A Fantasy Novel
by
Christopher Greyson
Other books by Christopher Greyson:
GIRL JACKED
JACK KNIFED
JACKS ARE WILD
JACK AND THE GIANT KILLER
and coming soon…
DATA JACK
Looking for a mystery mixed with romance and suspense?
Be sure to check out Katherine Greyson’s bestselling series:
EVERYONE KEEPS SECRETS
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
Alone
CHAPTER TWO
How To Train A Warrior
CHAPTER THREE
The Red Flag
CHAPTER FOUR
The Middle Stone
CHAPTER FIVE
From The Heavens
CHAPTER SIX
The Hunt
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Midget Viking
CHAPTER EIGHT
A Fish, A Chicken, And A Squirrel
CHAPTER NINE
Cowboys And Indians
CHAPTER TEN
“Doctor Dolittle”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Golden City
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Last Of The Wardevar
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Fallen Warriors
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Dragon’s Breath
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Skins
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Golden Armor
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Lion Man
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Volsur
CHAPTER TWENTY
The New King
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Heavens
Acknowledgments
About The Author
Dedication
Pure of Heart
Evil spreads across the land
Silently into the spirit of man
Touch it, you can’t
Feel it, you can
Buy it, you may
Control it, nay
Spear, bow, axe, and sword
Search to destroy the Dark Lord
A sword cannot win the fight
Money cannot buy the light
A king cannot rule the night
Only one can save the land
He’s the one who’s yet a man
He’s the one from another part
The only one Pure of Heart
CHAPTER ONE
Alone
A cold rain fell from the midnight-blue sky and washed over his shoulders. His whole body chilled and dampened. Shrouded by the night and wrapped in the rain, Dean wandered alone through the dark city streets. Soaked through to his socks, his old sneakers fell heavily on the broken sidewalk; the sounds of his footsteps were swallowed by the storm. The rain matted his dark hair before it flowed over his cheeks, erasing any sign of bitter tears. He flipped up the collar of his worn, black leather jacket to protect himself against the chill—but still he shivered.
Dean was used to being alone; orphaned as a child he’d made his way through life relying on himself. Tossed from one temporary home to the next, Dean never felt he belonged anywhere. Now at seventeen, he’d had enough and struck out on his own.
A lone car slowly drove past him. The headlights sparkled against the raindrops as the puddles shimmered and the sidewalk glistened. When the taillights disappeared around the corner, the darkness seemed even deeper. He thrust his hands into his pockets and tried to forget his troubles.
As Dean passed another dark, littered alley, he saw three figures huddled over a man lying on the ground. He stopped. The man lay face down on the ground. Dean knew he didn’t stand a chance; it was three against one.
The wounded man raised his head. He was old with a thin, pale face. The man’s steely gray eyes locked on Dean’s for a moment. There was something odd in those eyes. He looked at Dean with a glimmer of hope. Dean’s shoulders slumped. He knew he was no one’s savior.
As Dean turned to leave, the light in the old man’s eyes faded.
“You should have given us your wallet old man,” the tall punk snarled. “Now we have to take it the hard way. Get it, Bobby.”
“Shut up, Randy. I’m getting it.” Bobby stepped closer, an iron pipe in his hand. He raised the rusted pipe over the old man’s head with a twisted smile.
Dean backed away, the scene burned into his heart, but he shut his eyes and disappeared back into the darkness, swallowed by the rain once more.
The old man turned his head to look up at the young punks who towered over him.
“Waste the old man,” cried the fat one.
“Hit him now,” Randy screamed, goading him on as he leaned closer.
“Let him go,” a voice called out, defiant.
The three figures stiffened and turned. Dean stood tall, silhouetted beneath the streetlight as the pouring rain washed over him.
“Get lost.” Bobby pointed the pipe at Dean.
Dean held up his hands. “Why don’t you just let the old guy go? He probably doesn’t have any money.”
“Old people always have something,” the fat one sneered.
“He doesn’t.” Dean shrugged. “If he had any, he would have taken a cab out of this crummy neighborhood, or he would have given it to you already.”
“What did you just say?” Randy poked himself in the chest with his thumb. “This is my hood.”
Dean sighed. “During the day, when the sun’s out and it’s not raining, I’m sure it’s really nice. Come on. Just let the guy go.”
Bobby glared down at the old man. “He’s holding out on me. No.” He lifted the pipe over his head, and his lips curled into a snarl.
Dean charged. He raced forward and tackled Bobby. He smashed him through the trashcans and into the brick wall. Dean let go and stumbled back.
Bobby crumpled to the ground. He rolled over and groaned in pain. The other two circled behind Dean; the fat one picked up the pipe. He crouched lower and swung it menacingly in front of him.
“I’m gonna kill him,” Randy spat as he pulled out a long knife. “This little hero’s mine.”
