The Last Dragon by Daryl Devoré Genre: Medieval Fantasy Romance
What do dragons, knights and romance have in common? Grab a copy of multi-published author Daryl Devore’s medieval fantasy romance – The Last Dragon and discover the answer.
A sorcerer craving dominance merged with a dragon, the power overwhelmed him causing him to split into three dragons. Demora ruled thought, but was lost in time. Yidithe offered protection, shining like the light of the sun. Ayrradex craved chaos, revelling in destroying souls.
Many knights died, attempting to slay the devil beast. One knight, Prince Hawkyns, did not fear death. He’d lost everything. Away on a mission when Ayrradex attacked his father’s kingdom, Penrythe, Hawkyns returned to find his noble father – feeble and defeated. His wise mother – crazed. His beautiful wife and unborn child - dead. Only a pile of ashes remained for him to bury. He knelt before his King and vowed to slay the devil-beast or be slain.
Derry was born with powers that terrified her parents. They delivered her to a nunnery to be raised in secret. Jathe, a wise sorceress, discovered the young girl and trained her to one day use the secret hidden in her soul.
Legends spoken around campfires hinted the sole way to destroy Ayrradex was when the hearts of a knight and a golden dragon became one. But after a vicious battle with Ayrradex, the golden dragon was thought to be dead.
Can Prince Hawkyns’s bravery and Derry’s powers end the reign of the devil-beast’s terror?
The clatter of metal interrupted their conversation. The abbot rounded the hedge’s corner, struggling with the load of a sword, shield and the reins of a saddled steed. He placed the armour on the bench. “These are for ye. They were left by a young knight who died.” The abbot nodded towards the abbey cemetery. “He lies yonder in our consecrated ground. The dragon was too much for him. I pray they will help ye protect the babe and defeat the scourge that plagues us.”
Hawkyns lifted the blade and checked it. He turned the shield. A wave of pain rolled off him and hit Derry. Cringing, she dropped to her knees. Hawkyns knelt beside her, concern covering his brow. She placed her fingers on his cheek. “Ye knew him? The knight whose shield that is.” She nodded towards the bench. “I felt yer pain.”
“Aye. I know this shield.” He held out his hand and helped her stand. “He was a brave knight. See, these interlaced annulets and shafted arrow. This is the shield of my younger brother, Adon. It will be an honour to carry his weapon.”
Screams filled the air. Derry gripped her head. The rage was too much. She could not push it away.
A monk raced to the side of the abbot. “People at the gate. With torches and knives and… and… The monastery is attacked. They want the babe.” He clutched at his chest, trying to inhale air.
Hawkyns slipped his arm through the shield’s straps and gripped his weapon. Derry could sense the anger building in him. It wasn’t evil anger. It was the anger of a knight knowing he must right an injustice.
“Derry, stay back here. Take the horse and hide in the herbarium. I will get the child and return.”
The abbot stood in front of Hawkyns, barring his attack. “Ye cannot kill anyone within the walls of the abbey. This is a place of peace. Of God.”
Hawkyns flinched. “But if they kill yer brothers?”
The monk lowered his head. “'Tis God’s will.”
Hawkyns’ knuckles turn white from the grip on his sword. Frustrated anger filled his brow.
Father Jacobus raised his hand. “Do not fight me on this, my son. Swear, in the eyes of God, that ye will not kill within the walls of Baswich Abbey.”
Hawkyns knelt and placed the point of his sword on the ground and rested his forehead on the cross-shaped hilt. “I swear I will kill no one on abbey grounds.”
The abbot made the sign of the cross over him. “Go. Save the child.”
Two writers in one. Daryl Devoré writes hot romances with sexy heroes and strong heroines. Victoria Adams is Daryl Devoré's alter ego when she's inspired to write sweet romances with little to no heat.
Daryl (@daryldevore) lives in an old farmhouse in Ontario, Canada, with her husband, a large salt water aquarium full of fish, a black cat named Licorice and some house ghosts. Her daughter is grown and has flown the nest. Daryl loves to take long walks on her quiet country road or snowshoe across the back acres, and in the summer, kayak along the St. Lawrence River. She has touched a moon rock, a mammoth, and a meteorite. She’s been deep in the ocean in a submarine, flown high over Niagara Falls in a helicopter, and used the ladies room in a royal palace. Life’s an adventure and Daryl’s having fun living it.
Generally, I am a contemporary, romance writer. I have dabbled in fantasy, but it was a modern day, urban fantasy. A mentor mentioned that in one of my earlier books, he kept expecting a dragon to appear. My response – I laughed. End of story.
Or, so I thought.
That dragon took on a life of its own. It flew around in my head until I conceded and started writing the story. I belong to a couple of in-person writer groups where over months I read the first two chapters. The members started asking questions which triggered ideas which lead to plot lines which added to the story.
But during this, something else happened. I shifted from writing hot romances to sweet. The genteelness and innocence of Derry was wrong for a smouldering romance.
I was really working in the cliché of uncharted waters – a medieval fantasy and a sweet romance. Give my head a shake!
Then quarantine hit and the in-person meetings stopped. I was saddened by this as I was enjoying the reactions to the story. We have a 750-word limit for each reading, so these people were only getting tidbits of story at a time and I had gotten pretty good at ending each reading with a hook.
I paused getting the finished book ready for publication, but the dragon kept nattering at me. And now I present the final product – The Last Dragon.
But I should mention that an off-shoot of this book has suddenly pushed its way to front. Now I have trolls running around in my head. Le sigh - the life of a writer.
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