Polo Shawcross: Dragon Soldier

  Polo Shawcross: Dragon Soldier

  Lee Abrey

  A version of the first part of this book

  (to end of Chapter 11 - The End of the Holidays)

  was published 2011 as part of the e-book

  The Birthday Dragon by Polo Shawcross

  Published by Lee Abrey at Smashwords

  Copyright © Lee Abrey 2011-2017

  Cover Art and Design by Lee Abrey

  With massive assistance from Adobe Photoshop

  and the artists of pixabay.com

  License Statement

  This free ebook may be copied, distributed, reposted, reprinted and shared, provided it appears in its entirety without alteration, and the reader is not charged to access it.

  If you can, let other people download their own copy or download one for them. Every download counts. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ****

  For Author Notes, Other Books, and Contact Details

  See End.

  Enjoy

  ****

  Dedicated with love to

  My great-grandfather, Hugh Russel, MC,

  (1873-1918)

  under the poppies in Northern France.

  Lest we forget

  And especially for my father

  and for Lt Col John Murphy

  His much-loved mate from Duntroon RMC and Korea

  late of the Australian SAS –

  Called the best soldier to serve in the Australian Army

  For all the broken boys…

  ****

  Chapter 1 – Notorious

  While recovering from an attack by a small dragon, otherwise known as Kristen, the Queen of Joban, who’d discovered the knack of transformation from person-shape to dragon-shape during an argument with her mother, I was training to transform too.

  It was possible to do so at will, though I would need a great deal of self-discipline, or like Kristen, a major fight with my mother. Self-discipline was easier.

  Unfortunately, Virginia, my teacher in the art of transformation, who was pure Dragon and had shape-changing down pat, was killed by a crossbow sniper, one we were pretty sure was aiming for me. He hit me with his next shot, but I survived. I was getting good at surviving.

  Me? I was nobody. Or at least I had been. Polo Shawcross, professional nobody, son of a peasant and one of the Blood. Useful as breeding stock. Seeing my father had no Dragon blood, I was a possible sire for those women whose families were very inbred.

  My only real claim to fame before Kristen attacked was my friendship with His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Azrael, heir to Sendren. When Kristen attacked Azrael I’d drawn her attention and possibly saved his life, though I’d suffered for it, nearly dying after she ripped open my arm and hip. However I’d also been rewarded, very recently, with the Duchy of Starshore, a large and wealthy estate. When I turned eighteen in a couple of years I would be duke. For now, I gloried in the title of Lord of Starshore.

  It was possibly the best title in the history of titles. I was very proud. I had notepaper with Lord of Starshore at the top, a new stamp with my address, which was currently a very desirable one. My palatial suite was right next to the Crown Prince’s quarters in the Queens’ Mews at the Green Dragon Citadel, which looked out over the Royal City of Peterhaven, Sendren’s capital.

  Azrael liked to joke that I was famous in Peterhaven. My retort to him was that it was better to be notorious than famous. Famous was pedestrian. Yes, I was a pretentious idiot. I was sixteen, had escaped my parents, and life was sweet. The sniper who killed Virginia winged me, breaking my arm, which was in plaster. I’d had a nasty infection, which had kept me in the infirmary.

  Though still mourning Virginia, I was also excited about the new life I could see, one where I was rich, titled, and notorious. I was already the latter, so rich and titled were a nice addition.

  ****

  Anna the nurse, a pretty green-eyed redhead I had a crush on, told me I was even more famous in Peterhaven, thanks to the dragon attack and being about to be ennobled.

  The gossip said I was the king’s favourite, come from nothing to be the Crown Prince’s best friend. To add to my notorious status there was even a tell-all biography, called Rags to Riches: The Polo Shawcross Story. It was subtitled, The Strange Tale of the Lord of Starshore. Anna had heard what was in it.

  “And it’s so sad,” she said, looking very amused, “you being estranged from your family with your father missing in the north.” I laughed.

  “Really,” I said, “that’s in the book?” She nodded.

  “And you’ve had every woman in the new fort,” she said. I scoffed.

  “I haven’t,” I said, “aside from you,” she’d graciously ignored all my attempts to seduce her, “there are hundreds down there. And Father’s not missing, he’s up at Redditch in Blackrock seeing my Great Uncle Rob, who was at death’s door.” I left out that Mother and I weren’t talking. Anna giggled.

  “And now you’re a duke,” she said, “come from the depths of poverty to the landed gentry.” I laughed again.

  “We were never really poor,” I said, “Mother had her trust fund.”

  “You sleep on hessian,” she said, grinning, “unable to throw off what for you was comfort in your childhood. Before your family could afford hessian you slept on a tatty bit of salt-caked canvas cut from a ship’s sail.” I gasped.

  “Oh,” I said, “you’re making that up!” She laughed.

  “No, seriously,” she said, “one of the servants was reading it aloud to some others while I was in the gardens yesterday. They all knew you, so were falling about laughing. I must find a copy.” I gave her some coin to grab me one too. It had sold out, and everyone with a copy had already promised it to someone else, so it took a while.

