The Chronicles of Dragon Collection (Series 1 Omnibus, Books 1-10)

by Craig Halloran

  CHAPTER 1

  I sat high in the branches, spying the orcen camp below. Brenwar and I had spent weeks trying locate it. Brenwar wasn’t with me. He didn’t climb trees, not unless he really had to.

  Below, the gruff voices bellowed and drank, celebrating their prized catch: an evergreen dragon. I could see her well from my perch. She was a rare flower, a thing of beauty among the decay of mankind. Small and young, the creature was no bigger than a man. Her tail, slender and serpentine, curled around her body as she lay still. Green, a brilliant green like emeralds, was the color of her scales. Her underbelly was not fully developed, yet it was armored in citrine yellow. Long necked, with a small nose and snout, she had two leathery wings folded over her back. Her chest was rising and falling as if she was out of breath. I could sense her fear as she lay alone and helpless. I had to free her; after all, that’s what I did. Or at least, what I was supposed to be doing.

  I watched and waited. Certainly Brenwar’s signal would come at any moment. The waiting wasn’t so bad. And the watching part was another matter. Watching orcs—all of which were brawny, fatty, and boar-like in the face with little tusks jutting from the bottom of the mouths—was offensive. They were crude.

  One sat on a log by the fire, picked his nose, poured a nasty stew in his mouth, and belched. Another was plucking the lice from his beard while a different one picked lice from his hair and tossed them into the iron pot of stew. Their purpose in my world was a mystery, because I’d yet to see anything good from a single one of them, ever.

  Where are you, Brenwar?

  The moon rose to a full zenith, a full, bright yellow, and it wasn’t long before the party of orcs began to drift into sleep.

  Two orcen guards stood watch alongside a wagon that housed the metal cage that contained the dragon. Both were alert, chests out and spears ready. I knew from experience that the slightest abnormality in the camp would make them sound the alarm. Sneaking up on them wasn’t a very good idea. I could get one shot off with my bow, killing one, but getting the second shot off before the alarm sounded would be difficult. And I had to remember that I was not supposed to kill.

  My back was beginning to ache, and my legs were becoming numb. I needed to move. Brenwar, on the other hand, well, he could stand like a statue for days. I’ve seen him do it. He could beat a stone in a standing-still contest. But me, no. I was a man of action, and I had things to do. A dragon was suffering, endangered, helpless. It made me feel miserable, too. With or without Brenwar, I was going to free the dragon. I didn’t rustle a single leaf as I climbed down. A stiff breeze blew my hair into my eyes. It was good, being downwind from the camp. The orcs had snouts almost as good as those of hounds, and I had to be careful they didn’t catch wind of me. Of course, on the flip side, I got plenty a noseful of their foul dander.

  Wretched things.

  I never ate bacon because of them, and I love meat, in all its forms and flavors.

  I hunched down behind the tree I’d been sitting in and watched as one of the orcs poked at the dragon with the butt of his spear. It lit a fire in me as I watched the little dragon’s tail tighten around her body. The orcs' mocking laughter stirred the warrior within me. My impulses took over. My anger rose.

  Control, Nath. Keep it under control.

  I reached for my bow, Akron. Compact in size, forged by magic, it hung from the armor on my back. I snapped it into place.

  Snap. Clatch. Snap.

  The bowstring coiled into place like a living thing. Akron, a wonderful weapon made in the forges of the elves, was a gift from long ago. I spit on the tip of my arrow and rubbed it in. The black arrowhead began to glow with a yellow fire as I nocked it. My dragon arm was steady, solid as a red oak. My aim was true as I listened to the stretching sound of the bowstring. The orcs' throats were as clear as the nose on my face.

  Save the dragon. Kill them all if you have to.

  Oh, how much I wanted to. But killing, no matter how evil the opponents, wasn’t the best way to earn my scales. I hated that part. It was so hard to understand.

  Small breath. Release.

  Twang!

  A streak of yellow light whizzed through the night, soaring past the orcs' heads and into the lock on the dragon’s cage. The orcs jumped as if their feet were on fire, gawping at the arrow juttering inside the metal lock.

