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

by Craig Halloran

  “I can assist.”

  Ben waved him off and started his trek up the slope. He looked back at Bayzog and said, “This is the right way, isn’t it?”

  Bayzog nodded. Pointing, he said, “Just head straight toward the split in the peaks, and soon we will arrive.”

  Ben set his chin and nodded. The rangy man, stalwart as they come, had taken care of most everything on the trek. He hunted, fished, and trapped. Bayzog might have starved without him, despite the last twenty-so years of survival. Although part-elf, the old wizard’s city ways had never quite acclimated to the woods. But he could recognize plants that were edible and maybe catch a fish from time to time.

  He slipped. Ben caught his arm.

  “You really need to be more thoughtful in your gear,” the warrior said, looking at Bayzog’s shoes. “You’d almost be better off in bare feet than those things.”

  His friend’s shoes were little more than leather slippers. But that was all part of being a mage. The lighter you traveled, the better. Bayzog had explained, but Ben hadn’t fully understood. It had something to do with how the energies were harnessed from the world.

  Two more hours they trudged up the slope into the setting sun, winding left to right along the rocky edges.

  ***

  “You realize we’re exposed, don’t you?” Ben said. “Marching right up into the high ground with the sun in our eyes—”

  “It will be alright.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I know.” Bayzog gave his friend a reassuring look.

  Ben shrugged and mopped the sweat from his brow.

  The sun eased its way between the split, and the slopes became heavy in shadow. Bayzog could see the rock faces ahead, less than a mile away. Natural stone columns were in the rock, and many of them looked like giant faces.

  “That’s odd,” Ben said, glancing back at Bayzog. “So you and Sasha have been here before?”

  “We used to ride horses a lot and take trips for days at a time. We came across this place by accident.” He smiled. “She fell in love with it.”

  “With the rocks?”

  “More or less. But it’s what’s on the other side that impresses.”

  “Impresses you? I’ve seen Elome, and I’ve never seen anything more impressive than that.”

  “This is not like that. It’s different, and she’s fond of it. That’s all that matters.” His eyes watered. Doubt seeped into his heart. What if she’s not there?

  “She’ll be there,” Ben said, drifting back and squeezing his shoulder.

  Eyeing the rock faces, Bayzog explained, “We took our vows there.”

  “Well, perhaps you can renew them, now. Come on. I’m excited to see this place. The place that stirs the heart of the Grand Bayzog.”

  They entered the split in the great stones after traversing a jagged pass over half a mile long. Ben set the chest down and stared into the valley. The sun was a big orange eye overlooking a huge lake surrounded by great trees and abundant forest life. Some of the trees were colored with golden leaves. Others were violet, white, or red.

  “I like it,” Ben said. “So, are we heading down”—he looked left and right—“or around?” The rocky steppes and pinnacles formed a crescent moon around the lake. A narrow path led along the rocks either way. “I find it hard to believe no one lives here.” He lifted a brow. “Giants, maybe?”

  A shadow dropped behind them from out of nowhere.

  Whump!

  Bayzog twisted around.

  Snap. Clatch. Snap.

  Ben hustled to his side, with Akron ready.

  A cherry-scaled dragon filled the chasm. Magnificent. Beautiful. It had small twisting horns and rose-colored belly scales. Long black lashes over its eyes. He could feel the heat of its breath.

  Bayzog stood behind his staff and held Ben an arm’s length behind him. His heart pounded between his temples. “Hold,” he said.

  Ben kept his arrow nocked. “If you want to teleport me out of here, I’m alright with it.”

  “Be still,” Bayzog said. “I’m not so sure she aims to harm us.”

  The cherry dragon shook its scales and wings.

  “She?” Ben said.

  “Aye—”

  “Father! Father!”

  Bayzog’s head snapped up. His eyes fixed on Rerry climbing down the rock.

  “Son!” Bayzog said.

  Rerry, light-haired and lithe, scrambled to the bottom. He embraced his father. The young part-elf’s wiry arms squeezed him tight.

  “You’ve grown well, Son!” Bayzog said, unable to contain his elation.

  “Father, I’ve missed you so much!” Rerry hugged him again.

