The Andy Smithson Series: Books 1, 2, and 3 (Young Adult Epic Fantasy Bundle) (Andy Smithson Series Boxset): Dragons, Serpents, Unicorns, Pegasus, Pixies, Trolls, Dwarfs, Knights and More!

by L. EE

  Mom gasped. “Fred. Fred! Please come here and talk to your son!”

  On the scene in an instant, Dad shot Mom a look that held more than alarm at the mess, leaving Andy to wonder: What are they not telling me?

  Winner of the Readers’ Favorite

  Five Star Award

  Chapter One

  Longing

  Andy woke himself hollering, “No! No!“ He breathed hard, as if he had just finished crawling fifty laps around the track in gym class. His room was dark except for the light of the moon filtering between the slats of the wood blinds. He looked over at the digital alarm clock on the nightstand next to his bed: 2:07 a.m.

  Andy wiped the sweat from his forehead on his undershirt before getting up and heading to the bathroom.

  He turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on his face, trying to forget. Peering over the towel he held in both hands, he saw the reflection of an unremarkable eleven-year-old boy—brown hair, brown eyes, average nose, average chin (nope, no whiskers yet) illuminated by the orange glow of the night light. His pediatrician had called him “small for his age.”

  He tried to forget the dream, but the images kept flashing in his mind. Andy walked along a deserted dirt road. In the distance, through lighter-than-usual fog, he could just make out the silhouette of a house in the fading sunlight. As he approached, he saw its broken porch railing, smashed front window, and peeling paint. Several of the windows on the upper floor were also broken. Shards of glass lay on the ground below. He walked up onto the crumbling porch, nearly falling through a rotten board on his way to the front door with a No Trespassing sign nailed across it.

  The board and door mysteriously dissolved and Andy walked into a dust-covered room with broken furniture strewn about. It smelled of decay. He heard voices coming from upstairs and headed toward a staircase, its risers broken in places. He picked his way upwards, making the boards creak as he shifted his weight on each step. Reaching the landing, he turned right and inched down a hallway with peeling paint, illuminated only by the light filtering through the doorway at the end. The smell of decay grew stronger.

  He stopped at the doorway but did not go in. Before him were two creatures in conversation. One was a dove with drops of blood on its pure white feathers. It spoke to a creature that kept changing forms. Beginning as a large bird, the creature flapped its enormous wings, and in a rush of thunder and wind became a weird-looking rhino with a jet black corkscrew horn. The beast pawed the ground and snorted, readying a charge, then just as quickly transformed into a being that looked like water in the form of a person. As the figure stood and wildly waved its arms, it morphed into a growling wolf with a smashed-in nose and huge paws. This in turn became a monstrous serpent that changed into a seven-headed red dragon with ten horns, four wings, and a thick tail. Every time the transforming creature took on the form of the seven-headed dragon, it would stand and roar, “I will rule the world and live forever!” The dove did not react, only continued mumbling something about a stone.

  When the two creatures finally noticed Andy standing in the doorway, the changling, now in the form of the huge bird, flew at Andy, beak open wide and talons poised to rip into his flesh. At this point Andy woke up yelling and sweating.

  Andy shook his head. He had been having the same dream on and off for the last three weeks. Each time it had become more detailed and more frightening. Tonight had been the most disturbing yet. He recognized the seven-headed red dragon as Abaddon, whom he had fought and beaten. But the rest of the dream made no sense.

  He exited the bathroom and walked slowly back down the hall to his bedroom. Passing his parents’ door, he heard his dad thunder out a loud noise that sounded much like the hippo on the nature show Andy had watched that evening. He slid back between his covers and stared at the ceiling, afraid to fall asleep. Sleep must have finally overcome him, however, because he awoke with the clock now reading 8:38 a.m. He dressed and went downstairs for breakfast. His mom greeted him with a hug and kiss.

  “How’d you sleep?”

  “Okay.” He wasn’t about to tell her about his dream.

  “I’m working from home today.”

  “Why?”