  The dragon remained still.

  One orc grabbed his head, bewildered, studying the arrow in the lock.

  Wait for it.

  I nocked the next arrow.

  Boom!

  The arrow exploded. The orcs fell to the ground. The sound wasn't so loud, except it came in the dead of night, and in all likelihood I had woken up everything sleeping for a quarter mile. As I watched the pieces of the large metal lock scatter everywhere, the green dragon came to life, her small winged arms clawing at the cage. The dazed orcs scrambled back to their feet, fighting to secure the cage door, one putting his body into it, the other trying to lock it with something else.

  Twang!

  The orc screamed as the arrow imbedded itself in its ankle.

  Twang!

  I sent the other howling to the ground as I caught it in its hip.

  Two down, none dead, but the dragon was still trapped inside.

  Drat!

  The camp was a flurry of activity now. Orcs rose from under their blankets, ripped their swords from their belts, and began barking orders. The dragon thrashed inside her cage. The latch, lock or no lock, was still holding. I moved. Bounding across the camp, ducking under a chopping axe, I lowered my shoulder, bowling the next orc over. In a single bound, I made it to the wagon and pulled the cage door free.

  A thunderous cry of alarm went up as the dragon’s long neck jutted out. She stepped from the cage, spreading her magnificent wings in the moonlight. With a single whoosh, she darted into the sky and disappeared from sight. They’re fast. So am I, but the problem is—I can’t fly!

  “You're welcome!” I yelled, for all the good it did. Of all the dragons I saved, none ever thanked me. Not that they could talk. Well, some could. Most couldn’t, and I only knew a few that did. But one would think, for all the times I helped them, they’d at least come back and help me, but they never came.

  “Kill him!” the orcs yelled, surrounding me.

  I leapt into the wagon and pulled out Fang, its blade glimmering like wildfire. Still, none fled. The orcs were stubborn like that, always letting their greedy intentions get the better of them. The orcs were not cowardly, just stupid. They closed in, weapons brandished, their faces eager for my blood. An orc with a face like cottage cheese let out an angry cry, and they charged.

  I leapt on top of the cage as a battle axe whacked a chunk out of the wagon where I had been standing. One by one, they jumped into the wagon, heavy swings nipping at my toes as I danced and batted their steel away, careful not to let my feet slip between the bars. It was chaos as one fought over top of another, trying to tear my legs from underneath me and cut me down in a tide of my own blood.

  The dragon I had freed, as with all dragons, was worth a lot. Worth enough for these thugs and rogues to gorge themselves on ale and food for months, maybe even a year. If you ever want to make somebody really mad, just take their money.

  The nearest orc bellowed as I sank my blade, Fang, into its shoulder. Fang is short for its real name that is as hard to pronounce as it is to spell, at least for me. Impossibly long. What else should I expect of a sword made by my father? Chop! Chop! Clang!

  Their blows rattled the cage, tearing more wood from the wagon. I wobbled on my legs as two more of the beastly orcs heaved the wagon in an attempt to shake me to the ground. It was getting hot now, my breath heavy as my sword arm became heavy from deflecting all their blows. My muscles were being put to the test as I struck quickly, clipping an ear, before dancing away from another’s broad stroke. I slipped. My foot went down between the cage bars, catching my knee on the metal, filling my head with an explosion of pain.
I cried out.

  “We’ve got him! Kill him!”

  Three orcs surrounded me, trying to pin my arms down. I cracked one in the nose with the sword's pommel and punched another in the jaw. Its head rocked back, but my fist stung from the blow. The orc wrapped its meaty arms around my throat, arcing my spine like a bow, bending me backward over the cage.

  I was suffocating. The sweaty thing had me, and I could smell its breath, as foul as garbage. I heaved. It heaved back as I cried out in agony. My leg, still pinned between the cage bars, was ready to snap. My sword, Fang, was useless. I let it slip through my fingers, hanging onto the pommel, revealing a small dagger within that I called Dragon Claw.

