The City of Ancients
Part II
The Golden Book Series
Cameron McFadden
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011
Published by:
Cameron McFadden on Smashwords
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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This book is dedicated to Andrew McFadden and Andrew Sheldon—I carry you with me.
CHAPTER 1
Lieutenant Goloth pierced through the night air, his wings folded back, his body tawt like a spear. The wind blew against him, yet he didn’t tire; the rain stung his eyes, but he didn’t blink—this wasn’t the first time Lieutenant Goloth had been in battle.
Off in the distance, he spotted his target and adjusted his course.
Three-hundred yards… and closing.
As a matter of habit, Lieutenant Goloth did a quick equipment check.
Armor: in good condition; combat dagger: sheathed and sharpened.
Thunder crackled overhead and lightning mixed with the torrential downpour, while dust storms swirled about far below on the desert floor.
Lieutenant Goloth drew his combat dagger, all the while keeping his eyes focused on his target.
As a dragon in the Military State, Lieutenant Goloth had learned to never underestimate his opponents—his target today could be no different. His opponent was a dragon, to be sure (about the same size as the Lieutenant), but it looked more like a skeleton of charred black bones than anything else.
Not much was known about Lieutenant Goloth’s target, except its name: the obsidian dragon.
Suddenly, the obsidian dragon disappeared from sight, somewhere in the storm.
Lieutenant Goloth raced through the rain clouds, the rain cutting into his scales like tiny icicles, his snout now covered in ice. He scanned all about him until—at last!—he spotted the obsidian dragon once again.
But the obsidian dragon had changed its course… and was now dangerously close to another dragon.
This dragon was heading away from the both of them and flying awkwardly because his right wing was much smaller than his left. This dragon, Lieutenant Goloth knew well, was Coriath—the King of Dragonshold.
The Lieutenant also knew that if the obsidian dragon caught up to Coriath, everything they had sacrificed would be in vain.
“Never,” Lieutenant Goloth murmured, gritting his teeth. With renewed enthusiasm, he pressed towards his target.
By the time Lieutenant Goloth was no more than a hundred feet away, the obsidian dragon gave up the chase and turned back towards the Lieutenant; then, both dragons charged towards each other.
Lieutenant Goloth took a deep breath—he was headed into battle, but instead of panicking (as some dragons were prone to do), he was perfectly calm as he calculated his aim.
Target: two hundred feet away.
Wind direction: north by northeast. Arc correction: 35 degrees.
Lieutenant Goloth opened up his mouth, then spat out a fireball with all the ferocity he could muster.
He wasn’t sure how fire might affect the obsidian dragon (most dragons were immune to fire), but he didn’t get a chance to find out—the obsidian dragon darted out of the way, almost like a humming bird.
Then, the obsidian dragon retaliated.
It opened up its mouth, but there was no fire inside; instead, it was quite unlike anything the Lieutenant had ever seen—it looked like fire, but it was a hideous shade of purple and it hissed and crackled.
Seconds later, the obsidian dragon shot out a stream of acid. Lieutenant Goloth dove to the side, the acid missing his shoulder by a few feet, then lunged ahead. But he had already lost a lot of speed—which was vital, because both dragons were headed towards a brutal collision.
Lieutenant Goloth flapped his wings, trying to speed up, but he was already out of time.
The obsidian dragon shrieked and bared its claws, not more than forty feet away now.
Right before they collided, Lieutenant Goloth spat out a fireball that was more black smoke than anything else—meaning to confuse and disorientate his opponent.
Then suddenly, both dragons smashed together. They were entangled, amidst a flurry of claws, wings and chomping teeth and spun down towards the ground, but the black smoke made it difficult to see anything at all.
Lieutenant Goloth got the first blow—a right claw across his opponent’s face.
The obsidian dragon screamed in pain, bleeding from three cuts across its cheek.
Lieutenant Goloth followed up with a hard punch across its chin, but the obsidian dragon recovered in seconds, dug his hind claws into Lieutenant Goloth’s stomach and pushed away.
Once they were separated, each dragon took a moment to recuperate and catch their breath.
The obsidian dragon felt along the cuts on its face while Lieutenant Goloth removed his combat dagger; all the while, both dragons hovered in mid-air and circled each other.
“Where is Azrael?” the obsidian dragon asked.
