The Chronicles of Dragon: The Hero, The Sword and The Dragons Read online

  The Hero, The Sword, and The Dragons

  The Chronicles of Dragon: Book 1

  By Craig Halloran

  The Hero, The Sword, and the Dragons

  The Chronicles of Dragon: Book 1

  By Craig Halloran

  Copyright © 2012 by Craig Halloran

  Amazon Edition

  TWO-TEN BOOK PRESS

  P.O. Box 4215, Charleston, WV 25364

  ISBN eBook: 978-0-9884642-5-4

  ISBN Paperback: 978-0-9884642-6-1

  http://www.thedarkslayer.net

  A cover Illustration by David Schmelling

  Edited by Cherise Kelley

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recorded, photocopied, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Publishers Note

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Hero, The Sword, and The Dragons

  The Chronicles of Dragon: Book 1

  Dedication

  To my son, Nathaniel Conan. Words can never express how much you mean to me, but I wrote you a book anyway.

  CHAPTER 1

  I was running hard, pushing myself past human limits, to the only place I knew could help. Home. I already could tell that my wound was fatal, and with every step the loss of blood made me more woozy. Orcs were hot on my trail, at least a dozen, howling for my head. I was certain they would not stop; they were stubborn and stupid, slow as well, but I was smart and fast. I was a dragon, after all… in a very man-like sort of way. By appearance, I was a man: big, long-haired, and rangy—more than capable of whipping a few lousy dragon-poaching orcs, until they got the drop on me. So now I was running for my life, my dragon heart pounding in my chest like a galloping horse mile after mile until I had no choice but to come to a stop. I looked down at the crossbow bolts protruding from my side, through my back.

  “Egad!” I exclaimed, checking the wounds. The blood had already stained a patch in my armor, and I knew it was still worse than it looked. Every breath I took was pain filled and biting. I knew I was bleeding inside, and I had to stop it or die. I pulled the lid from my canteen and drank, which did little to quench my thirst, but it brought some relief. I reached inside my satchel, my little bag of tricks, and fumbled for a vial.

  Over the years, I’ve picked up a few useful things, like potions. Magic potions. They can do many things. Turn you invisible. Make you bigger. Smarter. Faster. Stronger. And even heal. In this particular case, it was a healing potion, in a vial as big as my index finger, which was pretty big, but it only looked to have about one drop left as I shook it before my eyes.

  “Ugh,…” I moaned, the pain not getting any better, “I don’t think this will do it.” I looked down at my wounds and tried to decide: should I take out the wooden shafts first, or afterward? I’d been hurt before, plenty of times, but this festering wound was a tricky one.

  “Just do what you always do, Dragon.”

  That’s what I call myself, and I talk to myself a lot. My real name is much longer, difficult to pronounce and spell, but part of it is Nath. So, if a commoner ever asks, Nath Dragon is my name; saving dragons (and other things) is my game.

  I tore a piece of bark from a tree, pinched it between my teeth, and bit down. Beads of sweat erupted from my forehead as I began pulling the first bolt through my skin. The good thing about them being crossbow bolts was they weren’t as big as arrows, but they sure did pack a punch. I groaned, certain I was going to die as I ripped the rest of the shaft free.

  I felt sick. My skin turned clammy, and the sound of the woodland crickets became loud and irritating. In the woods there are many dangers, and I wasn’t anywhere close to being out of harm's way. Anything could pick up the trail of the wounded: overbearing bugbears, wily wood elves, pesky witches, dog-faced gnolls, transforming wolves, tricky sprites, were-shadows, or even worse … dragons. Yes, there are bad dragons, too, but it wasn’t likely I’d run into two dragons in one day, or that a dragon would want to fool with me, for that matter. But they did, on occasion; I’d seen it for myself. The most beautiful and dangerous creatures in the world. The noblest and greediest, too.