  “I just thought it would be nice to spend the day with you and Maddy before your summer vacation is over. I thought we could go to the library and get ice cream later. We don’t get these opportunities often.”

  Andy’s mom and dad were CEOs of separate companies they each had founded and grown. The companies took a lot of their time and put them on edge. His dad believed neither he nor his older sister, Madison, appreciated all the privileges owning and growing the companies afforded them, and he reminded them of this fact regularly.

  After Andy finished his cereal and toast, Mom suggested, “Why don’t you go outside and play for a while. I’ll get my work done and then the three of us can head out.”

  Not for the first time since his return home from Oomaldee, Andy stood before the ugly, three-foot-tall concrete garden gnome. Its full, white-painted beard and long, crooked nose were complemented by a bright red pointy hat, patched black pants, and a blue jacket that looked like it could fit two gnomes. It somehow reminded Andy of Mermin, the king of Oomaldee’s kindly old wizard. His mom insisted it looked “So cute!” every time Dad hinted at moving it to a less conspicuous spot in the backyard.

  Quickly, Andy scanned the patio, looked between nearby shade trees, and glanced around the long-neglected wooden playhouse, making sure no one watched. He pulled a gold key from the pouch hanging around his neck and begged, "Please wake up. Please?"

  He stared intently into the gnome’s bulging eyes, hoping to see the slightest movement. Not a blink. Not a dart. Not a twitch. Nothing. Not that way down deep he had expected it to move, or that he had wanted to awaken a garden gnome and have it think he was its friend. That would be weird! All the same...

  Andy let out a long, slow sigh and hung his head.

  No stone statues that come to life when the gold key is near, no fire-breathing dragons, no flying pegasi, no vulture-men or Abaddon to battle. Well, that part I don't miss, he thought. But what I'd give to see the King, Mermin, Alden, Marta, and Hans again. And to taste Marta's awesome chocolate chip cookies! He could almost smell the fresh-baked aroma that wafted down the stone-lined hallway outside the castle kitchens every time Marta made them.

  Andy laughed. I must be sick. I even miss the smell of cow farts. He smiled, then reached down and rubbed his stomach. It felt like a tiny King Abaddon fought within him, blasting fire and poison at his insides. In fact, his stomach hadn't been feeling well for quite some time.

  I wonder if I'll ever get to go back.

  He remembered the night he had been abruptly sent home after telling the king about the old trunk he found in the attic. The note inside the trunk expressly told him not to mention it to anyone.

  I’ll never make that mistake again! If only whoever sent me home would forgive me and let me go back. If only…

  Madison, older than Andy by two years, stuck her head out the back door and yelled loudly enough for the neighbors to hear, “Mom, Andy’s trying to make that gnome come to life again! I just saw him.”

  Andy quickly stuffed the gold key back in its hiding place and turned to glare at her. “You have no idea what I was doing!”

  “You had that same look as when I saw you trying to make the angel on the top of the Christmas tree and the knight above the fireplace come to life. You’re pathetic, Andy.”

  She pulled her head back inside.

  Through the screen door he overheard his mom say, ”Maddy, dear, you know Dr. Frandangle said we need to encourage and support Andy. He’s going through a difficult time.”

  “Dr. Frandangle’s a quack!” Madison replied, slamming the door behind her.

  Andy agreed. Dr. Frandangle, his “counselor,” was a quack. A quack who had been introduced into his life a couple months after he’d returned from Oomaldee. Apparently, waving his arms at the c
eiling and yelling that he needed to go back to break the curse had upset his parents more than a little. And insisting that he told the truth when they questioned him about his change of clothes and the pouch that hung from his neck only made the situation worse. That, combined with him no longer wanting to play his video games (who wants to fight a pretend dragon when you’ve battled one in real life?) and no longer arguing with his mom when she asked him to mow the lawn, take out the trash, or go to bed, put his parents on edge. Go figure.

