Dragon Bones And Tombstones (Book 2)

Dragon Bones and Tombstones

The Chronicles of Dragon: Book 2

By Craig Halloran

Dragon Bones and Tombstones

The Chronicles of Dragon: Book 2

By Craig Halloran

Copyright © March 2013 by Craig Halloran 

Amazon Edition

TWO-TEN BOOK PRESS

P.O. Box 4215, Charleston, WV 25364

ISBN eBook:      978-0-9884642-9-2

http://www.thedarkslayer.net

A cover Illustration by
David Schmelling

Map by Gillis Bjork

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.

Publisher's 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.

Dragon Bones and Tombstones

The Chronicles of Dragon: Book 2

PROLOGUE

Starlight. The land of Nalzambor was filled with stars, more than could be counted, more than could be seen. The biggest one, the most brilliant, lingered behind the moon like the twinkling eye of a dragon. But now was not the time to pay attention to such beautiful things. Not the shimmering waters, the soft grasses, the gentle breeze or trees filled with fruit a plenty. No, such things didn’t matter now in the mystic land of Nalzambor, at least not when death, despite all the beauty, still whispered in the air.

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's body was less than that of 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 like she was out of breath. I could sense her fear, 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. I hated waiting. 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 it in 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 in my eyes. It was good, being downwind from the camp. The orcs had snouts almost as good as hounds, and I had to be careful they didn’t catch wind of me. Of course, on the flip side, I got plenty a nose full 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 and mockery 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 bow string coiled into place like a living thing. Akron, a wonderful weapon made in the forges of the elves, 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 like 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 on 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 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, stepping 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. 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 wide fire. 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 was standing. One by one, they jumped into the wagon, heavy swings nipping at my toes as I danced and batted their steel away, careful my feet would not slip between the bars. It was chaos, as one fought over top of the other, trying to tear my legs from underneath me and cut me down in a tide of my own blood. 

The dragon I 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 quick, 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 like a bow, bending me backward over the cage. 

It was suffocating. The sweaty thing had me, and I could smell its breath that was 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 its 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 re-inserted 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 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 the common tongue. 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 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 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 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 tricep. 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 its shoulder, and spun away from another two-handed blow.

Parry.

Clang!

Fang tore its blade from its grasp.

Glitch!

I stabbed it 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 arm. 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, only then they became reasonable.