Dragon Warrior Chapt. 1

     This is chapter 1 of book 2.  Remember, the first two books run in a congruent timeline, so either could be read first.  Most people seem to like reading Dragon Sight first, but Dragon Warrior is faster paced, if you're into that.

Chapter 1

                The great bear stood on his rear legs, rising to his full imposing size.  My heart skipped a beat.  He was going to attack now.  I crouched in a defensive position; one sword in front of me and one behind.  I knew the charge was coming.  There was no turning back now.  I had to face the monster.  I had to beat him back.  Time seemed to slow as I anticipated the imminent attack.  The cool spring air rustled my hair.  The chill of winter had not yet left the foothills of the great mountains of the North.  Some of the trees were still tipped with snow.  The mountains just above us were heavy laden with it.  The cool air was a welcomed treat to cool me from the heated battle.

                In a blur, the bear moved.  Claws were flying.  His great maw was snapping shut with razor sharp teeth trying to get a taste of my flesh.  I was ready.  My blades danced quicker than the bear could move.  Sharp steal took bites out of his flesh.  He roared in anger each time my blades made contact.  The injuries did not stop the beast; they only managed to infuriate him.

                Claws were coming faster now.  This was no ordinary bear.  He moved with purpose and speed.  He lunged for me again, maw opened.  I brought my sword up horizontally, and shoved it into the bear’s mouth.  The blade cut the cheeks to the bone of the jaw and stuck firmly, but the momentum of the animal would not allow it to stop.  We collided.  I went sprawling feet over head backwards, the massive beast rolling over the top of me.  For a brief moment I worried that I would be crushed, but the momentum carried the animal’s massive weight beyond my body.

                I quickly rolled back to my feet, freeing a knife from my weapons belt in the process.  I was none too soon, as the bear had already turned to press the attack again.  My sword still lay imbedded in the bear’s mouth.  He rose up on his hind legs again.  This time, he did not even pause.  His full weight came crashing down on me.  A claw swept dangerously close to my body.  In as quick of a movement as I could muster, I spun, offering my sword in the place of the bear’s intended target.  With the full weight of his body behind the blow, the bear could not stop its assault.  The paw was severed at the wrist. 

                I wasted no time pressing the attack.  The bear hobbled back a step in shock and pain.  I took the ground he had lost in a stride, swinging my knife down in the process.  I added my weight to the blow, and the blade sunk up to the hilt in the bear’s shoulder.  Without flinching, the bear reared its head, knocking me out of the way.  We were on top of one of the foothills, and I rolled all the way down it from the blow.

                The great bear wasted no time.  It was charging down the hill after me before I had even finished tumbling down, myself.  I used the momentum to place some distance between us, and I rolled back to my feet, new weapons in my hands.  The bear swiped at the sword in its mouth with a massive clawed paw.  The weapon went sailing through the air.  The wound it left healed over before the sword hit the ground.  When the bear reached me, it had already grown back its severed paw.  The knife still jutted out from its shoulder, but the wound didn’t seem to bother the great beast.

                I was sweaty, and tired.  The battle had been going on like this for over an hour.  I was down to my last two blades.  Countless blows and cuts to the animal, and aside from the knife jutting out of its shoulder, the animal looked completely unharmed.  I didn’t know what I would do when my last two blades were gone.  I had been fighting since I was old enough to walk, but I was always better with a blade than hand-to-hand combat.  The bear didn’t care if I had a weapon, or not.  He continued to press the attack.

                I decided to make my last two weapons count.  I dug in and waited for the impact.  Both claws were coming this time; the bear had lunged at me and was soaring through the air.  It was a mistake.  I used his momentum to carry me backwards.  My foot came up, and caught the animal under the jaw, closing its massive maw.  I continued to flip backwards, and with all the strength I possessed, pushed the bear upward with my foot.  The kick served its purpose, and I was able to get enough space between the beast and I to swing my swords.  In a mad frenzy I stabbed.  As fast as my arms would move, I stabbed, and stabbed, and stabbed.  The bear was soaring through the air above me; I was flipping backwards beneath it, but my blades were doing their lethal dance in and out of the soft underside of the beast. 

I must have poked a dozen holes all the way down the belly of the bear before we hit the ground.  The animal was unmoved by the attack.  Its rear legs came down, trying to stomp me in the process.  I was quicker.  I was on my belly on the ground underneath him, but I rolled to the side just in time to miss the heavy blow.  I came to my feet, a bit slower this time.  I could feel the fatigue settling in.  I wondered if the animal would ever tire.

The great bear turned to face me again.  He paused for only a moment.  I could see the intelligence in his eyes.  Before I could catch my breath, he pressed the attack again.  My blades came up to meet him.  Instead of taking him head on, I stepped to the side, and pivoted.  I swung my sword backwards with all of my might as the bear charged past me.  The blade found its mark, and was buried to the hilt in the bear’s side.  With the massive beast’s forward momentum, I didn’t have enough time to retrieve the weapon before he charged past.

The sword handle, and the knife handle sticking out of the animal gave it an even more menacing look.  It was a reminder that he was immortal; that I could not win this battle.  I was tired.  I wanted to stop, but I knew he would not allow it. 

I took my last blade in both hands, and waited for the attack.  The beast charged again, this time he was watching for a side step.  He was waiting for me to make a mistake.  He was waiting for me to repeat a move so that he could teach me a lesson.  I had learned not to make those mistakes in my training.  As soon as a warrior becomes predictable, he will die.  I knew the laws of war.  I was not about to break them.

As the bear charged in, I flipped forward.  I ran my blade up the back of the bear as it passed under me.  The fur, and skin separated as the blade sliced its way down the animal.  Before I had finished my strike, the beginning of the wound was mending.  The long gash closed up like a zipper before I completed my flip and landed on the ground.

I turned to face my foe once more.  The bear reared up again.  I pressed the attack.  My blade moved like lightning.  I cut across, up, down, jabbed, thrashed, and twisted.  Long cuts were all over the bear’s tender underbelly.  The wounds healed instantly.  I cut faster, deeper.  The wounds healed faster.  My arms and blade were a blur of furious movement. 

The bear started swinging its massive claws.  I had to stop my frivolous attack, and use my sword as a shield from the sharp claws.  The bear stayed on his haunches and fought with its front paws, almost like a man.  Several times I severed the massive mitts, but they always grew back as fast as I could cut them.  Every now-and-then I would thrust the sword into the bear’s chest, or stomach.  The blows, be they offensive or defensive, didn’t faze the beast.

My arms were getting heavy.  The swings were becoming increasingly more labored.  I was slowing.  The bear was not.  With a mighty blow, it knocked the sword from my hand.  With his other paw, he knocked me from my feet.  I flew a good five paces before I struck the ground.

My head was spinning, but I knew I had to get up.  On unsure legs I made it back to my feet.  The bear was already there.  It swung a massive claw at me.  I reached up, and grabbed the arm just in time.  With all my strength, I wretched the arm sideways, and up behind the bear’s back.  The bone popped.  I swung my legs over the beast, and continued pulling the arm until I was able to roll him. 

The bears other paw came around with the momentum of the roll, and caught me square in the chest.  I went sprawling again.  I landed on my back a good eight paces away.  The blow drove the air from my lungs.  I tried to sit up, but my spinning head wouldn’t let me.  I was only just able to prop myself up on my elbows to get a look at the beast bearing down on me.

A bright, yellow, glowing light left the pouch attached to my weapons belt.  I tried to call out, but there was still no air in my lungs.  The little glowing creature flew furiously at the beast.  They met head on.  One would expect the little glowing creature to lose in the collision, but that was not the case.  This was my oldest, and dearest, friend Columbine Iceweb; a fairy who found me as a baby after my parents abandoned me.  When she collided with the bear, he went sprawling.  He flew a good twenty paces up in the air and one hundred paces backwards; flipping haphazardly as he went, with arms and legs sprawling out in every direction.

“No more,” the little fairy voice shouted as the bear took flight.

I groaned inside.  I was going to be in trouble.  I sat up, and waited for her to return to me.

“Colly,” I said, admonishingly as she landed in my upturned palm.  “You do realize he’s going to kill me now, don’t you?”

Columbine’s wings wilted, the way a dogs ears do when you yell at them.  “He’s too hard on you,” she explained.  “I can’t stand it when mean old Marus hits you like that.”