“I’ll never tell you,” Lieutenant Goloth replied.
Lieutenant Goloth was the first to attack.
He lunged forward, combat dagger in hand and the obsidian dragon followed suit—each gaining frightening amounts of speed before they collided again.
Lieutenant Goloth landed a few glancing blows with his dagger, but it wasn’t long before the obsidian dragon caught his wrist and twisted it and Lieutenant Goloth dropped the dagger.
For a while, they seemed equally-matched. Each dragon suffered a fair share of cuts and bruises, as claws flew everywhere, teeth were bared and wings were fluttering helplessly.
But then, it happened—Lieutenant Goloth swung too wide and left himself open for attack.
Before the Lieutenant had time to recover, the obsidian dragon brought his right fist squarely across the Lieutenant’s jaw.
The impact was terrible; suddenly, Lieutenant Goloth felt dizzy.
It happened in a matter of seconds, of course, but it was long enough for the obsidian dragon to gain the upper hand. He grabbed Lieutenant Goloth around his throat and crushed his windpipe, then turned the Lieutenant so that his back was against the ground below.
Then, the obsidian dragon squeezed his neck so hard, its claws cut into his neck, and kept pushing him down.
Lieutenant Goloth gasped for breath—he had been choked before, but this was so much worse. Though he knew better, the Lieutenant grabbed at the obsidian dragon’s claws and tried to pull them off his throat, but its grip was like a vice.
And suddenly, Lieutenant Goloth realized something terrible—they had been falling for too long.
He glanced over his shoulder… the ground below was coming up fast.
The obsidian dragon didn’t want to choke him to death; it wanted to smash him into the ground!
With renewed energy, Lieutenant Goloth struggled to break free. He bit and clawed everywhere he could and flapped his wings frantically, but all the while, the obsidian dragon kept its grip.
Then, they hit the ground.
Or rather, Lieutenant Goloth hit first.
He hit the ground with the force of a thousand freight trains, smashing horribly into the rocky hill below, leaving a small crater in his wake.
And still, he kept smashing through rock and dirt, until finally, he collided against a hilltop.
His back felt like it was broken.
All the while, the obsidian dragon kept choking him, pushing him against the hilltop.
Lieutenant Goloth thrashed around like a fish out of water, but it wasn’t any use—the impact had forced out all the breath he had left.
And now, his vision was starting to blur.
“Where is Azrael?” the obsidian dragon demanded. Lieutenant Goloth knew he didn’t have much time left.
With one last ounce of strength, he tried to swipe at the obsidian dragon, but it swatted his claw away.
“Where is Azrael?”
Finally, as blood reached his lips, Lieutenant Goloth smiled. “I killed him,” he whispered. “Back at the Military State. In the records room… I killed your brother.”
“The Military State,” the obsidian dragon repeated. “The records room.”
Lieutenant Goloth closed his eyes, expecting that the obsidian dragon would finish him off by choking out whatever life he still had left.
But instead, the obsidian dragon let go of his neck and stood up. It took one last look at Lieutenant Goloth, then leapt off its hind claws and into the air. The obsidian dragon took a moment to get its bearings, though Lieutenant Goloth didn‘t need to wonder where it was headed.
The obsidian dragon was going to the Military State… to save his brother Azrael.
And finally, Lieutenant Goloth was left alone. For some reason, he was still alive.
He wondered why, right before he lost consciousness.
CHAPTER 2
Trevor Thomas looked out the carriage window, to the rain and the thunder outside, and wondered what it’d like to be normal.
Four days ago, Trevor had been normal—but that was before Dragonshold. That was before he found the golden book.
Trevor sighed.
The front of the carriage sank down and Trevor heard reins cracking. The ponies whinnied and the wheels creaked; soon the carriage started moving, but for once, Trevor didn’t care where he was headed.
He had lost everything.
Four days ago, the only thing Trevor had to worry about was being rejected from Princeton University; now, he had to save the world.
People called him “The Chosen One”—a human destined to defeat the Master and his children, and resurrect The Order of the Flame… a legendary bond between man and dragon.
Being the Chosen One should’ve been a dream come true for him.