  “Ahem,” Ben said to them both, eyeing the dragon.

  Rerry looked at Ben, nodded, then looked over at the dragon. “We call her Shayleen. She’s been with us many days. Was it you who sent the tiny dragons?”

  “Yes.”

  “I knew it was. Come, come,” Rerry said. “Mother waits.”

  “What about … er … Shayleen?” Ben said, lowering his bow.

  Rerry shrugged.

  “She’ll be fine, I’m certain. She’s a dragon, you know.”

  “Rerry,” Bayzog said, “this is my dear friend, Ben.”

  Rerry looked Ben over, and his eyes widened.

  “Oh! Is that Akron? Is that Fang?”

  “No, it’s Ben,” Ben said, pulling the bow away. Clatch. Snap. Clatch. His hand fell on Fang’s hilt.

  “Rerry, where are your manners?”

  “Ah, they’re somewhere around here,” Rerry said, scratching his head. He extended his hand. “Hello, Ben.”

  Ben squeezed it, and Rerry winced. Ben picked up the dwarven chest and handed it to Rerry.

  “Oof!”

  “I’d be obliged,” Ben said, stretching his back and eyeing the dragon.

  “I wouldn’t stare too long if I were you,” Rerry said, grinning.

  “Why?”

  “Because she might kill you.”

  “Rerry!” Bayzog said.

  “Come along, Father and Father’s friend, Ben,” Rerry said, teetering with a happy gait. “I can’t wait to see Mother’s face when she sees you!”

  Rerry led the way around the rim of the valley until they stopped at the mouth of a small cave overlooking the lake. Bayzog saw Sasha standing just outside it, auburn hair blowing in the gentle breeze. Bayzog strengthened his knees. Shayleen soared by and darted up, disappearing into the clouds high over the lake.

  “Mother! Mother!” Rerry yelled.

  Sasha’s chin turned. Her eyes locked on Bayzog, and his heart jumped in his throat. The pair collided halfway to the cave. Sasha buried her head in his shoulder, sobbing.

  “Bayzog…”

  He stroked her hair, trembling a little. “I’ve missed you,” he said. “But my heart has never ached so much as it does now. I’m not parting with you again.”

  “Good,” she said, still hugging him. “Good.” She tilted her chin up, and they kissed.

  “Not in front of the children,” Rerry started.

  Ben backhanded his shoulder.

  “Oh, come on,” Rerry said to Ben, rubbing his shoulder. “Might as well let sour face know his father has arrived.”

  “Let’s go in,” Sasha said. “Our spot will make you feel right at home.”

  Holding her hand, Bayzog ducked inside the cave after Ben and Rerry. Mystic flames reflected on the walls, which were coated in bright oily colors. There were beds made from giant leaves and tall grasses and nothing more. The cave went back as far as he could see, and the ambiance was soothing. He glanced back outside the cave mouth, beheld the spectacular view he and Sasha fell for so many decades ago, and sighed.

  “You need rest,” she said, rubbing his hand between hers.

  He brushed her hair over her ears. Her face was scuffed up and swollen. It angered him. His wife and sons had been through quite an ordeal. He could feel it.

  �
�Never again,” he said. “To the end.”

  “Mother! Father!” Rerry’s voice echoed in the cave.

  They rushed deeper within. Samaz lay propped up in Rerry’s arms, with the whites of his eyes showing. Bayzog knelt alongside his son and squeezed his knee.

  “What’s wrong?” Ben asked.

  “He does this when he dreams,” Rerry said, “and his dreams seem to be getting longer and worse.”

  Samaz stiffened and popped upright.

  His eyes rolled so that only the whites were exposed, and he started mumbling, “Gorn Grattack comes … Gorn Grattack comes … Gorn Grattack comes…”

  CHAPTER 17

  Brenwar shoved a boulder four times his size.

  “Hurk!”

  The boulder shifted in the dirt.

  “Brenwar! You’re pushing it! You’re pushing it!” Pilpin said. He scurried over to the mountain rim and peered over. Barnabus soldiers waited below, breaking camp. Pilpin rushed back. “Hurry! They’re moving on.”