I couldn’t be mad at her.  She loved me.  She only understood love.  I feigned a scold.  “Well I hit him, don’t I,” I asked.

She held her hands behind her back, looked down, and shrugged.  “I guess you do.”  She sat quietly under my scolding gaze for a moment longer.  Then her wings came up a bit with a thought, and she looked up into my eyes, “But it doesn’t hurt him like it hurts you.  I don’t like to see him hurt you.  He’s a mean old bear,” she professed.

I couldn’t hold the scold any longer, and smiled helplessly.  “Awww, you know I can’t stay mad at you, little Colly.  I love my little Colly wolly.”

With that, her wings perked up, and she glowed a little brighter.  She lifted up off my hand, flew to my face.  She kissed me on the tip of my nose.  As she did so, her yellowish glow turned a deep red.  “I love you, Apoc,” she said in her tiny fairy voice.

Just then, Marus came tromping through the bushes.  The bear was grunting angrily as he walked.  He stood up on his hind legs, and continued walking forward.  With each step, his body was transforming.  He shrunk a few feet, then his fur got thinner, his snout sunk in, the eyes changed.  Within a few paces, he was a man. 

Knight Marus was my second oldest and dearest, friend.  He had learned about my birth through a prophecy, and was sent to train me from Mother Gaia, herself.  He was the Shaman of my people.  He had been so for the last eight thousand years.  His calling as a councilman at Gaia’s table had prolonged his life, and given him powers beyond my imagination.  He had taught me how to use some of those powers, but mostly, he taught me about my power. 

He stopped just in front of me.  As I stood up, he removed the sword from his side.  The wound closed immediately once the blade was removed.  Then he reached up, and pulled the blade from his shoulder.  There was not a scratch on him to betray the damage I had done him in the training session.  His eyes, however, were dancing with anger.

“You must keep that little pest in your room when we train,” Marus said.  “We train for hours, and she undoes all our work.  How can you learn if others fight for you?”

I never knew how to answer Marus’ questions.  Anyone else would ask such a thing, and it would be a rhetorical question; Marus never asked rhetorical questions.  He always expected an answer.  I racked my brain trying to think of an answer that would appease him.  Nothing came to mind.

Colly beat me to the punch.  She flew right up to Marus’ face, and said, “You be nice! You mean old bear.”

“Why does she always do this,” Marus asked with exaggerated patience.  “She knows I do not understand a word that she says.”

Colly had the tiniest little voice.  No one could understand her, but me.  I often wondered why that was.  I could hear her from a quarter mile away, but others couldn’t hear her even if she were screaming right in their ears.

“She says, I’ve trained enough,” I said.  “She says it’s time for us to go to supper.”

Colly flashed blue, and turned to fly back to me.  “You lie head,” she exclaimed.  “I can’t believe you lied.  You tell the mean old bear what I said.  Don’t lie.  You lie head.”

I had to laugh.  Marus just raised an eyebrow.  “Ummm. She’s mad because I lied,” I explained.  “She didn’t say it was supper time.  That was my idea.”  Marus didn’t think it was funny, so I quickly wiped the smile off my face.  “What she really said was that you’re a mean old bear.”

Colly looked pleased.  She turned around, and stuck her little tongue out at Marus.  He was too far away to see her tiny features, but she didn’t seem to care.  She flew back to me, landed on my shoulder, and started snuggling with my cheek.

“You must leave the insect at home next time, Apoc,” Marus admonished.  The scowl never left his dark features.  “This is not a game.  We train you for Gaia.  You are to be the Chosen One.  You cannot live life as if it were a game.”

“Should I live like you,” I said out of anger.  “You don’t live, Knight Marus.  Life isn’t as serious as you make it out to be.  It’s fun, and exciting.  Sure, there are tough times, but if all you focus on is the bad, you’ll never be happy.” 

The old shaman didn’t look moved.  “You are young,” he said.  “And stupid.” 

Marus was a lot of things, but he was never belittling.  He must have been more upset than I had thought.

“We are facing grave times, Apoc,” he continued.  “If you continue to live in this fancy free life style of yours, you will get yourself killed.  Then the world will fall to darkness.  We all depend on you.  I do not believe that you truly understand the burden that you bear.  You cannot live a normal life.  I am sorry for this, but it is what it is.  You are right; life should be a wonder.  It is the greatest gift the Creator gave us, but for some, like you and I, we must sacrifice that gift so that others may enjoy theirs.  You will learn to find joy in that sacrifice, too.”

I had heard the speech a million times.  It was losing its effect.  Colly was still cuddling with my cheek.  She let her magic flow into me.  It was love.  All she knew was love.  She shared that love openly.  She wanted me to feel it.  It was hard to keep the scolded look on my face with her wonderful magic flowing through me.  Knight Marus’ speech was having even less effect on me because of it.

I looked up, in the best humbled face I could pull.  “I’m sorry, Marus.  You’re right.  I’ll try to take my training more seriously from now on.  Don’t be mad at Colly.  She doesn’t understand.  She just wants me to be happy.”

The big man just sighed.  “I am not mad at Colly, son.  I am glad that she is so protective of you.  She has saved your life many times.  I would not ban her from our training sessions if she could stay out of the fight.”  He shot Columbine a glare.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw her wings wilt.  “But we must be able to complete our training sessions.   There will be times when you are knocked down in battle.  There will be times when you are knocked senseless.  You need to practice responding, even under those circumstances.  I love you, son.  I do not want this calling to take your life.”

“I know, Marus,” I said.  I no longer had to force the humbled look.  “Sometimes I worry I won’t be enough.  I worry I won’t be able to live up to the prophecy.”

Marus walked over to me, and placed a meaty hand on my shoulder.  “I know, son.  I know.  That is why we train so hard.  I cannot help you in the last battle.  The prophecy says that you will fight it on your own.  The only way I can be there for you is by what we do here, in our training sessions.  It is my prayer that these sessions will make you ready for that fateful moment.”

The big man embraced me like a father.  I never knew my father, but with Marus around I never missed him.  I had been raised by him, and Columbine.  I couldn’t imagine a boy having more loving parents.

“Now,” he said as we separated.  “I think it really is time for supper.”

With that, we hiked our way down through the foothills, away from the great mountains, to the village.

Dragon Sight Chapter 1

     I just realized I haven't posted any chapters from my first two books.  When I was writing them, I had an open blog and just posted everything, but now that's a private blog.  So, I decided to share the first chapter of book 1.  Book 1 and book 1 run in a congruent timeline, so either can be first.  Most people seem to like Dragon Sight being first, so here's chapter 1.

Chapter 1

The cool air moved uneasily as the first drops began to fall.  I could hear the rain plinking softly on the tin stable roof a hundred feet above my head for several seconds before the drizzle finally found its way to the ground. A few seconds more, and the light spring air had turned into a heavy downpour. I paused at my work and leaned on my shovel to enjoy the refreshing shower.  The stable was a large “U” shape, and I stood in the center of the “U” exposed to the cool drops.  The water washed away the thick smell of dragon excrement, which always hung heavily in the air around the stables.  Hot steam radiated from my overworked body as the cool water rinsed the accumulated filth from my tattered clothes. I had to smile to myself.

Dressed in only a tattered shirt and a pair of paints which had more holes than fabric, I felt the pelting rain all over my mostly exposed skin.  I loved the rain.  The animals hated it. They danced nervously in their stalls, grunting their disapproval.

With each drop came a sound.  Those sounds gave me a chance to “see”, a rare occurrence, indeed.  Water pelted long necks swaying back and forth, gigantic heads looking this way and that.  The raindrops hit the dragons’ thick hides, sending sound reverberations to my sensitive ears.  Part of my job was to wash those dragons, so I was familiar with their bodies.  I knew every scale, every horn, every scar, but it was nice to hear the rain hitting them and confirming what my hands had felt.

I wasn’t born blind.  I was a toddler, not quite two years of age, when the Dark Clan attacked and I lost my eyes.  It was a raid.  The Dark Clan’s riders appeared out of the pitch black sky, and wreaked havoc on our kingdom only to disappear into the nothingness from which they emerged.  Raids weren’t all that uncommon in the boarder villages, but we lived in the King’s city, right in the middle of Gogaloth, where we had only suffered one other raid in history. Mother tells me that the fire was too thick for her to rescue me from my crib. Such thick, black, choking smoke… It was a miracle that I didn’t suffocate.  My young eyes were burnt by the ashes, and forever closed.  At Seventeen, and having delt with it all my life, I have become accustomed to my world of darkness.  I still wish I had, at least, one memory of sight; a color or face… Alas, there is nothing but darkness.

