eyes told her before she touched him that his breathing was even.

She opened her mind to the magic inherited from Nivel, and strengthened by the witches who had raised her.

When she and her twin brother had been born, the Elvin had cast her out. Twins were rare, and it was Elvin custom, Nivel had told her, for one of the babes to be sacrificed to the witches. Mirhana’s resemblance to the humans had made her the easy choice. Nivel had the typical arched eyebrows and pointed ears of the long-lived race, but he had married a human woman, whose genes had manifested (after skipping several generations) in Mirhana. Though her parents had both been Elvin, her ears were more curved, and her black eyebrows arched at a less sharp angle over her green eyes.
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