  Brenwar’s dark eyes were popped wide open, and sweat beaded his face. He straightened with everything he had. The mystic bracers aided a great deal, but they still needed fuel from his iron will. He clenched his teeth. “Grrrrrrrrrrrrr …”

  The dust and dirt below the great stone shifted more, and the rock began to grind over the dirt.

  “You’re doing it!” Pilpin exclaimed.

  “Keep it down!” Brenwar grunted.

  “Oh,” Pilpin said, hopping up and down and covering his bearded lips. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Push!”

  “Certainly, Brenwar, certainly!” Pilpin lowered his shoulder, dug his boots in, and gave the rock a shove.

  The boulder started to eclipse the edge.

  “We’ve almost got it, Brenwar!”

  Red-faced, Brenwar eyed the little dwarf that was half the size of him. Shaking his head, he took a deep breath and put more back into it.

  “Hurk!”

  “Come on, Brenwar!” Pilpin blurted out. “Push it!”

  The rock moved another half foot. It was inches from the rim. He dug in and shoved it another half step. The rock teetered back toward Brenwar and Pilpin.

  “Oh no!” Pilpin said, stepping away.

  “No you don’t!” Brenwar added.

  The rock slipped inches farther, teetered more over, and …

  Whoosh!

  It slid off the rim.

  Bam! Bang! Crack!

  It bounced down the hillside, crushing rocks and breaking off jagged limbs. The soldiers of Barnabus—men, orcs, lizardmen, and gnolls—cried out at the rolling hunk of terror. Weighed down by armor and lacking quick-thinking brains, they caught the doom full force.

  Over a dozen Barnabus minions were pulverized as the great stone rolled on toward the river.

  Huffing for breath, Brenwar picked up a stone larger than his head and hurled it down on a lone survivor. Pilpin chucked a few rocks of his own.

  “We did it,” the little dwarf said. Slapping Brenwar’s shoulder, he stuck his chest out. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “Aye,” Brenwar added. “Now let’s go. There’s certain to be survivors. Let’s see what we can squeeze out of them.” He rubbed his wrists. “Such marvelous toys.”

  As the pair traversed the slope, Brenwar still had much on his mind. Black Dragons. Nath. Sightings of Gorn Grattack. Skirmishes far away from the cities in a secret war that was going on. There was only one thing he liked so far in his quest: there was plenty of fighting to be done. He just hoped his friends fared as well as he did.

  CHAPTER 18

  “This is strange,” Shum said to Hoven. His stone-faced countenance was sad. He held a pixlyn no bigger than a doll in his hands. The pixlyn, a small winged figurine of a man, breathed no more. Its once vibrant body was now stiff and lifeless. “And tragic,” he added.

  Nodding, Hoven slid a hunting knife from his belt and began carving in a tree. The pair had trekked into the foothills south of the Shale Hills, stopping only to rest the horses. The Roamers, horse and elf, required little sleep, but Hoven yawned.

  “Brother, are you well?” Shum said, tucking the pixlyn under his arm.

  Hoven dug his blade deeper into the knot in the tree.

  “This land is cursed. See how this tree bleeds?” Black sap seeped from the knot and down the bark of the tree. There were brown moldy spots all over it. Hoven put a dab of sticky sap on his finger. His face turned sour, and he spat. “The soil is tainted.”

  “And the waters.” Shum removed a small shovel from his horse and tossed it to Hoven. “We need to bury him.”

  “Here? In this unhealthy ground?”

  The fertility of the forest had ebbed. The colorful leaves dried up and fell out of season. The bark of the trees was peeling, and fallen branches were scattered on the ground. Chipmunks, moles, and such lay dead in their tracks. Predators such as foxes didn’t eat them. Not even vultures did. Shum’s skin crawled. Unseen forces lurked all about.

  “We’ll find another spot where the ground is more fertile.”

  The Roamers winded through the woodland, passing through bountiful spots and others dreary and grey. The wildwood divided. Some groves thrived, while others moaned for light, dark undergrowth and weeds overwhelming them. Shum didn’t remember such places from the last dragon war, but he did remember the devastation. Forest and city burning with fire. Desolated. What he saw now was different.