I shook my head at the bad memory.  I wanted to enjoy the rain, not wallow in self pity.  After all, on a night like this I could “see” better than anyone.  I don’t know exactly when it happened, but at some point sound became my world of sight.  Each noise tells me how far away things are, and the echoes give me a feel for dimensions.  I count steps everywhere I go to judge distances and memorize paths, and I feel the faces of the people I meet so that I get an idea of what they look like.  With the downpour, there’s a chorus of sound describing the world around me in a way that I can understand.  

Leaning on my shovel, and still panting from the heavy work of mucking out the dragon stables, I begin to daydream.  I’m the Rider of Acaba, the prophesied hero of the people.  I’m soaring through the air atop one of the king dragons, a dragon rider army behind me. The Dark Clan has us surrounded.  Someone calls out a battle cry and we rush to attack…

“Calitharious!”

I almost fall off my shovel.  I quickly caught myself, and turn to face my screaming father with my head hanging low.  He’d caught me in another daydream.  My cheeks burned with embarrassment.

“I’ve been calling for you for the last twenty minutes.  Is this how you spend your time at the stables?  It’s no wonder Lycons has been complaining about having a blind boy for a stable hand.”

The burning in my cheeks spread to my gut.  I felt my bottom lip start to quiver against my greatest efforts to suppress it.  I turned away to hide my embarrassment.

“Cal, I’m sorry, son.  I didn’t mean that.”

I felt his calloused hand on my shoulder. I pulled away.  I was once again just the blind stable-boy, good for nothing more than to keep the stables from overflowing with dragon dung.  I could never become the Rider of Acaba.  I could never be anything worthwhile.

With all the indignation I could muster, I yelled, “I’d like to see you get around ten-thousand pound monsters with your eyes closed without getting trampled!”

Too embarrassed to even wait for my father’s response, I turned and ran.

The heavy rain pounded on my head and shoulders as I ran across the field beyond the stables.  Father’s faint voice called from behind me, but the thunderous rain on my head deafened my ears from any distinguishable words.  At one hundred and forty-seven paces, I reached the forest.

I didn’t often enter the woods because the forest floor was always changing, and I hated the scrapes and bruises I’d get from trips and falls, but I pressed forward.

The trees shielded me from the rain as I pushed deeper into their oppressive embrace.  This forest was old.  The new moisture made the air thick with the aroma of rotting deadwood and fungus.  I sprinted onward.  I was gasping air with some difficulty by this point, but my tormented mind made my body seem numb.  It was dangerous to be running at break-neck speeds through such thick woods…  Just as the thought hit me, I felt a sharp piercing blow from a broken branch on my right temple which sent me sprawling to the ground where I was met with another blow to my forehead.  The world spun to oblivion.

When I awoke, I heard birds greeting the warm morning sun.  I sat up, but the world started turning too fast for my liking.  I had to brace myself against the ground to keep from falling over.  My entire face felt dry and sticky. Still a little confused, I touched my cheek; it was caked in a syrup-like substance.  Memory of the injuries came flooding back into my muddled mind.

“My father was right,” I mumbled to myself.  “I am a useless blind boy.”

I felt around and found the rock which had struck my forehead.  It had a long sharp ridge across the top.  I tenderly felt around the pulsating painful spot on my forehead only to find what I already knew to be there; a two-inch gash from eyebrow to hairline, another scar to mar my already hashed face.

The sound of the rushing river nearby told me that I had run farther into the woods than I originally thought.

“A whole quarter mile,” I said out loud, just to hear it.  I began to smile.   “Most boys couldn’t do that with both eyes wide open in these woods.”

“I’d be impressed too, cept I can see da bloody mess dat ya are,” came a response.

My stomach turned.

“Who’s there,” I asked tentatively, trying to back away from the voice.

“Relax, lad.  I mean ya no harm,” the gruff voice responded.

Still trying to scoot away from him, I asked, “Who are you?”

My mind started racing.  Gogaloth was full of dangerous people, and I didn’t know how to defend myself, even if I had the use of my eyes.  He didn’t sound treacherous, but his accent was foreign.  I could recognize the heavy tongues of the other two kingdoms, but his wasn’t from either.

I heard the man stand up.  The gravel crunched under his feet as he approached me.  “Let’s just say a friend, fer now.”

I made a sour face at his obtuse answer, but he kept shuffling towards me.  Without warning, a meaty hand prodded the open wound on my forehead.

“Ouch! Don’t touch it!  It hurts,” I shouted, trying to scoot farther away from him on my bottom. The roughness of his hands led me to believe they were dirty, too.  He was probably just some beggar hoping to get a handout for helping me.

“Now, lad, ya gonna bleed ta death if’n ya don’a treat dem holes,” the strange man said.

“I have a doctor to treat me.  I don’t need your help,” I grumbled, as I stopped trying to scoot away.  I wasn’t in any mood to put up with more people helping the poor blind kid, especially some beggar.

The old man seemed undeterred.  “Now, ya listen good; I didn’a sit up here all night fer nottin.  Hold still an’ I’ll fix ya up real nice-like, den ya can go ta dat palace o’yer’s an’ let dat no-good doctor mess up da fine work dat I’ll do on ya.”

Now I knew the old man was deluded.  I was obviously not royalty.  Even an entire night’s worth of rain couldn’t wash the stench of dragon dung off me.

Unless he knew…

It wasn’t exactly a secret that mother had been stripped of her title when she married Father, but he’d have to be a Gogalothian to know Mother, and his accent was not from anywhere in Gogaloth.  And, he’d have to know me personally to recognize me for my mother’s son.  Perhaps gossip of the crowned princess of Gogaloth being disinherited had reached beyond the three free kingdoms.

I pushed his prodding hands away again.  “I didn’t ask for you to sit up all night waiting to mend me.  I can take care of myself.  I don’t need your help.”

The man cursed under his breath, and stood up.  I heard shuffling which sounded as if he were stuffing things into a bag.  He grumbled some inaudible phrases to himself as he worked.  The only words I could decipher were curse words.

“Look,” I said.  “I’m sure that my parents are looking for me.  I’m not trying to be rude, I just need to get going.”  There was no answer, just more shuffling.  “I do appreciate your kindness for watching over me…”

Just then, I felt the powerful swoosh of air from a dragon’s wings as it took off.  A dragon!  How in the world did he have a dragon?  Only royals and riders had dragons.  Maybe he wasn’t a beggar.  I was left alone to wonder about him.

A fresh stream of blood was trickling from the wound because of the old man’s rough touch.  I had to put off thoughts of the strange encounter for the time and treat my injuries.  I stood on unsteady legs and made my way towards the sound of the river.  My head was spinning, adding to the difficulty of navigating in the unfamiliar terrain.

“Twenty-seven, twenty-eight…”

As I bumbled my way across the rocky ground towards the sound of flowing water, it occurred to me how small my world had been.  I knew every cobblestone, rock, hill, bump, and smooth spot within a quarter mile of my home… but little else.  I was unerring in my little world, but here my feet didn’t know their way.

I finally reached the river at fourty-seven paces.  It was a small accomplishment, but it lifted my spirits a bit.  I knelt at the bank, scooped water up with cupped palms, and gently poured it across my face.  It burned as it ran across the gaping holes in my head.  Being early spring, the stream was still icy cold.  After five or ten minutes I couldn’t stand to dip my hands in the freezing water anymore, so I tore what was left of my raggedy old shirt and made a crude bandage to wrap my head.  I didn’t remember crossing the river, so I figured I was still on the east side of it.  All I had to do was follow the warmth of the rising sun until I was out of the woods and back on familiar ground.

The journey back was not as smooth, or lucky, as my flight into the woods had been.  Every few seconds I felt a sharp branch drag across my now exposed arms and chest, and I must have bloodied my shins half a dozen times on rock outcroppings before I made it out of the thick trees.  Following the sun proved to be a trying task as well because the trees were so thick that light only dashed intermittently through small openings in the forest canopy.  At times I had to wander around in little circles in the shade of the great oaks and cedars.