  He remembered his dad calling a family conference the night before his first appointment and doing his uncomfortable best to explain that he and Mom understood Andy’s needs were greater than what they were equipped to handle. Dr. Frandangle was going to help them help Andy.

  Gotta love Dad. Trying to “fix” me, Andy remembered thinking. And when his dad made it clear that no one outside their family was to know Andy was seeing a shrink, he remembered laughing to himself. Can never be less than perfect in this family!

  Between Dr. Frandangle asking about any dreams he might be having or invisible friends, Andy began to wonder about this doctor’s qualifications. He hated having to talk about his feelings with a stranger. In the end, the doctor had come back with a diagnosis of severe low self-esteem, suggesting that treating Andy “more gently” would help him build some self-confidence. The diagnosis had worked because his parents started paying more attention to him.

  For the first time in he couldn’t remember how many years, Dad had taken him and Madison trick-or-treating. Both—yes, both—his parents had actually come to hear him sing in the choir as part of the school Christmas pageant and had attended his spring play, The Princess and the Pea, even though he had the part of a servant and only spoke seven lines. But the best part by far was that all this attention made his sister, Miss Perfect, jealous. She resented the fact that Andy, in all his glorious imperfection, somehow got more of their parents’ attention. It drove her crazy. He loved it!

  Unfortunately, while his parents paid more attention to him, he could tell Dad still did not accept him for who he was and didn’t approve of his grades, even though he’d (unsuccessfully) tried to bring them up.

  Andy came inside. When she saw him, Mom said, “I’m not quite finished with what I need to do. Why don’t you read a book or find something else to do for a little bit. I should be done shortly.”

  He headed up to the attic. As quietly as he could, he opened the door at the end of the hall and climbed the stairs, hoping Madison wouldn’t hear and announce to the world that Andy was once more trespassing in forbidden territory.

  Reaching the top step, he saw the old, weathered trunk. He had first found the oak pirate chest after tripping backwards and falling over it. From what Mermin told him, Andy knew it could only have come from Oomaldee. But he still hadn’t figured out how it ended up in his attic. What he did know, though, was being near the trunk made him feel connected with Oomaldee even if he couldn’t be there. He thought again about what Mermin said—that he often observed Andy’s world for the King to get ideas to break the five-hundred-year curse that caused thick fog to blanket the land and prevented the King and himself from dying.

  Mermin might be looking down on my house this minute. Andy half-smiled.

  He lifted the heavy top of the trunk as he had so many times since his return and propped it at an angle that would prevent it from smashing his fingers. The unsigned note that he had disregarded, precipitating his sudden return, sat in the uppermost tray next to the black leather holster with the King of Oomaldee’s purple family crest. He remembered the King telling him the purple crest was no longer used; his father had forbidden it after he had dishonored his family. Whatever he had done to shame his family so much, the King had not confided in him, but Andy could relate.

  He lifted the tray out and set it on the floor next to the trunk. Reaching in, he counted the scrolls again. One, two, three, four…fifteen. All the scrolls were still here, just as he’d found them when he looked in the trunk the first time after returning. Some had characters on the back, others didn’t. He pulled one out that did and unrolled the parchment, again studying the detailed drawing of a triangle with a key, a sword, and a ball at its three corners. The key looked like the one he had been given from the invisible gold book in Mermin’s library. From the detail of the sword’s hilt, Andy could tell it was Methuselah. He had no idea what the ball was, however.

  Why would drawings of the key and Methuselah be on an old scroll in this trunk? The question had puzzled him since he first discovered it. And what is the ball? I’ve never seen a ball. What does this mean? Writing appeared below the triangle, but he did not recognize the language. Early on, he had searched online to see if he could figure out the letters, but his searches turned up nothing. He had even written down some of the words and shown them to his school librarian, as well as to the librarian at the public library where his parents took them frequently. Neither recognized the characters.

  He rolled the scroll up again and pulled out another. This one had no characters on the back, and like the other, it had lots of writing that he could not understand. Nevertheless, Andy studied the characters, memorizing their shapes. Never know when I might find someone who knows what these letters mean.