  “Here,” Hoven said, dipping his shovel into the soft earth. It was a nice clearing, under the sun and a couple dozen yards from the glass surface of a pond. “This spot is better than most I’ve seen. It should give it a chance.”

  Hoven put his back into it, long sinewy arms scooping out heaps of dirt, braided hair dangling down over his ample shoulders.

  Shum brushed his thumb over the pixlyn’s face. The little person was a creature of earthen magic. Sometimes, the soil could revive them. He’d witnessed it before, but that was with other pixlyns handling the burial. There were no other pixlyns now. Just a still, quiet forest, where nothing breathed but them.

  A horse nickered and headed for the pond.

  Shum craned his neck and swallowed. The cool waters of the pond looked refreshing. Hoven stopped his digging, and, eyeing him, he lowered the small body into the small but deep grave. Kneeling, he followed with a few Elvish words.

  The wind stirred.

  Shum nodded, and Hoven began refilling the grave. Nearby, a horse whinnied.

  “I’ll fill the canteens,” Shum said, making his way toward the pond. The horses’ necks were bent toward the water, but they did not drink. Their hooves became restless on the soft ground. Shum’s hands fell to his swords. He let out a sharp whistle.

  A dragon’s head surfaced and struck. Its great jaws clamped down on Shum’s horse’s neck. A second dragon head burst from the water and latched onto the other horse. The Roamer steeds whined and bucked.

  “No!” Shum cried, rushing for the water’s edge. He struck into the dragon’s neck. An oily beast coated in slime and muck. The blade bit, but not deeply, and the dragon jaws crunched farther downward. “Hoven!” He struck again and again.

  The dragon’s neck rose, lifting the horse higher, and the full body of the dragon began to emerge from the waters. It towered over elf and horse. Two serpentine necks were attached to a large four-legged body coated in mud and scales. Its wings and tail were coal black.

  Shum slid his spear out of his pack and twirled it three times over. It lengthened from two feet to eight. He waded into the waters and plunged the spear into the beast’s belly. It sank in. The dragon heads roared. Both horses fell to the ground in a heap.

  The dragon struck at him.

  Spear in one hand, sword in the other, Shum parried the assault with fury. Hoven emerged and chopped vigorously at the other dragon head. Both elven blades chipped away through the scales and into the bones. The wingless, hornless dragon beast slunk deeper into the wat
ers. Its striking heads collided with razor sharp steel.

  “Don’t let him get away!” Shum yelled.

  He rammed the spear up through the bottom of its jaw, piercing the gray matter in its head. The second head let out an ear-splitting howl. Hoven cut it deeply through the throat and neck. The dragon slunk back into the pond, and the waters began to bubble over its dying bulk.

  Shum and Hoven rushed out of the waters to the sides of their gravely wounded mounts.

  “No! No! No!” Shum cried. He laid his bare hands on his beast and recited mystic prayers in Elvish, but it was too late.

  CHAPTER 19

  “Man, are you slight in the head?” the older guard of The Deep said. “Get back away from there, Jason!” It was the same man who had warned Gorlee about his musings days ago. Older. Gruff in nature.

  Gorlee continued to stare at the glassy black surface that covered The Deep. The oily image shimmered and warbled. He teetered closer to the edge. What he needed was down there. He could feel it. He also knew somehow that he had been down there before. If he could only get back down there, he knew he would find his memories. His booted toes stuck out over the edge.

  “Get back here, you fool!” the senior guard said. “We already have one to feed him. We don’t need two.”

  Gorlee turned.

  A tall, rangy man with a thick black beard stood shackled between two guards. His clothes were ornate but disheveled, and he had a weary look about him.

  “Tell you what, rook,” the lead guard said, spitting juice from his mouth. “I’ll let you lead this man to the edge. You can even watch the phantom snatch him up.”

  “Ph-phantom?” the prisoner said, cringing. The guards shoved him forward. “No! No! I’m supposed to be put in a dungeon, not The Deep! My sentence is only—oof!”

  The guard walloped him in the back of the head with a small club. The prisoner collapsed in a heap, and the two men dragged him over to the rim.

  “Go ahead,” the senior guard said to Gorlee. “Roll him in there.”