Dean’s eyes fixated on the knife.
Dean stepped back, looked around, and realized he was cornered.
“You’re dead now,” growled the fat one.
Behind them, Dean saw the old man rise to his feet, his face set and determined. In his hands was a discarded broom. As the old man raised the broom over his head, his eyes blazed.
Dean’s mouth fell open.
“What? Are you gonna tell us the cops are behind us?” scoffed the one with the pipe.
Dean smiled. “Nope.”
The old man slammed the broom down on the back of the fat guy’s head. The guy tumbled to the ground, and the pipe skittered across the pavement.
Randy slashed with the knife.
Springing backward, the old man deftly got out of the way.
Randy surged forward, wildly slashing as he tried to hack the old man.
The corner of the old man’s mouth curled impishly upward; he easily deflected all of the strikes with the broom handle. The broom shot down against the Randy’s forearm. The knife was knocked from his hand. Randy opened his mouth to scream in pain, but before any sound came out, the old man swung sideways and struck him in the chest. The force of the blow sent Randy flying backward into the wall. Randy whimpered as he slid down the bricks and crumpled into a heap.
Dean’s stared at the three men on the ground. The old man smiled.
“How did you take them out—?”
Dean was cut off by a scream, piercing the air. �
�Police! Police!” He turned to see a large woman at the front of the alley frantically waving her arms and pointing at him. Dean stood frozen in place for a second as he stared at the screaming woman before him.
“We must leave,” the old man warned, and then he ran down the alley.
The sound of sirens uprooted Dean, and he raced after the fleeing old man. “Wait.” The old man expertly hopped over a chain-link fence.
Dean went to do the same, but his feet slid on the wet metal as he struggled to climb it. After he made it to the top, he looked back up the alley. A police car screeched to a stop; the blue and red lights flickered on the faces of the three men who writhed on the ground. Dean’s heart pounded in his chest. As he started to descend, his fingers slipped. He fell backward and landed hard on his back. He groaned.
He picked himself up and sprinted forward; the sounds of approaching sirens drove him on.
The old man stopped and waited at the end of the alley, a perturbed look on his face. “Can you run faster, or do you wish to go to jail?”
Dean took a deep breath, and then charged after him; his feet splashed in the puddles. When he turned the corner, crates covered the alley. With a leap, he sprang through the air but his feet crashed into the boxes. He thrust his arms out right before he landed face down on the asphalt.
“Come.” The old man yanked him to his feet.
Dean warily followed. He was amazed at the old man’s speed and how easily he could outdistance him.
They ran across a street, and then the old man suddenly yanked him sideways. Dean smashed into some garbage cans.
“What the he—?”
The old man’s hand clamped vice-like on Dean’s mouth. He pointed one finger. Dean stared at a spotlight sweeping the shadows as a police car slowly drove by.
Dean caught his breath. “Thanks. What’s your name?”
The old man pulled Dean to his feet. “Don’t talk. Run.”
They sprinted across a small road into the obscurity of a large park. Dean’s lungs burned, and his heart pounded in his ears as he ran side by side with the old man. A fountain sprayed water high into the air; it settled down like a mist.
Dean stumbled to a stop and panted for breath. “My legs can’t take this.” Dean brushed his hair back. As the old man grabbed him by the collar and ran once again, Dean muttered, “I know. Don’t talk, run.”
The old man smiled.
After they ran a short distance, he could see streetlights ahead. When they reached the main road, which was deserted, the old man came to an abrupt stop and put his thumb out like he was hitchhiking.
“Like we’re gonna get a ride that way,” Dean scoffed.
Dean started to dash across the street but jumped back when an old rusted red pickup truck came to a screeching halt right before them. A heavyset man in his forties with a thick beard called out, “You fellas need a lift?”
The old man nodded. “Get in the back and stay down.”
Dean hesitated, unsure what to make of all these strange events, but knowing he had few options, he climbed in the back.
“Hide under that.” The old man pointed to an Army-green tarp. Dean ducked underneath while the old man went to sit up front.
Dean wondered where they were going. He didn’t want to get caught and spend another night in jail. He knew this time the police might never let him out.
The truck drove through the night, leaving the city far behind. As they continued to drive, the sirens and the storm did not give chase. Feeling safe in the warm darkness under the tarp, he lay in the peaceful silence until the gentle rocking of the truck lulled him to sleep.
After several hours, the truck stopped and the passenger side door slammed shut, waking Dean with a startled jump. He quickly climbed out and hopped down. As the old man waved to the driver, Dean watched the truck drive away. He looked around and realized they were high in the mountains; the lights from the city barely visible in the distance.
“Wait! Wait!” Dean called as he raced after the truck that slowly rounded a turn and disappeared from sight. “Oh, crud! Where am I?” He looked around, bewildered.