  ****

  A week later, Anna brought me a copy of Rags to Riches. It was a bestseller, the most talked-about book of the moment. There was already a reprint and exports outside Sendren. Before the book, I was literally mobbed in Peterhaven, now I was one of the best-known people in the Old Kingdoms.

  The anonymous writer was careful not to include anything easily proven as either untruth or slander, and skilful at keeping his or her identity hidden. There was enough of the truth in the book to make me very suspicious of everyone I knew for a while. There was the occasional anecdote I was sure only one person should know, but it was never the same person for each intimate tale.

  Part of its charm was the detail about life at Court. I was most annoyed to find it rather a fun read. I couldn’t tell if the writer was peasant or Blood, though I supposed they might even be Dragon.

  There was enough at least slightly wrong in the book’s details that I wondered if the author was doing it deliberately so I wouldn’t figure out who they were. On everyone’s advice there wasn’t much to be done, other than refute it point by point in a newspaper or in a book of my own, and everyone agreed that doing so would make the book even more notorious and saleable. Plus, I wasn’t actually libelled. The most scandalous bits were completely true.

  The sisters-in-law, yes, we were having fun al fresco and were sprung by some soldiers, who after watching quietly for a while couldn’t resist cheering us on. Most disconcerting. The lass I was doing was very startled and had one of those spasms where everything locks up. There I was, trapped up to the hilt in her. Fortunately her sister-in-law was a woman of the world. She managed to shoo the soldiers away and get her companion calm enough so that I was released.

  We laughed about it afterwards, but at the time all I could think of was that I was going to lose my cock.

  Also true, the woman I didn’t know the name of, at least at first, when we
were caught stealing vegetables in the citadel’s kitchen gardens. For nefarious purposes the book said, hinting darkly. We weren’t arrested. The soldiers all knew exactly why we were collecting phallic vegetables, them having eavesdropped on my lady friend’s squeals of delight as she found a suitable cucumber.

  While his entire squad giggled at us, a sergeant of the guard solemnly told us to get our veggies from the kitchens from now on so as not to annoy the gardeners, remember to wash them first, and always use a condom due to the likelihood of tiny hair-like spines or contaminants. It was a fun night. It was years later before it occurred to me that him knowing that implied a certain familiarity with vegetables on his part.

  As they said in the book, my lady friend was the wife of a foreign diplomat. In reality she was the wife of the Kavar ambassador. At the time I hadn’t realised she was married, so it was only the one night, me avoiding the married ones except in groups.

  The damn book was reprinted around ten times. The author claimed to have interviewed many women I was supposed to have loved then left, all referred to by nicknames, like ‘the heiress to a southern duchy’ or ‘a raven-haired beauty’. To a woman, I broke their hearts. Several of my lovers commented to me that nobody had interviewed them, and I certainly hadn’t broken their hearts.

  To my surprise, there was nothing about me doing men, despite that being in the nature of common knowledge around the citadel. Simply saying I indulged in orgies was enough to gloss over the many ‘two male, one female’ threesomes I had. Orgies were fine. Apparently everyone assumed I was always heterosexual in the heat of the moment.

  ****

  We suspected Young Perry had hired the assassin who killed Virginia during the attempt on my life. Young Perry, a bastard of the previous Crown Prince - Azrael’s supposed father - was Azrael’s supposed half-brother. Azrael’s father wasn’t the late and mostly unlamented Crown Prince Perry. Azrael didn’t know this. I did. I was keeping the secret for his real father, Stefan.

  As for Young Perry, I was trying not to think about what he might try next, sure he was crazy but nobody else had noticed. Or they had, but decided there was nothing to be done. Azrael even said I was being bought off with my duchy.

  “So you won’t pursue trying to prove Young Perry was behind the attempt to kill you,” he said. Though still not good for much, I was back in my own rooms. It was pleasant to lie around on the balcony under the grapevines. “I don’t know for sure,” Azrael went on, “but it’s what I’m thinking. Isn’t it what you’re thinking?” I had to admit the notion was plausible. I shrugged.

  “Well,” I said, “if I knew how to prove Young Perry was out to kill me, I would, no matter if the king takes my duchy away.” Azrael laughed.

  “You did thrash Perry in front of most of the citadel,” he said, “then you had to bravely save his life when your own horse tried to kill him.” I groaned. That was repeated in Rags to Riches. Azrael tsk-ed at me. “You lost your temper. Emotion is the enemy, remember?”

  “Aye,” I said, “I know.”

  “Young Perry hates you more than he hates me,” said Azrael, “and that’s saying something.” He bit at his lip. “Half Aunt Suzy was on your side.”

  “Suzy was?” I said, and he nodded. Maybe I was right, there was more wrong with Young Perry than Suzy could be blamed for.

  “She said there was no excuse for cruelty to animals,” said Azrael, “that she hadn’t brought him up to be that way.” He shook his head. “Young Perry isn’t speaking to her.”

  “Prince Porky,” I said, “that’s what the soldiers call him.” Azrael giggled.

  “I’m so glad you’re getting better,” he said, “I’ve missed you around. School’s not as much fun.” I smiled.

  “That Suzy,” I said, “you know she’s not really your half-aunt? She’s just someone your father did one night. She hadn’t seen him for eight years when he died.” Azrael waved away the words.