If I wasn’t so distraught I might have stopped to enjoy the sweet musky smell of the cedars, but the pleasant aroma only served as a distraction as my nose frantically tried to sniff out the pungent smell of the stables.  After about an hour, I finally broke through the tree line.  I had lost track of how many paces I’d taken twenty minutes prior, so I wasn’t sure, exactly, where I emerged from the wood.  The dank smell of the forest was replaced with the familiar smell of dragon.  I followed the stink in a stupor, abandoning my habitual counting.

Feeling more at ease on familiar ground, my mind slowly wandered to my father.  I felt bad for not hearing him out, and started thinking about how I would apologize.  Once I reached a road, my feet took over walking as I fell into the familiar path to my home.  The counting started again, but it was just background noise to my thoughts.  Before I knew it, I was home.

I leaned against the old wooden door to my house.  It gave way with a familiar creak, welcoming me home.  Mother gasped from the other side of the room as I entered the Main Room.

“Oh, my son,” she exclaimed.

I must have been a sight to see; bashed, bleeding all over, and dirty to the bone.

Before I could take a step into the house, Mother was there.  She seemed to scoop me up into her arms, though I was a good foot taller than her.  I guessed I would always be her baby.  I felt her tears on my naked shoulder.  The salt burned as they ran across the small scrapes I had sustained from the pine trees.

“I’m okay,” I said as I managed to free my arms enough to hug her back.  “I just ran into a tree branch, and I think I hit my head on a rock.”  She started to sob even louder.  “Are you okay, Mother?”

“Son, there was an attack…”

My senses suddenly came alive for the first time since my return.  The ashes from the fires hung heavily on the air.  The smell of burnt sulfur only dragon’s fire could produce, was burning my nostrils.  Why hadn’t I notice it sooner?

“But it was raining last night,” I said pleadingly.  “There couldn’t have been an attack last night.  It was raining!  It had to have been too dark for riders.”

“It was just like the night when you lost your eyes, Cal.  There were no warnings,” she spluttered between sobs.  “We couldn’t even see where the fire balls were coming from to defend ourselves.”

My stomach turned and tightened.  I managed to choke out the words, “What’s happened?  Where’s dad?”  My mother sobbed even louder.  “Mom…Is he…?”

“I don’t know,” she said, composing herself and releasing me from her vice-like grip.  “The town is a mess…  He never came home… You never came home… I didn’t know what to do!”

She let out a deep calming breath, and then started again, “We heard the first blasts, and he ran to the stables to get you.  We thought it was a dragon in training gone mad.  No one expected an attack on a night like last night.”  Her voice trailed off.

I had to calm myself to think.  How could I have not heard a blast of dragon breath?  Dragons whelp as the fire ignites on their tongues, and the boom as the flame is blown out of their mouths is deafening.  I couldn’t imagine how it could have eluded my finely tuned ears.  It must have been the rain on the stable roof.  I must have been completely in another world with my daydreaming.  I must have…  Why did I let myself go to my silly daydreams?  I should have heard them.  I should have known.

“He came to the stables, and was yelling at me,” I said in a stupor.  “He called me a blind stable hand.  I got mad at him and yelled something back then ran to the woods.  I think he tried to follow me, but I’m not sure.  I yelled at him, Mother… he can’t be gone.  I have to tell him I’m sorry.  I have to apologize, I have to…”  My mother threw her arms around me, and the tears got the better of me.  Together, we sobbed for what seemed like an eternity.

Tears spent, we decided to go looking for Father.  Mother suggested that he might be in the woods looking for me, but something inside me told me that wasn’t so.  She quickly gathered three family friends to help search the woods for him, and then she and I started asking around town if anyone had seen him.

The town guards were busy taking care of the injured and organizing people to rebuild the walls.  We couldn’t rally any more help in our search.  Mother was asking everyone we knew, everyone except the person I felt we should ask the most: The King.  The King would have an army to find him.  At the very least if he asked townspeople to help they’d listen to him.

The King was my grandfather, but he disinherited my mother when she married Father, so I had never met him.  Mother always said I would never be safe around any royalty because of the prophecy.  The King resented that my birth had almost caused a war between Gogaloth and the other two kingdoms.

That prophecy… I might have been a normal kid without it.

Dangerous or not, I had to see the King.  We needed his help. While my mother was busy talking to some of the guards, I slipped away.  I pushed through the crowd towards the palace.

The main cobble stone path to the castle was unfamiliar to my feet, and the bustle of the town made my commute impossible.

“One hundred and fourty-five, one hundred and fourty… Ouch!”

People were bumping into me, and pushing me around until I could no longer tell which way I was supposed to go.  Finally, someone took hold of my hand, and pulled me off the street to a less crowded alleyway.

“Are you crazy Cal,” she said.  I recognized the voice immediately as my mother’s dearest friend Eliza.  I reached up to feel her face, just to be sure.  “You’re going to get yourself killed in this mob.  The town’s hoppin’ with movement from last night’s fireworks.  You best be getting yourself home before you get trampled.”

“Eliza, my father disappeared last night,” I explained. “I think he was looking for me.  We had a fight, and I ran into the woods.”

“So that’s how you banged yourself up so bad.”

I had forgotten about my blood-soaked shirt.  She took my head in her hands, and carefully peeled back the tattered material to inspect my cuts.

“You need stitches,” she announced.  Then she took my hand again, and started pulling me deeper into the ally.  “Afterward, I can help you go lookin’ for him.  Let’s get you inside and look at those wounds.”

I dug in my heels.  “No,” I yelled.  “I need to make it to the King.  He can help.  Three people aren’t going to find one man in all this mess, especially if one of them is blind!”

Eliza gasped in shock.  It was the one advantage to my disability, I could always count on people feeling sorry for me and doing what I wanted when I brought it up.

There was a long silence.  I finally added, “Are you going to help me through the town, or do I have to do it on my own?”

Eliza was silent for a moment longer before replying, in her kindly manner, “Well, I don’t think it’ll help, but I love your father and mother too much not to try.” We switched directions, and she pulled me hurriedly through the crowded street.

“Three hundred and eighty-seven, three hundred and eighty-eight…”

We walked for what seemed like hours, but really couldn’t have been more than twenty or thirty minutes.  The whole way, the last conversation I’d had with my father was playing over and over in my head.  I wished I had at least heard him out.  I wished I had heard the attack.  I wished so many things, but wishing didn’t change what happened.

The closer we got to the palace, the fewer people were bumping into me.  My aching toes were grateful when we finally reached a point where they were no longer being stomped on by clumsy passersby.  Occasionally, we had to check in at guard posts as we passed through walled off layers of the king’s city.  I’d restart counting at each checkpoint.  After passing a final guards’ checkpoint at the palace’s outer wall, I could hear only Eliza’s soft-soled shoes briskly scraping against the cobblestone in rhythm with her stride.  I, of course, walked silently after years of practicing the art.  It made it easier to tell where others were if my own footsteps weren’t confusing me.  The courtyard was immense, and it took some traversing before I felt the tall edifice block out the warmth from sun above us.

“One thousand seven hundred and ninety-six…”

We stopped abruptly, and Eliza announced, “Cal is here to see his grandfather, the King, on most urgent business.”

A deep voice from one of the door guards answered, “No one can have audience with the King at a time like this, not even his grandson.”

“He will see me,” I exclaimed.  The power in my voice surprised me.  I took a step in the direction of the guard’s voice, hoping that he hadn’t moved.  “And I would hate to be in your shoes if he found out that you tried to deny me audience with him!”

The guard stuttered a bit as he replied, “But I… he…”  He thought a moment then continued, “I’ll announce you at once, Your Highness.”

It took me a minute to realize he was addressing me.  Once, a small boy had called me ‘sir’ when he was asking for directions, but ‘Your Highness’.  I couldn’t help but raise my head and stick out my chest a bit.  The guard’s metal armor clanked as he turned and walked three paces.  I heard a loud creak as some great doors opened.  I followed quickly after the guard when I heard the clinking of his armored boots as he entered into the palace’s greeting hall.

The hall was enormous.  Sounds were lost as they traversed the vast opening, and returned as muffled echoes.  It was disorienting.  The ground was a smooth stone, probably marble.  After a five brisk paces, we reached a soft carpet, and I tripped on some stairs.  The guard must not have realized I was blind.  He stumbled about, trying to help me to my feet.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness.  I had heard rumors, but I didn’t know for sure.  Please forgive me,” he begged, as I finally found my feet.

What little dignity I had felt seconds earlier was replaced by the humiliation I was so accustomed to.  “It’s okay; just get me to my grandfather, please.”