“You’re far enough away from the danger of the city and only a short distance from my home.” The old man gave a friendly smile.
“Well, it was real interesting meeting you, but I think this is where we part company.”
The old man just stared at him.
Dean nodded, turned, and walked back down the mountain road toward the city.
“Where are you going to go, my young friend?” the old man asked, as if he knew the answer.
Dean stopped in his tracks.
“The police will be looking for you,” the old man added.
“Why are the police going to be looking for me? I didn’t do anything. You’re the one who kicked their butts.” He spun to face the old man.
“I know that and you know that, but that woman who saw you doesn’t know that.”
“Well, you can come with me and tell them what really happened. That I was saving you, and you beat them up in self-defense.”
“I don’t think they’ll believe an old man like me did that, do you?”
Dean mumbled as he clutched his hands in frustration. He looked down to the city and then back to the old man.
“I am looking for someone to work on my small farm. Since you seem to be in this predicament, I think a safe place to stay with free room and board is an offer too good for you to pass up.”
“What kind of work and how much?”
“Feed horses. Mend fences.”
“Yeah”
“I can also teach you how to defend yourself.”
“Defend myself? I saved your neck in that alley back there.”
“Rushing head first into one assailant—leaving your backside completely unprotected—was stupid.”
“Pfft.”
“That’s not the mark of a skilled warrior.”
“I guess it’s a good thing your opinion doesn’t matter to me.”
A smile crossed over the old man’s worn face. “But your courage shows potential. Thank you for your assistance.”
Dean looked at the mischievous gleam in the old man’s eyes. “You’re welcome.”
“I seem to have forgotten my manners. Panadur Theradine, at your service.” The old man made a regal bow.
“Dean Walker.” Dean shook his head.
“Well, would you like to see where you’ll be staying?”
Dean knew his prospects were less than zero. He was wanted by the police for shoplifting food. A minor offense, but Dean had taken off and the store manager gave chase. The manager fell on some ice as he rounded the corner, but that wasn’t what he told the police. He said Dean had assaulted him. Now he was looking at robbery and assault charges. After tonight, they would probably charge him with more. Dean needed to lay low. If he earned some money here, he could get away from the city and start a new life. He looked the old man over again. It was a risk to trust this stranger, but at that moment, it was a risk Dean was willing to take.
“How much?”
“Enough. Plus room, board, and meals included.”
Dean’s stomach growled at the mention of food. It had been two days since he’d eaten anything tangible and that was only half a hamburger he’d picked out of the garbage.
“Come. Look at the farm, and we can discuss it.”
Dean knew this could be the break he’d been hoping for, or he was walking straight into a horror movie. He debated a few moments before he followed Panadur down a narrow, infrequently trodden path up the mountain.
After trudging along for almost half an hour, the trees faded away, and they stood in a wide clearing. In the moonlight he could see a little wooden cottage. The cottage looked like something out of a dream. It was made of worn, dark wooden planks covered in green moss. The faded roof was hidden underneath a labyrinth of vines. A small brick chimney poked out from the back. To the right of the cottage was a small barn that smelled
of farm animals; next to it was a huge oak tree.
Panadur walked up the three steps of the small porch. “Welcome to my home, Dean.”
Dean followed and stopped in the doorway. He peered into the darkened room.
Panadur took a lantern from the wall and lit it. The light bathed the cozy room in a warm glow.
Dean stepped in.
The cottage was well-kept. Centered in the small room was a table and chairs. Another smaller table sat next to the door while a chest rested against another wall. On the right-hand side was the hearth of the red brick chimney. Three little windows looked out into the darkness.
Panadur disappeared into another room and reappeared almost at once with a bundle under his arm. The old man went to the corner of the room and laid it down. Dean realized it was a sleeping bag with some clothes.
Dean exhaled.
“The clothes may be rather large, but they are dry. You can sleep here.” He pointed to the mat.
“Thanks.” Dean took the clothes.
“You can start work in the morning. If you need anything during the night, I’ll be in the next room.”
Dean cast a wary eye toward the door.
Panadur simply smiled and walked over to the cabinets next to the stove. He rummaged around for a moment before turning back with a plate of bread and a hunk of cheese. Dean’s stomach growled.
Panadur set the plate at the table and gestured for Dean to eat.
Dean rushed over and picked up the bread. It was homemade. He took a huge bite.
“Slow down. Your stomach needs time to adjust.” Panadur moved back to the sink. “And sit down.” He picked up a cup of water from a bucket on the counter and poured it on a pump.
Dean sat down but felt himself making a face as Panadur started to pump the water by hand. “You got no electricity?” Dean mumbled with his mouth half full.
Panadur’s frown didn’t stay long on his face as he filled a cup of water. “I don’t need it.” He smiled as he set the cup before Dean. “Like most things in life, if need be, you can do without.”
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