  “Aye, I know,” he said, “but I try to be polite. Me pretending she’s a relation flatters her. I’m being paid off too. They want me to be nice to Perry and his mother? Fine. There’s things I want, like permission to attend the Military Guild.” I whistled.

  “They’re going to let you?” I said, just as Bernard – my day servant - arrived with coffee and supplies of mindweed. We thanked him and he pretended to leave, but would be behind the nearest door, sitting on a comfortable chair, reading and listening. He said it was a perk of being a servant, to spectate at Blood silliness.

  “They’re going to let me go to Malion,” Azrael said as the door closed, looking smug. “The king can’t say I’m safer here. After all we were nearly killed in the North Tower by my own aunt and you were shot out on the Green. Again probably by family.” My right forearm itched under the dragon scar and I rubbed at it, thinking about how lucky I was. “Sometimes,” said Azrael, his thoughts on a similar track, “I dream it. The attack by Kristen.” He ran his hand back through his long black hair. It was past his collar. His eyes were a deep blue, leavened with diamond sparks, a colour called Westwych blue, and a sign of his Dragon ancestry. Right then, they looked haunted.

  “Gods,” I said, “that must be awful. I’ve not, touch wood, dreamed it.” I paused. “Did you ever dream the Dragon queen again?” He shook his head.

  “She’s something,” he said, “I’d like to meet her again.”

  “I did meet her. Again. In a dream, and then she turned up in person. She’s something alright.” I told him about Lilith’s visit. I didn’t mention the mind-reading.

  Not from any purpose, simply I didn’t want to admit she’d caught me mentally leering at her. It was one of the queen’s special skills. Dragon blood mean strange skills and extra senses, possibly even the ability to change shape.

  Dragon - Homo draconicus – was genetically engineered from humans – Homo sapiens - a few millennia ago. Dragon bred true as a separate species and could be crossed with humans. Blood was what we called Dragon-human crosses like me. ‘Dragon’ also referred to the Dragon species’ unintended ability, one of several, the ability to transform from human-shape to Dragon-shape.

  My grandmother on Mother’s side was pure Dragon, something I’d only recently discovered. Mother was Blood, and as I - like Mother - showed Dragon sign of metallic or crystalline colouration in the eyes, I was also Blood.

  Dragon had only been on my planet, Galaia, for about a thousand years. Before then, they had left the planet they were created on and made a living as mercenaries, something they did with unparalleled skill. They began refusing to fight in ‘the wars of man’ as their queen had put it, and Azrael was hoping he could persuade them to come back to help us win the war against Sriama. He needed Dragon to do it. The war had been going for centuries, costing both Sriama and the Old Kingdoms stupid numbers of dead. Azrael thought he could stop the war in the north, which was a noble thing to aspire to.

  Blood was what everyone called us Dragon crossbreeds. Along with usually being bigger than the peasants, our eyes were distinctive. Mine had a shining copper orbital ring circling a green iris, the metallic tint a sure sign of Dragon blood. Called cat’s-eyes, the patterning showed we were closely descended from Homo draconicus, in turn closely descended from Homo sapiens, some of us more recently than others.

  My own grandmother was pure Dragon, something I still hadn’t been able to ask her about. She moved south before I found out. I hadn’t liked to broach the subject in a letter.

  Dear Grandmama,

  So your entire life with me was a lie?

  Even some Blood thought Dragon were dangerous and, as my peasant father put it, peasants tended to be very suspicious of more than a touch of scales. My own mother was always putting Dragon down even though she was a half-breed and knew it, something my family hid from me. I always knew I was Blood because the eyes showed at birth, but nobody told me how close my Dragon blood was, instead pretending it was so distant nobody remembered the connection.

  The Blood
and of course Dragon were the only ones allowed to hold kingdom or duchy thrones, so being Blood wasn’t a bad thing and might prove useful. It certainly had so far. Everyone assumed all Blood must be rich. I was. Ross and the rest had their army pensions, sadly so low as to be a joke among the men, plus whatever wages I paid them. I paid good wages. I was once poor and dependent on the goodwill of others or wages people paid me, now I was wealthy, a recent development.

  ****

  It was another few weeks before I was considered fit for school, but first term was over. Thanks to being in hospital, I hadn’t attended a class, but sat the exams. My tutor did well. I was dux of the class, something I couldn’t quite believe.

  Outside it was autumn already, the leaves changing, nature and people caught up in a mad burst of activity before winter shut the Southern Hemisphere down. It would be my first winter in Peterhaven, which was higher in altitude than Lower Beech, my home village.

  Determined to regain physical fitness after my illness, I was eating and exercising hard. The tailors and cobbler visited often, my clothes needing altering every other week and me without a proper winter wardrobe. Anything I wanted, Bernard told me, could be arranged, by order of the king. King Theo had already been fond of me before I’d saved his grandson Azrael’s life.

  Bernard said his personal status was very high thanks to my standing among the most talked-about.

  “We servants are easily swayed,” he said, “by the celebrity of another’s master or mistress.” I laughed, having learned to spot when he was teasing me.