  “Do it, Dragon!” I was gritting my teeth on the tasteless bark once more. The pain was excruciating, each bloody inch I tugged free twice as painful as the last. Don’t black out. A wave of wooziness assailed me as I got the last bolt free and slipped to my hands and knees, trembling like a leaf. I put the healing vial to my lips and watched that last pink drop slide down the tube and land on my tongue. Elation. Exasperation. It coursed through me, head to toe, mending every fiber, sealing every unnatural pore. The relief was astounding, but the healing incomplete. As quick as it started, it had stopped, but at least I wouldn’t be dripping blood anymore. Spitting it, perhaps.

  Clatch-Zip!

  Clatch-Zip!

  Two bolts ripped past my face and quavered in a nearby tree.

  “Stupid bloody Orcs!”

  I pushed myself to my feet with a groan and began sprinting through the woods, each step feeling like a punch in my stomach. I had to get home, find my father, and explain to him how I had gotten whipped by orcs, which never would have happened if I’d been allowed to kill them in the first place.

  Zip! Zip! Zip!

  My legs churned harder and harder as I began to outdistance my pursuers, cutting across the grassy plain, and the barrage of bolts began to subside. So on I ran, the sounds of the angry orcs fading away, leaving only the wind in my ears and the sharp throbbing pangs in my stomach. I just hoped I had enough strength left to return home.

  Of course, my father probably wouldn’t be too pleased by my return, either. I had his sword that I named Fang, a beautiful glimmering object of steel and magic woven together like its own living thing. Well, it wasn’t given to me; I sort of borrowed it, and by then I was pretty sure my father would know it was missing. He wasn’t the most understanding when it came to such things, either.

  So I ran, through the shallow waters, over grassy gnolls, by shining cities whose towers almost reached the clouds, each long stride a hair shorter than the last, until I made it to just within my keen eye's shot of the Mountain of Doom and collapsed.

  CHAPTER 2

  As the sun rose, warming the chin hairs on my haggard face, the last thing I remembered was the blackness of the coming night. For all I knew, I’d been asleep for a day. I don’t think a screaming ogre could have woken me. At the moment, everything felt fine. Then I moved.

  “Ahg,” I said. I wiped the morning drool from my mouth and spat out the tangy taste of my blood. I still had miles to go, and I wasn’t so certain I could make it. Upright as I could be, I staggered forward. My stiff legs were no longer capable of churning after days of running off and on, but I knew I had to keep going, seek help, and not die.

  Ahead was the Mountain of Doom, which isn’t its real name, but a shorter name I’d given it because I never cared to take the time to say things properly. I swear, long names are given to things just so others will have something to talk about or just to give some little wretch yearning for knowledge something significant to do. I can spell it, backward as well as forward, but I'm not going to. Learning it once was more than enough already, and I see no need
to repeat myself. It's just a word. But, the Mountain of Doom, my home, is beyond words. It's something you just have to see for yourself, and if you ever do, and you're wise, you’ll gape in wide-eyed wonder, turn, and run away.

  The base of the mountain is miles wide, maybe a league or two. I used to have to run around its base as a boy, every crevice treacherous, loosely footed of shale, and streams of lava hot enough to burn your leg to the bone in an instant. That area is called the marsh of sulfur. The peak’s nose reaches into the sky, snow caps blending into those cloudy skies, such as it was that day, before disappearing. Steam. Smoke. Those gases billowing from cave mouths, some small, others large and even enormous, seemed to illustrate that the mountain was more than a clump of rock and clay, but a living and breathing part of the world itself.

  I wiped the sweat from my brow and fought for secure footing over the shale as I made it two miles deeper into the rising heat. The heat didn’t bother me; I was used to that, but it wrought damage on my glorious mane of recently mangled hair.