You see, Trevor had spent his whole life wishing he could be a fantasy hero, like Harry Potter or Frodo Baggins or Eragon, or even Lyra Belacqua. He loved locking himself inside his redwood wardrobe and reading through his own collection of fantasy literature—stories of heroes embarking on epic quests, solving ancient riddles, defeating evil monsters and even rescuing a damsel-in-distress or two.
But now, Trevor had his own damsel-in-distress to worry about.
Her name was Mariah Murphy and she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.
She was the reason Trevor had traveled to Dragonshold in the first place.
They had talked at a party (most people called it “Sam Beechum’s kegger”, though Trevor hadn’t the slightest clue what a “kegger” was) and just when Trevor thought things were going well, Mariah disappeared—but left a mysterious riddle.
It wasn’t the first time Trevor had seen such a riddle, either. Four days ago, Trevor had stumbled upon a strange golden book in his wardrobe. It didn’t have a title or the author’s name, but it was the best fantasy book he had ever read… that is, until page 30. Because after that page, the entire book was blank, except for a four-line riddle that had been written in blood.
Even so, Trevor didn’t pay much attention to this riddle—until someone broke into his house and stole the golden book.
Just then, the carriage hit a rut in the road. The front jerked down and then the back and Trevor could hear someone swearing from atop the carriage.
Trevor sighed.
That wasn’t all—four days ago, Trevor had also found a reddish crystal along with the golden book and when that book was stolen, he started examining the crystal closely. With the help of Jerry (owner of Trevor’s favorite book store, Jerry M. Blue’s Emporium for the Fantastically-Inclined), Trevor discovered that this crystal was actually a rune crystal and that its magical powers could only be unlocked by spreading fresh blood on it.
Soon afterward, Mariah Murphy had been kidnapped.
It was horrible—the police came and everything and Trevor could never forget the look on her mother’s face, or what she said.
“Find her… find my Mariah.”
Trevor didn’t have a choice.
He liked Mariah a lot (maybe even loved her). And he would do anything for her… he would even journey to another world for her.
The second riddle told Trevor where Mariah had been taken, and how to get there—to Dragonshold.
But everything went so wrong.
Now the Master had the rune crystal… Mariah was still missing… and to make matters worse, he had been abandoned.
Trevor looked out the carriage window and spotted a few lights off in the distance. They were torches, to be exact, and soon enough he could hear other voices outside the carriage.
They had pulled into some sort of town, but Trevor didn’t want to explore it.
The carriage came to a stop and the driver dismounted. Moments later, the driver opened up the side door.
“How are we feeling, Sir?” he asked. “Quite all right?” Trevor stared down at the driver, who was about half his own height. The driver’s name was Erling and Erling (as you might’ve guessed) was a Halfling. He had a round, jovial face, with a pair of ears that were only slightly pointed and had brown, curly hair. He was bare-footed, too, his feet covered in brown hairy fur from the ankles down.
“Are we at Davenport?” Trevor asked.
Erling shook his head. “Oh no, sir. We’ve got a long way to go before we get to Davenport. This is just a pit-stop, it is. Thought you might like something to eat.”
Trevor just shook his head.
“They’ve got wilderbeast, sir,” Erling added.
Wilderbeast was Trevor’s favorite food in Dragonshold—it was a salted, purplish meat that tasted like seasoned lamb—but Trevor wasn’t hungry and he told Erling exactly that.
“Very well,” Erling said. “Wait here, sir. Erling will be right back, he will.”
Trevor nodded and waited for Erling to close the door, which he did.
He knew Erling would do exactly as he said, because Erling was loyal and trustworthy, but even now, there were horrible monsters that were searching for Trevor… and would kill him given the chance. They were known as the Master’s children.
But Trevor wasn’t scared of dying; he was scared of being alone—especially in a place like Dragonshold.
Trevor looked up one last time at the night sky, hoping that he might see a pair of dragons flying off in the distance. But Coriath was long gone and so was Lieutenant Goloth. By now, they were probably miles away, leading the obsidian dragon away from Trevor and Erling. It was the sensible thing to do: the obsidian dragon was one of the Master’s children and it wouldn’t stop until Trevor was dead.
But Trevor felt like he had been abandoned by the only friends he had in Dragonshold.
Lieutenant Goloth, for one, had saved his life more than once and even though his military upbringing made him seem cold, even heartless, Trevor knew that he cared about the Order of the Flame and about Coriath.