We traversed through hallways ranging from twenty to thrity paces, formal rooms, fourty paces long, less formal rooms, twenty paces long, and all sorts of other rooms before the guard came to a halt.  He announced me to another set of door guards, and after some worried whispers back-and-forth the large doors to what they called “the War Room” were opened.  It was only then that I realized Eliza was not permitted in with me.  I would have to face the man my mother and father had taught me to fear, all alone.

Dragon Souls, Book 3, Chapter 3

     Today was a fairly unproductive day.  I wrote a whopping 2 pages... But I'll share some stuff I wrote a long time ago.  Here's Chapter 3 of my third book.  I hope you enjoy.  I'm looking for beta readers for the whole thing when I finish.  I think this will be the last chapter I post here.  If you're interested in being a beta reader let me know.  I'd like to get at least 3, but the more the merrier.

Chapter 3

                Water slowly dripping from the ceiling and plopping into stagnant puddles was the only noise to be heard.  The tortured cries and wails of anguish from the other prisoners had finally given way to the dead quiet of exhausted sleep.  Cal had lost count of the number of days, weeks, months, or even years he’d been in the dark dungeon.  He never felt the warm sun on his skin, but the air always cooled at night, noting the passing of yet another day in the clutches of the Phantom Lord.  At first he had tried to keep track of the passing of time, but the hours of torture and exhaustion from lack of sleep, along with the bizarre physical training he was forced to endure, had all made him teeter on the brinks of sanity and the endless abyss of madness.  Dreams of his beautiful elven princess had been the only thing keeping him from falling over that edge.

                He didn’t know Erroyle. Not really.  Mother Gaia had “given” her to him.  Erroyle seemed instantly taken with him, but Cal had never had any experience with women.  He wasn’t sure if one could just love someone because Mother Gaia proclaimed it to be so.  Truth be told, he had never given any thought to love.  He was old enough, seventeen, but girls had never paid him any heed.  He supposed he must be something awful to look upon; blinded at birth, scars where eyes should be, countless grisly scars from years of working around dragons without the use of his eyes, not to mention the fact that he had never been able to do most of the things other boys did because of the loss of his sight.  What kind of life could he offer a girl?  No, he had never even dreamed of love… until she came into his life.

                It wasn’t fair!  His life had already been so horrible.  Why even have a love if he was to lose her in two days?  His heart ached for her, though.  He couldn’t explain it, but she was all he could think about.  He remembered, vaguely, that he had left home to save his parents.  At the time it seemed so important, but now the torture had made him forget all those cares.  The only thing left was her.  Erroyle was the last hope of sanity to which he tediously clung.

                Cal’s muscles ached from use.  Even at night he wasn’t given rest from his training.  His jailors would strap bands to his ankles and wrists.  Chains hooked to heavy weights and strung through pulleys pulled at him from every direction.  Cal had learned to pull his arms in fold them, and pull his legs in and cross them at night to keep from having dislocated limbs in the mornings.   Of course, this meant flexing his muscles all night.  At first, he couldn’t sleep with the weights pulled in, but over time he had learned to lock his muscles and drift off.  The results were that Cal was getting large with muscle.  He was forced to work all day, and sleep with his muscles flexed.  The jailors fed him more every meal than he would normally have eaten in a day.  He must have doubled his weight in the time he had been imprisoned. 

                He trained for hours at the sword and all other manner of weaponry.  Sometimes he was made to fight several opponents at once.  Had he never felt the dragon warrior’s spirit within him, he would have thought the feat impossible. 

The strange black dragon Cal was linked with had the ability to move his body through the link they shared.  And his battle prowess was without peers.  When Cal allowed the dragon to take control of his body he was an invincible warrior.  That too was over, now.  The dragon had been fatally wounded when Cal was captured.  He could no longer feel the bond with the beast.  His poor soul dragon was dead.

The Phantom Lord was training him to fight as if he were still possessed with the dragon’s spirit.  The use of his eyes, or rather the lack of their use, didn’t seem to matter to the tyrant.  His sparing partners went for blood with every swing.  Cal had quickly learned to listen carefully for their attacks and counter or be cut.

He had also learned more about the strange powers he possessed.  The Phantom Lord had all manner of dark sorcerers at his command.  Cal learned of spell casting, runes, enchantments, black magic, white magic, elemental magic, arcane magic, and all sorts of magic he had never heard of before.  He was physically exhausted from the training, but he was also mentally exhausted from the learning.  Some nights he couldn’t get his mind to stop, and he would stay up all night thinking about the things he was learning.

 He knew now that if he ever were to free himself from this nightmare, he would no longer be a helpless blind boy.  He could create a bubble of “sight” around him with magic.  He was able to do so with the aid of the dragon, but his studies had taught him how to do it for himself; how to feel the molecules of matter all around him.  They were all connected in a sense; the air, the ground, all living things moving about.  He could feel the molecules touching his body, and the ones touching those, and so on for about ten or fifteen feet around him in every direction.  It was a bit different from when the dragon had invoked the magic within him.  Not better nor worse, just different.  The dragon’s magic was like sight.  Cal’s magic was closer to touch.  He could feel his environment instead of seeing a mental image of it.

In short, Cal had finally risen above his disability.  Not only that, but he was becoming a powerful warrior and wizard.  He no longer felt like a victim of life.  He was now only a victim of the Phantom Lord; his play thing, only brought out to amuse its master.  But Cal swore that if his cruel captor ever let his guard down, he’d kill him.  As much as he abhorred killing, he would gladly rid the world of the Phantom Lord.  Then he would be free to find his Erroyle.

“Brooding over times past, or times present?”  came the grandmotherly voice from the cell next to Cal’s. 

Call had become fast friends with the old woman.  She had comforted him as he cried away the first helpless nights in the dungeon.  Unable to pull the weights in, then, he was in constant pain of being stretched in every direction.   He was terrified of being in the cold dungeon, and helpless against the trials and tests the Phantom Lord constantly placed before him.  The old woman was the only one to show him any kindness.  It was she who taught him how to pull in the weights and fold his arms and legs.  She helped him work the magics he had the most difficulty learning.  She walked him through fighting tactics which gave him an edge over his opponents in the Phantom Lords arena.  She was his savior in the times of his darkest hours.  And for all her help, he didn’t even know her true name.  She had claimed to have forgotten it years ago under the insanity of torture, so he took to calling her Nana.  She always laughed favorably at the title, so he tried to use it as often as he could with her.  Her cell was just outside of his magical bubble of “sight” so he never did get a chance to see her.

“Just brooding in general, I suppose,” Cal responded.

“What’s on your mind tonight, Cal?”

“Nana, do you know how long I’ve been down here?”

Nana seemed to think back, mumbling some calculations under her breath.  “I suppose it’s been close to a year now,” She answered, at last.

A year! Was it only a year? It seemed so much longer.  And yet, it seemed like only yesterday he was fighting for the freedom of the Three Free Kingdoms.

“Do you know if the Phantom Lord has pressed any farther into the central and northern lands,” Cal asked, hoping for the best, though he already feared the worst.

“No, Cal, the Chosen One showed up just after you were captured,” Nana answered, in a kindly reassuring voice.  “Most of the dragon armies from both sides were pulled into some sort of strange dark portal.  We haven’t heard from them ever since.  Besides, the Phantom Lord was injured during the battle.  His dragon was ruined and can no longer fly, and his army suffered massive losses at the hands of Mother Gaia.  She flooded the Dwarven stronghold with lava after the Phantom Lord’s army overran it.”

“The dwarves!  Did they… Were they all killed?”

“I don’t know deary.  I don’t get much more information down here than you do.  I do know that the whole mountain was flooded with lava, and the Phantom Lord lost close to a million soldiers.  Losing those and the several hundred thousand of the dragon army has left him pretty weak, but the Three Free Kingdoms have not pursued, so I believe their losses were just as great.”

Cal felt his heart sink.  Erroyle was with the dwarves.  He had assumed she was safe with them.  The stronghold seemed all but impenetrable.  He couldn’t imagine those gates ever falling.  And yet, they had.  They had fallen and the dwarves must have been killed.

Cal felt a warm tear scroll down his face.

She had likely been killed.

“What is it dear,” the kind old woman asked.

“Erroyle…” was all Cal could croak.

“Now deary, from what you’ve told me about that elven princess of yours, I’m sure she’s just fine.  She sounds like a gift from Gaia, that one.  I’ll bet she’s fighting to get to you as we speak.”

