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Highly successful stand-alone novel by the author of the bestselling Darwath Trilogy.
It was said to be impossible to slay a dragon. But Lord John Aversin had earned himself the name of Dragonsbane once in his life and had become the subject of ballad and legend. Fired by the romance of his tale, young Gareth travelled far and wide across the Winterlands from the King’s court to persuade the hero to rid the Deep of Ylferdun of the great Black Dragon, Morkeleb. With them on their quest went Jenny Waynest, half-taught mage and mother of Aversin’s sons.
Although the most fearsome dragon that Aversin had ever faced, Morkeleb was not the greatest danger awaiting him and his witch-woman. The once-ordered court had fallen into decadence and dissolution, and the beautiful sorceress Zyerne held the King in her sway. Just as Morkeleb posed the greatest challenge for Dragonsbane, so Jenny Waynest would find her powers pitted against an adversary as deadly as the Black Dragon – and infinitely more evil.
286 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1985
Still Gareth had not spoken. Aversin, interpreting his silence and the look on his face with his usual fiendish accuracy, said, "I'd show you my dragon-slaying scars to prove it, but they're placed where I can't exhibit 'em in public."
It said worlds for Gareth's courtly breeding--and, Jenny supposed, the peculiar stoicism of courtiers--that, even laboring under the shock of his life and the pain of a wounded arm, he swept into a very creditable salaam of greeting. When he straightened up again, he adjusted the set of his cloak with a kind of sorry hauteur, pushed his bent spectacles a little more firmly up onto the bridge of his nose, and said in a voice that was shake but oddly determined, "My lord Dragonsbane, I have ridden here on errantry from the south, with a message for you from the King, Uriens of Belmarie." He seemed to gather strength from these words, settling into the heraldic sonority of his ballad-snatch of golden swords and bright plumes in spite of the smell of the pigsty and the thin, cold rain that had begun to patter down.
"My lord Aversin, I have been sent to bring you south. A dragon has come and laid waste the city of the gnomes in the Deep of Ylferdun; it lairs there now, fifteen miles from the King's city of Bel. The Kind begs that you come to slay it ere the whole countryside is destroyed."
The boy drew himself up, having delivered himself of his quest, a look of noble martyred serenity on his face, very like, Jenny thought, someone out a ballad himself. Then, like all good messengers in ballads, he collapsed and slid to the soupy mud and cowpies in a dead faint.