…Coriath.
Coriath, on the other hand, had quickly become Trevor’s best friend. He was a dragon with an undersized right wing (a birth defect, he said) who was also King of Dragonshold ever since his father had been mysteriously murdered. Some people called Coriath a coward, but Trevor thought he was the bravest person he’d ever met.
Trevor sighed.
He felt like Lytol in Dragonflight, a dragonrider who lived a solitary life after his dragon died. Ever since Trevor had read Anne McCaffrey’s Dragonflight, he wanted to befriend a dragon—and not simply befriend a dragon, mind you, but establish that mental connection that only dragonriders could share with their dragons. Trevor wasn’t about to say that he had this connection with Coriath—but their friendship was the closest he had ever gotten.
Instead, Trevor looked out the window and replayed every moment he had spent with Coriath over and over in his mind until the rolling hills of Greensborough slanted off into a sharp plateau.
The sun started to rise.
After hours of traveling, Erling led the carriage down a series of switchbacks set against a cliff. Off in the distance, Trevor could see the sea and the dawn light glistening off its surface like tiny treasures.
******
Coriath, the King of Dragonshold, looked back over his shoulder but he had lost sight of Lieutenant Goloth long ago. The Lieutenant was lost somewhere in the storm, fighting the obsidian dragon.
If anyone could defeat the obsidian dragon, it was the Lieutenant, and yet…
Coriath turned back around, keeping his sights squarely on the Palace of Dragonshold (a hollowed-out mountain far off in the distance) because if he looked back one more time, he might give in and join Lieutenant Goloth in battle. After all, two dragons stood a much better chance against the obsidian dragon.
But no.
As much as Coriath wanted to help his friend, he was King of Dragonshold now and he had responsibilities. The Palace needed him.
But Lieutenant Goloth wasn’t the only one Coriath was worried about.
He looked down at the ground, at the rain-soaked hills of the Halfling town Greensborough, but knew that Trevor Thomas was now very far away… if Erling did as he was told (and Coriath knew he would) then Trevor was in Davenport by now.
God speed, Trevor Thomas. May the Ancients bless you… and lead you safely to their city.
To the City of Ancients.
Above all else, Coriath hoped that the Chosen One was safe—everything depended upon him.
Once they reached Davenport, Erling would hire a ship to take them to the City. And there, Trevor would resurrect the Order of the Flame.
Coriath didn’t regret leaving Trevor at The Leaping Pony (Erling’s Inn in Greensborough), because he knew it was the right thing to do. After all, the Master had already sent the obsidian dragon after them, and Trevor had barely escaped in time.
But no matter what he told himself, Coriath couldn’t forget the terrible look on Trevor’s face… he looked as if he had been betrayed.
Someday you will see, Chosen One. It was the right thing to do.
At least, Coriath hoped that it was the right thing to do. He focused on the Palace, which was still a great distance away. His undersized right wing ached—he had been flying for hours now. There had been a time, too, when Coriath would’ve succumbed to this pain. He would’ve glided to the ground, hating himself all the while for being so weak and wonder why he couldn’t be a normal dragon.
Other dragons used to call him a coward. Now, Coriath could certainly see why.
But Coriath was a coward no more—which is why he kept on flying, all the way to the Palace of Dragonshold.
It was time to act like a King.
CHAPTER 3
It was like this, Erling said.
Davenport was a coastal town that merged with the Tigruss River, which led to the Lunar Ocean and finally across to the Elven regions of Furgaad—all the way to Trevor’s destination: Port Paravel.
Because of a recent trade agreement the dwarves had signed with the elves, Davenport was a booming seaport economy; the city not only enveloped the rocky beach below, but also part of the steep cliffs. And though Davenport was a good place to fish, it was first and foremost a place of trade and transport; coralite, exotic meats and iron being the primary exports.
As such, Davenport attracted a variety of different races, for a variety of different reasons. Dwarves came to Davenport because the docks provided guaranteed employment and even though the hours were long and they had to work above-ground, Dwarves are greedy above all other things and therefore made up over three- quarters of the working force there.
Goblins lived in Davenport because they had lots of money and could control the Dwarves through a mob syndicate. Elves traveled to Davenport in their dragon-ships because they traded with the Goblins, and didn’t have to do deal with the Dwarves, who were actually their biggest customers.