A year… Cal knew that nobody could fight for that long, all alone, against unfavorable odds, and still be alive.  And that was assuming she wasn’t killed by the lava.  Cal remembered the meeting with Gaia in the strange room at the center of the earth.  Gaia was not afraid of making sacrifices for the good of the whole.  He knew very well that she would kill her own daughter if it meant saving the world from the Phantom Lord.

He faked a smile for the kindly old lady, in case she was watching, and said, “I suppose you’re right.” 

Another tear scrolled down his cheek against his best efforts to control it.  It was all over now.  Even if he did, somehow, manage to escape the Phantom Lord there was no Erroyle to go back to.  He couldn’t go back to his old kingdom given the mess he’d made as he left, and he was certain his parents were dead now.  He’d been with the Phantom Lord a year and none of the other prisoners had heard a word about his father or mother.  Cal was alone.

  “Well, well,” came the raspy voice of the goblin jailor.  “Can’t sleep, eh?  I guess we need to work you some more, get you good and tired.”  Cal groaned inwardly.  “Up and at’em, then.  We’ve got the perfect sparring partner for you tonight.”

Cal could hear the keys clatter around in heavy cell door.  “Let those chains down,” The putrid goblin hissed.  “Don’t want any toes crunched like last time.”  Cal had to smile at the memory.  He’d crushed Slithar’s toes the day before by dropping the heavy weights on them when they came to unchain him.  The sound of the crunch was worth the beating after.

Still sore from the bruised ribs, he decided to comply. The weights pulled mercilessly at his joints when he relaxed his muscles.  As he grew stronger, they added more weight, so he must have had about a full grown man’s weight on each limb now.  His sore shoulders complained as the jailor took his time to unlock the shackles.  Cal could hear the heavy weights slunk to the floor as each band was removed.  He didn’t want to see the ugly goblins face so he didn’t bother to use his magical sight.

“Be careful,” Nana said, worriedly from the next cell.

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” 

The both laughed as the jailor prodded Cal from behind out of the cell and into the long labyrinth of tunnels leading to the arena. 

“Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine…” Cal counted aloud out of habit.  His old way of finding things was to count his steps everywhere he went.  He found himself doing it often when he wasn’t using his magic to see.  Now, he was doing it out of habit.  Regardless of what the jailor thought, Cal was exhausted.  He was also emotionally drained.  The thought of losing Erroyle had taken the last fight out of him.

The guard prodded him again from behind when he subconsciously stopped to wait for the metal door to be opened.  Cal didn’t move.  The goblin prodded again, much more forcefully causing Cal’s ribs to ignite with pain from the mornings beating.  Cal still did not move.  He knew he had reached the metal door.  He had been counting subconsciously, but his feet knew right where they were, and he didn’t want to run, face-first, into the metal door.  This was a favorite trick of the guards when he had first arrived.  They always wanted to see if he really was blind, and would purposely walk him into solid objects.  Cal was not in the mood to nurse a broken nose.

The guard swung his staff at Cal from behind. 

The magic within him ignited with vengeance.  Cal could feel the room all around him.  He could feel the floor.  He could feel the earth several feet below the floor.  He felt the air whipping around the goblin’s staff.  It was close, but not nearly close enough.  The ancient magic within him awoke.  Time slowed, and then stopped.  Time was his.  He was not as powerful as he was with the dragon, but he was far more powerful than the goblin. 

Cal turned on his attacker, the staff moving ever so slowly towards his leg.  He grasped the staff mid-air, and broke it in two with one hand, grabbing the goblin by the neck with the other hand.  The thick chain binding the shackles on his wrists together shattered as the magic added strength to his now powerful arms.  The goblin lifted easily from the ground and slammed harshly against the solid rock wall behind him. 

The blow had killed the goblin before it could react, and Cal was left holding the lifeless body of the foul creature against the rock wall.  Hot shards of metal from the broken restraints skittered across the floor.  Cal knew immediately that he was in trouble.  He hadn’t even dared to hurt a guard on purpose before.  Unless it was easy to disguise as an accident like dropping the weights on the Slithar’s foot.  But this was different.  He’d killed a guard, and there was no way to disguise what he’d done.

Cal reached out with his magic to see if anyone had seen him.  To his surprise, the metal door he’d been waiting for was already opened.  He felt regret for killing the guard over nothing, but the memories of all the bad things he’d suffered over the last year quickly washed away his remorse.  He needed to hide the body.  Maybe he could push it down some stairs to make it look like an accident.  He remembered there being stairs down one of the training halls, but his mind was too muddled to remember where.  He started counting steps in every direction he could remember.

“One-hundred and seventy-three steps that way,” he said, to the dead guard before hoisting him over his shoulder and running him down the tunnel.  When he reached the steps, he quickly lobbed the body down the stairs and turned to run back to the metal door.  He realized he’d broken the restraints on his arms so he decided to finish the job.  With a stream of fire magic, he melted the manacles from his wrists, feeling the fresh air on them for the first time in a year.

Cal knew that his freedom would be short lived.  He also knew that he’d be missed if he wasn’t in his cell, the arena, the mages’ study, or a training room.  He decided that since the door was already opened that he’d go to the arena.  He started towards the arena in a slow, steady gait.  The longer he walked, the more he felt justified by what he’d done.  He was, after all, a prisoner held under the cruelest of circumstances.  He hated the jailors, all of them, but he knew that that one had no family.   He didn’t even know his name after all this time because the vile creature only barked orders and offered no conversation.  He only knew about the family because of Nana. 

All that aside, he’d just learned that he lost his love, his last reason for hoping for a tomorrow.  What did it matter if he were killed? What did it matter if he were beaten?  It wasn’t like the beatings he got for acting out were any worse than what he went through on a daily basis.  He was going to be a slave for the rest of his life.  Maybe his only escape was to shorten that life. 

By the time Cal reached the arena he had made up his mind.  He was going to commit suicide by belligerence.  He’d try to kill the Phantom Lord, and in so doing, free himself either by death or by the death of his true captor. 

Dragon Souls, book 3, Chapter 2

     I've been working on book 3 of Dragon Souls.  I don't have a definite name for the book yet, so for now it's book 3.  I had to look back at his chapter to write the chapter I'm working on, and I realized that this would be a good one to share.  The first chapter is posted on the blog, too.  You can find the link to it on the Wednesday Writing tab above.  Here's chapter 2

Chapter 2

                Erroyle rushed to the gates.  Nervous dwarves stood at the ready with bows and pikes.  She snatched the bow from one of the closest dwarves before he could put up a fight.  He grabbed her wrist as she reached for his full quiver of arrows.  Fayern raised a hand to halt the foolish young dwarf.  He released her and nodded to the dwarven prince behind her.  Erroyle was glad for the acquiescence; she would have killed the dwarf had he not.  The poor dwarves had been through enough.  She didn’t want to fight them, but she would not allow anyone to get in the way of her and Cal.  She needed to be with him.  She needed to feel his love, his acceptance, his nonjudgmental gaze.  She had never felt that kind of love from anyone but her father.  Her own people ostracized her because of her Gaian gift.  Knowing the emotions of others was more of a curse than a gift, really.  Her purple eyes marked her as different, and her people feared her for it.  Only the boy had loved her without prejudice.  He did not fear her gift.  After ten thousand years she had finally found someone to love her as she was.  She was not going to let him be taken away.

                Erroyle looked back at the dwarven prince and nodded her appreciation as she picked up the quiver of arrows.    The prince was probably only a few centuries old, but in his short life, he’d aged more than any dwarf his age.  Deep creases from wrinkles of worry and stress wore out the corners of his eyes, and around his nose and mouth.  He had no beard, which was beyond strange for a dwarf, but that wasn’t the only thing strange about the dwarf.  He was tall… tall for a dwarf, anyway.   About the average height of a man, but built twice as wide.  His brown hair was prematurely graying at his temples, and swooped back in a tangled mess just above his shoulders.  His grey eyes were tired.  This was a man who knew he was about to lose everything he loved.  Erroyle promised herself she wouldn’t let that happen.  She would save the dwarves on her way to save Cal.

A massive beam of the door splintered inward, affording them the first view of their pursuers.  Erroyle wasted no time.  She grabbed four arrows, placing one between each finger, and drew back the string.  In a whoosh they were away.  Through the freshly made hole, four dark creatures cried out as each arrow sunk deeply into their skulls.  Before they hit the ground Erroyle loosed eight more arrows.   In a span of seconds, the battering team was down, with the wicked battering ram lying heavily on their dead carcasses.   