  Slice!

  I stabbed the orc’s belly. It recoiled and teetered from the wagon. Bloody dagger in hand, I jabbed it into the second orc’s arm. It had power, determination. It was me or him. I had the feeling that before I poked another dozen holes in its arm, my leg would break. The pressure was building, and I felt the tendons in my knee stretching. I swung at him with my dagger, but I could not reach him.

  “Let go! Beast! Let go!” My lungs were bursting inside my chest as I cleared my leg from the cage and dodged another blow. I hopped to the ground, rolled over Fang, and reinserted Dragon Claw in the pommel.

  Now ten orcs still lived, each snorting in open hostility, not a one willing to yield, though the one I had stabbed in the belly might have been dying, based off the pain-filled groans I could hear. Unfortunate, but it happens. I fought for my breath. It was time to speak.

  “This has gone far enough, orcs. I’ve scratched you, maimed you, but I can do much, much worse,” I said, pulling back my shoulders and standing taller than their tallest—and orcs are big, bigger than men on average. My voice was as big as me, but that didn’t really matter if the orcs were too stupid to recognize Common. I could always speak in orcen if I wished, but why lower my standards? They might take that as a compliment.

  “So, what will it be, little piggies?” I said, twirling Fang’s glowing blade through the air. “Limp home and live,” I shrugged. “Or die.” Which was a bluff, because I’m not supposed to kill them, remember? If anything, they’d figure I was as bad a shot with a bow as I was at swinging my sword.

  Dripping blood from their injuries, lathered in sweat—orcs sweated more than anything else I knew—they gathered closer. I’d played the game too long. It was time to get serious.

  Dragon saved. Disappear? Disarm? Oh, what to do? Where in Nalzambor is Brenwar?! Fang glimmered in the grip of my fingers, a bright piece of steel that shimmered with radiant, living light. It felt alive in my hand. It was hefty, its flat blade wide, its hilt big enough for two hands, but in my grasp it was as light as a stick, perfect in weight and balance.

  Shing!

  I struck the belt buckle of the nearest orc, dropping his pants over his ankles. The rest jumped back. But as far as they were concerned, it was another miss.

  Oh, great, they’re going to attack.

  They came at me like a sweaty swarm of hornets, steel stingers in their grasp, ready to skewer me alive.

  I was big, an easy target, but I was fast, too.

  “Kill him!” the orc said, kneeling down and trying to pick his pants up from the ground. I think “kill” is a very common word for orcs, meaning the same in their language as in mine. I ducked just in time as a sword whistled over my head. I rolled under the wagon to the other side. My blood, still pumping from the moment this all had started, was just warming up. The warrior in me had lost patience when I popped up on the other side and began swinging.

  Crack!

  I clipped one under the chin with the butt of my sword.

  Glitch!

  I stabbed another in the thigh, bringing a forthcoming howl and limp.

  Slice!

  Another orc clutched its bleeding arm where I cut clean through the triceps. I meant to do that.

  Parry!

  Clang!

  A battle axe clattered into the back of the wagon, drawing astonished grunts. I shifted behind the next attacker that was poised to poke a hole in my back with a spear.

  Chop!

  I sliced though the shaft of the spear, drove my sword into the beast’s shoulder, and spun away from another two-handed blow.

  Parry.

  Clang!

  Fang tore a blade from its wielder’s grasp.

  Glitch!

  I stabbed the orc in the chest and watched it, beady eyes now wide, fall over and die.

  Oops!

  Yes, I’m not supposed to kill other people in order to earn my scales, but I don’t consider orcs people. And no one can really say whether or not killing something evil prevents me from getting my scales. And my father said I could kill if my life was in danger. I was pretty sure it was.

  I punched an orc in the face with my dragon fist, my right hand. Stabbed Fang into the shoulder with my left arm. It was like having a weapon in each hand, but my dragon arm and Fang had issues, and I’ll talk about that later.

  I kept the pressure up, my lungs burning, sweat dripping from my hair into my face as I watched all the remaining orcs try to scramble away from my wrath. Like most people, they were hard headed until faced with the possibility of an inevitable death. Then and only then they became reasonable.