Erling went on and on about the history of Davenport and the people who lived here, but Trevor didn’t pay much attention to him, even when the carriage came to a stop and Erling opened up the door for him.
“Now, a word of advice, sir,” Erling said. “Watch out for them goblins. Make no mistake, sir—they own Davenport. If they catch you, they’ll rob you, saying it’s a sort of toll. If you don’t have any money, they’ll kill you in an instant.”
With this said, Erling handed Trevor a small bag of coins.
“Thanks,” was all Trevor could say. He stuffed the bag in the same pocket that he had put a golden vial of sunlight that Erling had given him earlier.
“Yes sir, them goblins own everybody… save for the elves that is,” Erling said. “The goblins won’t lay a finger on the elves, because the elves own dragon-ships and they bring coralite and other rare delicacies for the goblins to sell.”
Erling led Trevor out onto a stretch of docks that ran parallel to the sea, almost all the way to the horizon. Soon, he had to shout over the sounds of machinery.
Everywhere Trevor looked, cranes and pulleys were lifting crates of every imaginable size and lowering them onto humongous freight ships or stacking them atop square outlines of chalk.
And everyone here (mostly dwarves) seemed to be in an awful hurry. The dwarves themselves were just inches taller than Halflings, but most were fatter, with dark, dirty skin and thick reddish hair. Most of the dwarves had beards that were just as thick and were dressed in stained tunics that barely covered their bellies. They spoke English, but with an obnoxious, guttural accent.
“Yes, them elves live above the goblins,” Erling continued. “Every blue moon or so, they dock one of their dragon-ships in Davenport. A dragon-ship is the fastest way to reach Port Paravel, it is.”
Trevor nodded. He should have been utterly fascinated by all this—after all, Davenport was bustling with activity, with Dwarves and bizarre cranes (which looked like they might’ve been made from household materials) and freight-liners booned along the docks.
Erling had even mentioned Elves. Trevor should have been ecstatic.
But all Trevor could think about was how he had gotten himself into this mess in the first place. Somehow, he was now trapped in an unfamiliar, possibly dangerous town with Erling. He trusted Erling, just as he had trusted Coriath, but Trevor knew someone half his size wasn’t going to be much help in a fight.
“We must hurry, sir,” Erling said. “There’s no telling where you-know-who might be.”
Trevor knew exactly who Erling was talking about: the Master’s children.
There were four children, in all, but they were all hideous creations. There was Azrael, who had the ability to change into the appearance of any one he killed, but Azrael was dead. Lieutenant Goloth had killed him back inside the Military State. There was Elvarius, too, a cunning dwarf who created a false golden book… and lead Trevor to believe that it could predict the future. But Trevor had defeated Elvarius when he destroyed this false book, back inside Dracwyn Prison.
Which only left two of the Master‘s children: the obsidian dragon and Arachnia. The obsidian dragon was probably still chasing after Lieutenant Goloth and Coriath, thinking that Trevor was on one of their backs, and oh, how Trevor wanted this to be true—he wanted to be with them, even if it meant risking his life.
Trevor felt like he was trapped… trapped inside a fantasy book.
It felt like he had been reading this book for days on end, and for once in his life, all he wanted was to put it down and get on with his life. But he couldn’t, because his life wasn’t a fantasy book, and he wasn’t locked inside his redwood wardrobe, and no matter how many times Trevor fell asleep (or even just closed his eyes), he always found himself back in Dragonshold.
“Trevor!” a voice said, just loud enough that Trevor heard it over the sounds of all the cranes.
At first, Trevor thought that he was just hearing things, but then he heard it again: “Trevor!”
Trevor looked at Erling, who was several feet away looking at all the ships along the docks.
Erling had his back turned, and besides, it couldn’t have been him. Trevor would recognize that voice anywhere, even in a place like Dragonshold. But it seemed impossible.
“Trevor, over here!”
Trevor spun back around, afraid of who he might see. What he saw, however, took his breath away. She was standing about fifty feet away, wrapped in a cloak similar to Trevor’s, with the hood up. But she was looking right at Trevor and Trevor could see strands of her hair and a pair of maple-brown eyes.
It was Mariah Murphy.