  I stood straddling the crest of a ravine, where a small stream of lava was flowing below. The face on the mountain, a frightful grimace it seemed, some said was a coincidence or a design of arcane wizards that once took harbor there. Or it was a massive scarecrow created by dwarves that wanted to be left alone. It was, without question in my mind, the face of a dragon. A massive cave filled with rows of teeth could be seen, smoke rolling from its mouth. The eyes shimmered with fire, and the nose holes dripped lava. It would be hard to argue that it didn’t look like a dragon, that it was just happenstance, an illusion, something the feeble minded shared to encourage fear to be spread by other feeble minds.

  I sighed. It was pretty much the reason no one ever came here, very often, and lived. Mile after mile I trudged along in agony, deeper into the valley of living lava until I had nowhere else to go but up. I looked back, the green grasses and tall trees no longer within sight, the rising mist now hid my view of the gentler, softer world.

  The base of the mountain was sheer, black rock, no smoke, nor stairs, nor solid footholds. Not smooth, but rough, and spanning hundreds of feet high. This was the part that kept the adventurers at bay: the curious, the daring, the foolish, the greedy that wanted the dragon's hoard, rumored to be large enough to fill every household in an entire kingdom or more. It was impossible to get in, but to get out, with loads of treasure, it would take at least a thousand of the stoutest men to do that. Unless of course you knew a secret way, which it so happens I did know.

  A natural archway greeted me like an old friend as I fell onto my knees before it. No runes, no nothing, just a familiarity that I had from long ago. I began to speak to it, my raspy voice struggling to be clear, as my tongue was thick and swollen with fever. Word after word, minute after minute I chanted in a language more ancient than man, more difficult than women, more lengthy than a river. It took thirty minutes before I finished, and nothing happened.

  “Open,” I tried to shout, slamming my fists into the rock. My voice was gone now, withered away like the ashes of a burning log, my efforts spent in failure. Noooooooo! I collapsed, holding my belly, the taste of blood filling my mouth, my last flavor before dying.

  The archway shook and quaked, angry. From the corner of my watery eye, I saw a sheet of rock lifting. Thank goodness. I lay there, in pain, misery, and suffering, eyeing the portal open to safety, but unable to move. How long, I did not know. The archway shuddered and buckled, and the doorway began to sink down, a mouth closing, lips soon to seal shut. Move! But I could not. It seemed my death was likely to come first.

  CHAPTER 3

  Something powerful grabbed my arm and started dragging me though the portal as the doorway closed shut like a clap of thunder. Gruff hands rolled me over and pushed on the bloody patch on my armor.

  I screamed so loud my voice began to crack.

  “See, yer alive,” a strong voice said, less hearty, more grim “…for the moment. Now let’s get you patched up, restored to full health, so your father can be guilt free before he kills ya.”

  “Thanks, Brenwar,” I groaned, “you always know what to say to make me feel better.”

  “Har!” He reached down and grabbed both my hands. “Up you go!” He almost jerked my arms from the sockets as he ripped me up from the floor. I looked down at Brenwar, with a frown as big as his, glowering in pain. My dwarven friend was as big and stout as a sand-filled barrel, raven-bearded, and armored in heavy metals from his chin to his toes. You’d think he’d sound like a wagon load of scrap metal when he walked, but all I heard as I followed was the sound of well-oiled leather rubbing together. I followed him up a cavernous stairwell designed for monsters, not men, spiraling upward without end. I knew where I was, but wasn’t certain where Brenwar was going.

  “In here,” he said, stopping at an opening I swore hadn’t been there a moment ago and shoving me inside. “Wait.” His booted feet stomped up the stairs, echoing, then fading away.

  I was in an alcove where a lone torch hung, its orange light offering a warm illumination to the scenes of many dragon murals painted across all the walls. I gasped as one of the images of the painting came to life. A female dragon, tall as me, slender and batting her eyes, walked over, her tail tickling my chin. I knew she was a female because her belly scales were lighter than the others. Male dragons tend to be darker. But if you truly know dragons, as I do, the eyes were a dead giveaway. The females have lashes on their lids, nothing too pronounced, but noticeable all the same.