                For the first time since the siege of the inner sanctum, quiet rang through the cavern.  Erroyle could almost see the wave of relief was over the dwarves’ faces.  She felt no joy.  She knew all too well it would only be a matter of moments before other dark creatures continued what their fallen comrades had started.  She grabbed another quiver from a nearby dwarf, hers having been partially used up, and ran to the opening.  She knocked two more arrows from the first quiver, stripping the feathered blades off the inner parts of the shafts and fired at two onrushing orcs.  They fell dead mid stride.  The others behind them paused, not wanting to join the growing heap of bodies.  Erroyle didn’t wait for them to advance, five more arrows zipped through the small crack in the massive door, and five more orcs went down.

                Finally, she was able to see what she was looking for; one of the orcs was shouting for others to press forward and pick up the battering ram.  He was their leader.  Before he could turn back to look at the ram, an arrow burst through his skull.  The orcs in front pressed backwards to get away from the new threat.  For a brief moment there was chaos in the ranks of the churning dark hoard.

                Erroyle looked back to the dwarven prince, pleading to him with a glance to let her out.  He shook his head sadly, and then nodding his consent.  A feeling of elation washed over her as she was finally given her chance to get back to her beloved Cal.  She fired twenty more arrows through the small hole just to ensure the chaos continued long enough for her to slip out among the orcs without them seeing her walk through what would appear to be solid rock.  Once through the magical wall Erroyle ran down the passage to her left to circle around the massive wooden gates.  The passage was riddled with dwarves, but her nimble gate carried her past them.  Sometimes using a wall, shoulder, or head to keep her forward momentum, she made it to the front before the orcs had regrouped. 

                Dropping the bow and quivers of arrows, she loosed the two massive swords from her back… Cal’s swords.  She would return them to his hands if it was the last thing she ever did in this world.  The massive blades were light as feathers in her hands because of the fallen dwarven king’s magic.  The blades were as tall as she was.  Each blade resembled a dragon’s maw agape with the blade protruding like a blast of fire from its mouth.  They were sharper than any weapon she had ever wielded, and laced with magic to penetrate even shields of dark magic.  They were fitting swords for a powerful warrior such as her, but they were his.  They belonged to her beloved.  They would be his once again.

                She kissed each blade, and then quickly darted out, through the magical opening, and into the sea of back filthy bodies.  Before she even touched the ground she had taken the head of three orcs.  As soon as she landed, she spun, extending the swords to their full length, and cutting down a dozen other dark clan soldiers. The area around her was cleared, and the invading hoard drew back, away from her.  They had fought her outside of the main gates, and once again in the main hall.  None of the Dark Clan soldiers were eager to repeat the encounter.  More chaos erupted as those around her tried to flee back behind the ranks of others, all the while they were trying to stay away from the crack in the gate which had mowed down a few dozen of their comrades in a matter of seconds.  The chaos brought a smile to the beautiful elven princess’s lips.  She would enjoy exacting revenge on these dark creatures.

                Before they could regroup Erroyle was moving, pressing them back farther.  She spun, lunged, kicked, flipped, spun again, and rolled.  Each movement cut down the enemy.  Not a move was wasted.  The magnificent weapons cut through anything they made contact with; be it metal or bone.  She pressed the enemy clearing thirty paces between them and the door they so desperately wanted to breach. 

                To her surprise, Erroyle heard the door creak loudly as it opened.  The dwarves came pouring out to meet their foe.  She felt a sense of pride for them.  She knew they were hurt, every last one of them, but they pressed anyway.  They would not be slaughtered in retreat, but rather fight the enemy head on.  Erroyle would ensure they lived to boast of their bravery.

                She ran at the cowering orcs and darkinder.  The short darkinder proved to be a bit troublesome as she had to strike up and down, but none of the enemy put up a fight.  A blur of bodies passed before her eyes.  The way the elves trained to fight, they never stood still.  Battle was an elegant dance.  Every limb was used in fluid motion to cut down their enemies.  Erroyle’s golden armor had sharp protrusions on the heels, toes, knees, elbows, and shoulders, so if she made contact with an enemy she would always draw blood.  She spun and flipped and kicked and rolled, pressing ever forward.  Hundreds fell before her.  She was covered in blood, none of it hers.  The grips on her magnificent swords would have been slick with the sticky substance if it weren’t for the magic.  Her hands held true to the grips, and she continued her onslaught. 

                Some orcs tried to attack, but were slashed down mid swing, or before they could even raise a sword.  The large trolls and ogres took more than one blow, but they too fell like reed before the fire.  Erroyle saw only red.  Her rage had blinded her to anything else.  She needed to get back to Cal.  Time passed, a wake of bodies lay behind her and yet she pressed on.  She vaguely heard the roar of battle behind her as the dwarves slaughtered any of the Dark Clan who managed to slip past her destructive assault.  Erroyle had only one goal in mind; to make it out the front gate.

                A large ogre was suddenly before her.  He was glowing in an eerie black light.  Just before she rolled out of the way of his massive club, she saw the source of the incandescent black glow… a dark elf.  For the first time she recognized that she was fighting living creatures.  This was a cousin.  She knew him from thousands of years earlier.  His name was Aorilalie.  He had played with her sister when they were younger, before the dark elves had abandon elven society and turned to evil.  Aorilalie had been one of the many suitors of her sister.  He had loved Erai once.  Erroyle felt conflict in her actions for the first time.  How could she kill someone she knew?

                A sharp pain jolted her out of her memories.  A blade had nicked her just below her protective armor breastplate.  A small trickle of blood oozed down her hip from the scratch on her side.  Rage replaced her conflict.  She turned and took the head of the orc who had cut her, and then turned back to the large ogre, just in time to roll out of the way of his massive club.  In the middle of her roll, she extended her blade, severing the ogre’s hand.  The club fell with a loud thunk to the floor.  Erroyle used her momentum to leap up to the ogre’s knee.  With one foot she jumped off the knee and onto its back.  Standing with one leg on each shoulder, she swung her sword behind her and down, taking the ogres head, all the while keeping an eye on Aorilalie.  His eyes widened in surprise that her weapons could penetrate his dark magic shields.  As the Ogre began to fall to the earth, she jumped off his back, flipping in the air, taking the heads of two more orcs along the way, and landing two feet in front of the shocked dark elf.  Without a moment’s pause, she slashed criss-crossed with each blade, like a massive pair of scissors, cutting the dark elf in two at the middle. 

                The dark elf fell forward, grabbing onto her shoulders for support as his bottom half fell helplessly to the ground.  The look of horror and pain filled his eyes as he looked desperately into hers.  A feeling of revulsion washed through her as the young elf, whom had once courted her sister, hung desperately to her as if he could somehow hold on to his now forfeited life.  He moved his mouth to speak, but as his insides fell out of the severed bottom half of him.  He found he was without air to make the words.  She saw him mouth the words, “I should have known better than to fight you.” But only a whisper escaped his lips, and then the fingers relaxed and he slunked lifelessly to the ground.

                Errolye looked down in shock at the bloodied dark mass at her feet.  Fresh blood oozed down her pristine golden elven armor… his blood.  She felt sick.  She looked back at the river of dead bodies in her wake.  Thousands lay lifeless on the ground…  at her hand.  She thought she might throw up.  She remembered Cal crying himself to sleep after his first battle.  How he had said he murdered the dark clan.  She remembered how distraught he was.  She had felt his pain and anguish through her Gaian gift.  She had felt his guilt at murdering so many.  She had felt his sorrow over their lives, his worry for their families left without mother, or father.  He had had his innocence shattered that day. 

                Erroyle looked back again at all of the bodies bathed in a sea of blood, and then again at the one at her feet, the one she knew from the time he was a baby.  She had killed so many, and yet she didn’t feel the anguish her beloved had felt that day.  Perhaps it was the millennia of war and death.  Perhaps she was not as sensitive as the young human.  Perhaps she was justified in her killing, but either way she just didn’t feel guilt.  She felt sick at having to slay a childhood friend, but no guilt.  He had chosen his path.  She would not have slain him if he weren’t trying to invade the free world.