“It’s not safe here,” Mariah said. “Follow me.” Then, she turned around and started walking away, motioning for Trevor to follow her.
Trevor hesitated. The last time he had seen Mariah Murphy, he had just arrived in Dragonshold (inside the Palace, no less) and followed her all the way to Dracwyn Prison. But it wasn’t Mariah. Azrael had simply used her form to lure Trevor into a trap.
But now, Azrael was dead.
Trevor took a few steps forward, not realizing that he had just stepped into a rectangular area that had been marked with chalk.
“Look out there, lad!” one of the dwarves shouted and pushed Trevor off to the side. Actually, since the dwarf was only about half Trevor’s height, he managed to bowl Trevor over by his knees.
Seconds later, there was a great whooshing sound as a crane swung around and dropped an enormous crate (filled with coralite, if you must know) right where Trevor had been standing, blocking his view of Mariah. Trevor considered his options.
It could be a trap—maybe Azrael wasn’t dead. Maybe Azrael was trying to lead Trevor back to Dracwyn Prison…
But amongst all these doubts, memories of Sam Beechum’s kegger popped up like a buoy pushed underwater—Trevor remembered sitting next to Mariah and having the most wonderful conversation and the excitement he felt from her breath on his neck. Trevor had forgotten why he came to Dragonshold in the first place.
“Find her. Find my Mariah.”
Trevor just wanted to know that Mariah was safe—and if that meant walking into another trap to find out, so be it. All he wanted was to see Mariah again.
“You’ve got to watch your step, sir,” Erling said, walking up beside Trevor. “The docks are a dangerous place, they are, and dwarves don’t pay much heed to civilians. Are you quite alright, sir?”
But Trevor didn’t answer. Instead, he sprinted around the crate and scanned the bustling scene, looking through the maze of cranes, crates and dwarves until he saw her—Mariah was standing up on the deck by what seemed to be a seafood restaurant. She smiled a wonderful sort of smile and motioned for Trevor to follow, then ran out of sight.
“What are you looking at?” Erling asked. “Would you like a bite of seafood?”
But it was already too late. Trevor sprinted after her.
He ran across the dock, nearly bowling over a dwarf headed in the opposite direction, all the way to the seafood restaurant. He grabbed the wooden fence around the restaurant’s patio and leapt over it, as a few customers looked on in amazement, then ran around back. Mariah was standing in an alleyway down the street.
She stood still just long enough for Trevor to notice her, then turned around and kept running.
Mariah led him through a series of alleyways, where clothes hung between the houses on tattered clotheslines and dwarves talked to each other from open windows. This alleyway twisted on and on, until the smells of salt-water and fish were replaced with the stink of rotten rubber. Mariah kept running to the center of Davenport (which was not nearly as nice as the docks); here, the houses were dilapidated, trash littered the alleyways and beggars lined the streets asking for loose change.
At last, Mariah turned down a smaller alleyway. Trevor had a side ache, but he gritted his teeth and followed after her, but was surprised to see that Mariah had stopped. Trevor did his best to stop, too, and skidded across the street.
For a while, Trevor stared at Mariah, careful to keep a safe distance away. His heart told him to run up to Mariah and hug her… actually, to kiss her. He wanted to kiss her so badly.
But his mind was telling him other things, like What is Mariah Murphy doing in Davenport anyways? What is she even doing in Dragonshold?
It certainly seemed impossible to Trevor, but then again, Dragonshold was a place for impossible things.
While his mind and heart were at war with one another, Trevor almost expected Mariah to do something terrible, like take out a dagger and attack him.
But she just stood still.
Ever since Sam Beechum’s kegger, Trevor kept thinking about what he was going to say if he ever saw Mariah again… but now, he couldn’t think straight.
“Is that really you?” he asked at last.
Mariah smiled. “Well, yeah.”
“How can I be sure?”
Mariah took a step forward but Trevor flinched, as if he had just been hit with a spit wad, so Mariah stopped. “You can trust me, Trevor.”
Trevor shook his head. He that he should turn around and run away—not because thought this might be a trap, though. Trevor wanted to run away because running away just seemed easier for him. The truth was, seeing Mariah Murphy again felt so good, it almost felt wrong, like opening up all your presents on Christmas Eve.