  Her scales, copperish and pink, reflected the most beautiful colors, and her comely face offered a smile. In her hands was a vial, the same as the one I drank from days before, that she tilted to my lips. I gulped it down, fell onto a pillow big enough for a cow, and let the magical mending begin.

  I burned, inside and out, with satisfaction. My weary bones were revitalized. My innards—dormant, agonized and bleeding—now regenerated. My vitality was back. My aching feet were no longer sore. I felt as strong as a horse as I tore off my armor, stretched out my mighty frame on the pillow, and shouted at the top of my lungs with glee.

  I swear the lady dragon giggled before she pecked me on my head.

  “Thank you,” I said, combing my hair from my eyes. The dragoness was beautiful, her features soft behind her armor and razor sharp claws. After all, beautiful things have to defend themselves. I waved as I watched her disappear back into the mural among her kind, a queen defending in a glorious battle of dragons charging across the sun glazed sky.

  “Ah!” I elated.

  I fell back on the pillow, wanting to sleep, as my mind told me I needed rest, but my body was ready to go.

  “A bath perhaps,” I said to myself, getting up, grabbing my gear and sword.

  A gruff voice disagreed. “You can have your bath later, Nat—“

  I glared at Brenwar.

  “Er, I mean, Dragon. Your father waits.” The husky dwarf walked over and took Fang from my hands. “I’ll take that.”

  I held my head in my hand. I could leave now, if I wanted. I was healed and all the better for it. My father, he wouldn’t come after me. He never did. He threatened to chase me down, but usually just sent Brenwar instead, who was slow. A team of galloping horses wouldn’t make him fast.

  “So be it,” I said in resignation. Up through the Mountain of Doom I followed, one heavy step at a time, the revitalized feeling in my organs replaced with a queasy feeling. My energy, one moment endless, was now gone. Oh, I was fine, my health fully operational, but that didn’t do much good in the presence of an angry father who I had been reluctant to listen to for quite some time. When we stopped in front of a massive set of doors that stood almost five stories tall, Brenwar looked up at me with a hard look in his eyes and said, “I told him you needed bathed, but he insisted that you come now." He reached up and patted me on my lower back. “I’ll see to it your bathed before the funeral. It’s been an honor knowing you, Dragon.” With that, Brenwar, my only true f
riend in the entire mountain, pushed the door open far enough for me to squeeze through, and like a fat rat out of a metal can, he scurried away.

  And there I stood, at the threshold of all thresholds, looking back over my shoulder for escape, but finding none. If I had some dragon scales by now, things would probably be all right, but I didn’t. With great hesitation and a trembling heart, I stepped inside.

  CHAPTER 4

  Imagine the throne rooms of the greatest kings in the world combined and all their wealth lying at their feet. That’s nothing compared to my father’s throne room, and those kings are nothing compared to my father. There he sat on his golden throne, treasure covering the floor as far as eye could see, glimmering and twinkling in the light of the lanterns. Like a man he sat, more than three stories tall, monstrous wings folded behind his back, dragon head resting in the palm of his clawed hand, eyes closed. There had never been a king that big.

  I pushed the door closed with a loud wump, stirring the golden coins that slipped from their pile towards the floor. To my relief, my father, a heavy sleeper, did not stir, yet my heart pounded in my chest. I supposed that it should be pounding in my chest, but I had figured that feeling, that nervous feeling you get as you tread into the unknown, would fade away with age. It hadn't. I pushed the hair back from my eyes and proceeded forward.

  My father, the largest living thing in the world so far as I knew, was scaled in red mostly, a brick red, with trims of gold along his armored belly, wings, and claws. His taloned toe alone was almost as big as me, and I was big, for a man anyway.

  “Come closer,” he said from the side of his mouth. The power of his voice sent tremors through the room, upsetting more piles of precious metals and jewels.