  The orcs cried out. Bleeding from wounds, some ran; others began to grovel and pray. I ignored them. They could live … for now. Though I was certain it was a mistake. I fought for my breath and thirsted.

  “Thanks for the help, Fang,” I said to my sword. I swear it could hear me.

  Fang responded with the hyper-low hum of a tuning fork. That was the magic within. Ancient. Mysterious and wonderful.

  I ran my battle-numbed fingers over the two dragon faces on the brass-fit pommel, their gemstone eyes red and green. I took a deep breath and slipped it back into the scabbard that hung at my side.

  I looked back at the orcs, their expressions defeated yet evil. I could have told them, “Let the dragons alone or I’ll be back,” but what good would that do? Now it was time to depart and find Brenwar. I felt good as I dashed into the woods and disappeared into the night. One more dragon in the land saved from the clutches of evil, and sometimes from the clutches of the self-proclaimed good as well.

  You see, dragons are hard to find, but not so hard to catch. They, like most people, like shiny things: gems, pearls, gold, diamonds, silver, and did I mention gold? Dragons love gold as much as I hate orcs. If you can find them and leave a pile of gold near their nests, caves, nooks, or holes, chances are, like a trout and a silvery lure, they'll try to snatch it. Drop a net over them, and they’re yours, but beware. With claws as sharp as swords, teeth as cutting as knives, and breath as dangerous as anything you ever saw, they aren’t so easy to take alive. That evergreen dragon was a little one, but there are others twenty times her size.

  My good deed was done, and I turned to walk away.

  Clatch-Zip!

  Something exploded in my leg.

  “Argh!”

  Fool! I stumbled to the ground. My chest and stomach were burning like fire. It felt like my entire core was being torn apart as I rose to my feet and ran. I looked down to see a crossbow bolt sticking through my thigh. It hurt. It was a good shot. I dashed into the woods, one foot stumbling past the other, branches slapping my face. Orcs! That’s the problem with leaving them alive: if you do, they don’t usually stop until you're dead.

  CHAPTER 2

  Another bolt whizzed past my head. I half crawled, half limped, and somehow dove behind the cover of a red oak tree.

  Thunk! Thunk!

  I made it!

  “Drat!” I said, reaching down and yanking the bolt from the back of my leg. “Stupid orcs! How’d they catch up on me so fast?”

  I stood up, groaning, my back against the tree, one bolt sailing past, followed by another. I listened. It sounded like there were only two of them, but there might have been three rustling in the bushes and half gru
nting, half whispering their plans to one another. It seemed they had me right where they wanted me: trapped, with nowhere to run, not that I could. Well, certainly I could outsmart a few orcs.

  Whop!

  Bam!

  Boom!

  I stiffened. What was that? What was that, indeed. The sounds of battle didn’t come from me but from beyond the tree. I stood with Fang in my grip and peeked around the bend in the tree.

  “Come out from behind there, Nath Dragon!”

  I let out a sigh. It was Brenwar, standing tall, for a dwarf at least, three orcs crumpled at his feet.

  “Hah!” I said, limping forward, using Fang as a crutch. “It’s about time you showed up, Brenwar!”

  He eyed me, and I knew what was next: a lecture. Brenwar liked to lecture me on the things I did wrong, but this time it would be different. This time he was wrong and I was right.

  Brenwar hefted his war axe over the plate armor on his shoulder.

  His voice was gruff when he said, “I told you to wait for my signal, Dragon.”

  One of the orcs started to move.

  Brenwar whacked it in the head with his hammer. “But you couldn’t wait, could you? Just a few more minutes was all I needed. But once again, you rushed headlong into danger without thinking about the consequences.” He eyed the blood dripping from my leg.

  I slid Fang back into its sheath and folded my arms across my chest. “My leg will be fine. It’s not that bad.” I tried not to grimace, but I did. “And none of this would have happened if you would have been there in the first place.”

  Brenwar was scowling now.