  Rolling this parchment up, he replaced it and pulled a third scroll out of the trunk. This one had characters on the back like the first. It was his favorite, not because it was the largest, which it was, but because it was the fanciest of all the scrolls. It was the drawing of a family tree. There was a sketch of a man or woman next to each branch with what was probably their name written underneath. The tree was tall and the drawing detailed. It clearly went back a long time. It was also clear that the tree was incomplete since it stopped suddenly, as if the person who had been recording all the births and deaths had died. But why? Whose family was this?

  He remembered the message sphere telling him his ancestors had come from Oomaldee and relived the anxiety he felt when that same message sphere declared he would become a great leader in the land if he did what the sender of the message told him—it predicted that even the King would follow him. After studying the scroll for several minutes, Andy rolled it up again and put it back in the truck with the others.

  He lifted out the tray containing the scrolls and placed it on the floor next to the upper tray. Only one object remained in the trunk. He reached in and gingerly grasped the handle of a dagger between his thumb and forefinger as if it would bite him. It had a beautifully carved handle like Methuselah’s, but its ten-inch blade was speckled with patches of rust. He had examined it many times, but dark flecks of an unidentified substance on the handle and blade made him feel creepy every time he saw it. After studying it yet again for several minutes, he returned it to the trunk, put the other two trays back in, and slowly closed the lid.

  A trunk full of mysteries. If I ever get to go back to Oomaldee... He walked back downstairs to the kitchen to see if Mom was ready yet.

  The rest of the day was uneventful. The three of them visited the library, and before returning home he and Madison had a heated argument about which flavor of ice cream was the best. After eating dinner and watching a couple TV shows, Mom announced that it was time for bed. Without argument, Andy headed upstairs.

  Entering his room, he approached his desk that stood just inside the doorway, picked up a red marker, looked at the calendar hanging on the wall above it, and crossed off today’s date. Nine months, 23 days since I returned. He sighed. At least there’s only three more weeks until summer vacation is finally over. It wasn't that he loved school, for it seemed he was always getting in trouble with one teacher or another for being disrespectful. No, he longed for the start of school so he would be distracted for a large part of the day.

  I sound like Madison. I must be sick, Andy thought as he got ready for bed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Pony Express

  The following afternoon, Andy lay on his bed reading Stance, Bal
ance and Poise: The Art of Sword Fighting, one of the books he had gotten at the library. Mom had raised her eyebrows when she saw the book he wanted to check out. In the end, he had convinced her he was curious about how people fought way back when.

  “It goes against my better judgment,” she’d added. She knew Andy too well.

  Looking at a picture of two knights facing off with swords drawn, Andy stood up and pulled Methuselah’s hilt from the pouch hanging around his neck. Unlike in Oomaldee, the blade did not extend. Nonetheless, Andy tried to mimic the stance of one of the knights, putting his right foot out in front of his left. He read aloud, “Keep your feet shoulder-width apart as much as possible. Never cross your feet or bring them together as you move.” He checked his stance. “Align your wrist with the hilt to grip the sword. When you strike a target, you want the strength of your wrist behind it instead of your thumb. Your thumb should be pointing left or right. If your thumb is pointing up, you are not holding the sword correctly.”

  Andy checked his grip. “Yep, got it.”

  Feeling nature’s call, he put Methuselah back in the pouch around his neck and laid the book face down on his bed. He wandered down the hall. He was alone in the house; Dad was at work and Mom had taken Madison out shopping for school clothes. “You’re growing too fast,” she had complained while smiling at Madison over breakfast.

  When he reached the bathroom, he caught a glimpse of the front yard through the wood blind. What? Where did that come from? He let out a loud gasp as he recognized a life-size statue of Sir Gawain charging full speed ahead on his horse, Alexander. It looked exactly like the statue he’d seen in the cavalry training center in Oomaldee. Unmoving, it listed at a precarious angle, its stone base sunken a foot or more into Dad’s perfectly manicured lawn.