                The enemy were all around her, frothing at the mouths wanting to get to the object of their hate, but held back by a fear of her wrath.  She sneered at them, backing them up a foot or two, and then she looked back into the main hall of the dwarven stronghold.  She was standing in the doorway of the main gate, now battered and splintered into pieces on the floor.  Across the hall, at the back wall, she saw the last of the dwarves, fighting their way into an escape tunnel.  The young dwaven prince, Fayern , was looking back at her, a sad worried look on his face.

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                The fighting lasted all day, all night, and late into the next day.  As Fayern limped dumbly out in the open fields of the dragon plains he couldn’t help but feel small and insignificant.  What he had seen had scarred his already injured psyche for life.  Few had survived; mostly women and small children.  Even the young boys had taken up arms in the end to defend their mothers and sisters, only to fall at their heels as they fled the swarming mass of dark clan.  All of Fayern’s men had fallen.  All except, to his never ending shame, him.

                He shook his head sadly.  Why?  Why had his father left him to this fate?  Why had Mother Gaia shunned her beloved earth-dwellers?  Why hadn’t Sky Father stopped the slaughter?  What had the dwarves done to deserve such a horrid fate?

                He looked around at the bloodied dwarven women marching along with him in their small, sad procession.  Some carried small children on their hips.  Some, not more than children themselves, carried motherless children on their backs.  Fayern’s good arm held a hastily crafted crutch, the other hung limply at his side dripping the occasional drop of blood from his nearly severed shoulder muscle.  Even now, away from the fighting, he was not much help to his people.  The soldiers kept most of the danger away from him during the battle, until the last fell, and then the women tried to protect him.  He had fought vigorously to stay at the enemy front, but his people insisted on throwing themselves between harm and their ruler, costing more unnecessary lives.  In the end, his retreat was the only way to get his people to retreat.  He had shed his own blood, but not before others laid down their lives before him.

                The safety of the few remaining dwarves was not because of Fayern’s efforts, nor was it by some divine intervention by their beloved Mother Gaia or Sky Father.  It was, in fact, because of the elven princess. 

                Princess Erroyle fought like a demon.  Just as the Dark Clan was breaking in through the great doors of the inner sanctum, the elven princess ambushed them from the side.  True to her word, none saw where she came from.  Most didn’t see her until her blade ran them through.  She wielded Fayern’s birthright, the swords of the royal family, to free his people; something Fayern could not do even if he had the weapons.  Perhaps that was why his father had left them to the boy.  Perhaps the old king knew that this would be their final stand, and if his line somehow survived, it would only be at the great cost of life from others.

                Fayern shook his head.  “Curse you Father,” he said, under his breath.  “Curse my royal line.”

                “Highness,” asked a young woman at his side.  He hadn’t even noticed her until that moment.

                “Oh nothing, lass,” he said, trying to smile.  The swelling in his face forced a tear out of his eye in the effort.

                “It not be dat bad, Highness,” the young woman said.  “We be alive, an’ dat be reason to be thankful.”

                “I suppose you’re right, lass,” Fayern said. 

The woman was of low ranking among the dwarves; perhaps a cook or house-lady, so even if Fayern, had lived among his own people, wouldn’t have cause to know her.  Living away from his people made the lack of familiarity even more forgivable.  His father knew all the dwarves by name.  Fayern had been sent away to live with the humans when he was but a boy three hundred years ago.  He did not have the accent of his people, and certainly not the accent of the young woman, but he did have a slight gruffness of dwarf mixed in with his well-practiced human tongue.  The result was that Fayern did not fit in in either world.

                “Highness, do ya think she’ll be alright,” the woman asked.

                “I’m sorry,” Fayern held out his hand as if to ask her name.

                “Vaylehia, Highness.  Er juss Vayle, if it be pleasin’ yer majesty.”

                “Vayle then.  Vayle, I’ve never seen a living creature move the way that elf moves.  She must have killed a thousand orcs and half again as many trolls and ogres.  I don’t think the Dark Clan could stand against her if they gathered all their forces to do so.”

                “It’s so romantic, if’n ya think about it; her goin off to save her man like dat,” Vayle said as her jolly cheeks flushed red.

                The girl (for that was how Fayern saw her now, as a silly girl) was obviously trying to take his mind off the horrific thoughts of the slaughter of his people.  There was nothing romantic about what had happened in the dwarven city.  Especially what had happened at the end, as the last of the dwarves made it to the exit tunnel.

                Fayern shuddered at what had almost happened to his people at the end.  He tried to smile again, squeezing another tear out of his swollen eye.  “She’ll get her boy back.  I’ve no doubt.  That woman could do anything she wanted.  I could scarcely believe what she managed in the city, but having seen it, I’ve no doubt that she’ll get her boy back.”

                Vayle looked down at the ground.  “An’ what about da last bit?”  She looked up suddenly into Fayern’s eyes.  “You don’t suppose dat Mother Gaia sent dem do you?”

                Fayern Shuddered again.  “I couldn’t possibly know,” he said, a haunted look settling in his blank gaze, as he relived the horrific event.  “I’m just glad we weren’t in the city when they came through the wall.”

                Vayle wiped away a tear of her own; hers was not from a swollen eye, though.  “I know dey be da enemy, but dat be about da most horrific way of dyin’ I can imagine.”

                Fayern nodded sadly.  “No less than they deserved, though; always nipping at our heels, not letting decent folk live in freedom.  They’re animals, young Vayle.  You mustn’t let yourself be moved to compassion for them.  They’d have killed every last one of us if the princess hadn’t fought us out of our corner.  They’re evil, wicked, nasty. They want nothing but death and destruction, chaos and suffering.  I think I shall be happy knowing they aren’t spending a night of drunken celebration in our ancestral home.”

                Vayle seemed uncomfortable thinking it good that the Dark Clan had been burned the way they had.  She walked quietly in the waning light of day.  Marching… To where?  Fayern hadn’t had time to think yet.  He simply walked north, away from the battle.  Away from their ancestral home.  Away from the wicked Dark Clan who had invaded.  Away from the smell of their burning flesh.

                Fayern shuddered again at the thought of what had almost happened to the few survivors of his people.  He vividly recalled the lava creatures breaking through the thin walls of the hollowed out volcanic mountain.  Creatures which had fallen to myth and legend until that moment were suddenly real.  With them came the lava, of course, super-heated because of their mere presence.  It flowed unabated into the vast cavern.  Fayern had to run up the old lava shoot his people were using as an escape tunnel to avoid being burnt himself.  He only had enough time to look across the cavern at the elven princess fighting back the enemy at the main gates.  She saw the lava coming, and though he had reassured Vayle of her well being just moments before, he couldn’t see how she could have gotten out of the way fast enough to avoid the molten rock. 

                Hoping to lighten the mood, Fayern forced another smile, which pressed out another tear, which he gingerly wiped away from his rapidly swelling cheek as he spoke, “So Vayle, which family are you from?  What did you do in the old city?”

                The young dwarven woman brightened up again, and her cheery cheeks blossomed red.  “Oh I be juss a nobody, Highness.  I worked in da bakery by da ol’ smitty.”

                “Well, a baker could be the means to survival for our people, young Vayle.  You aren’t a nobody anymore.  You are a very important dwarf.”

                Vayle blushed profusely.  “I begin yer pardon, majesty, but it be you dat be important.  We be needin’ a leader now more dan ever.”  She looked around and the hundred or so dwarves.  “And we be needin’ men more dan anything.”

                Fayern looked around and the battered dwarves.  He could only see about ten males, most too young to father children.  Hopefully there were more he couldn’t see, but somehow he doubted it.  “That may be true, but right now we need to make it through the next couple of days.  Most of these people will die of infection if we don’t get them cleaned and stitched up.”

                The world started spinning for Fayern as the wound in his shoulder continued to bleed freely.  He needed to be stitched up or he’d be dead right along with them.  He had to push forward, though.  The farther away from the scene of the bloody battle they got, the better he’d feel.  Nausea washed over him as he thought of the destruction of his people.  Were there enough left to restart the race of dwarf?

                “Majesty?”  The young girl was pressing the back of her hand to his forehead.  “My lands, yer cold as night, an’ sweating sometin’ fierce!”  She pulled back his tunic to see the gaping gash in his shoulder.  “You’ll bleed ta death if’n we don’t get dat sewed.”

                Fayern tried to push her away, but in the effort he lost his balance and fell to the ground.  His groggy head heard only muffled noises as the young girl tried to rouse him.

                “Curse you, Father,” he managed, just as the world went black.