After being trapped in Elvarius’ lair and being imprisoned in the Military State, Trevor didn’t think that living happily ever after with Mariah was even possible anymore. He had grown used to living without Mariah, and since people are always afraid of change, Trevor wanted things to stay the same—and keep Mariah at a distance… as a reason he used in order to travel to the City of Ancients.
But the more Trevor thought about running away, the more he stood still, even when Mariah took a few steps towards him. Mariah hesitated, but this time Trevor didn’t flinch so she took a few more.
Mariah kept walking until they stood a few feet apart.
“I followed the note,” Trevor blurted out. “I did exactly as the riddle said. I came here looking for you.”
Suddenly, all the doubts were erased from Trevor’s mind because in that moment, Mariah’s left eye changed colors—it changed from auburn to a wonderful, almost transparent shade of grey. Maybe her eye changed because of the sunlight, sure, but Trevor wanted to pretend that it changed because Mariah saw Trevor again… that it was a sign they were destined to be together.
“You would do that for me?” she asked.
Trevor cleared his throat but his heart was beating too fast and he felt like he was going to vomit.
Mariah took another step forward, then threw her arms around Trevor and pulled him in so close, Trevor could feel her body up against his.
He flinched and closed his eyes. It was everything he could’ve hoped for—it felt so good to have Mariah close to him, to have her head lying on his shoulder, to feel her breath upon his neck. “How… how is this possible?” he stammered.
“Shhh,” Mariah whispered in his ear.
Trevor shuddered in delight. But it was almost too wonderful for Trevor to bear, so he opened his eyes and pushed Mariah away. “No,” he said, backing away from Mariah. “What are you doing here? What are you doing in Dragonshold?”
Mariah tried to walk back towards Trevor, but for every step she took Trevor stepped back even further. Mariah sighed. “Our two worlds are merging, Trevor.”
“Wait, what does that even mean?” Trevor asked.
“When you bridged together our world with Dragonshold,” Mariah said, “you created a connection. That connection is like a knife-wound in the very fabric of our worlds. Soon, our worlds will become one.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Trevor said. “What are you doing here? How could you possibly be here, in Dragonshold?”
Mariah glanced down at the ground for a while. When she looked back up at Trevor, she bit her lip. “Find the City of Ancients, Trevor. There, you will find the answers you’re looking for.”
The City of Ancients? How could she even know about that?
“Why?” Trevor asked. “Why I am the one who needs to find the City of Ancients?”
“Because this is about you,” Mariah replied. “What are you talking about?”
“You will see me again, Trev. But you must have faith… and thank you… for everything.”
Mariah smiled one last time, then turned around and sprinted down the alleyway. Soon, she disappeared from sight.
Trevor hesitated—just moments ago, he wanted to run away, but he didn’t want Mariah to run away from him, either, so Trevor ran after her.
He turned past the bend, but Mariah had already disappeared from sight.
Frantically, Trevor looked all around. But she was nowhere to be found.
Once he knew that he was alone, Trevor exhaled, remembering what it felt like to hold Mariah close, and feel her breath on his neck.
“Thank you… for everything.”
CHAPTER 4
Trevor Thomas walked aimlessly around the downtown district of Davenport, but deep down inside, he knew that he wasn’t going to find Mariah Murphy. And strangely, that didn’t seem to matter. Mariah was safe.
He breathed easier.
“Find the City of Ancients, Trevor… There, you will find the answers you are looking for.”
As peculiar as it might sound, things really couldn’t have turned out better for Trevor: he found Mariah, and even got to hold her close—but he wasn’t about to give up traveling to Port Paravel and seeing Coriath again, either, so Trevor got his cake and got to eat it, too. Mariah was safe and she even told him to go to the City of Ancients.
In fact, it seemed like just about everyone wanted him to travel to the City of Ancients—which was exactly what he was about to do.
It didn’t take long for Trevor to start thinking about Erling and how horrible it was of him to leave him back at the docks, so he turned back around and went out the alleyway much the same way he came. Over the crumbling shillings dotting the rooftops, Trevor could see the sea—the docks were by the sea and somewhere inside those docks, Erling was waiting for him.
Trevor started to head back, but now that he was alone, the alleyways of Davenport seemed a far more sinister place. Dwarf beggars, some of them missing legs and arms and all of them quite rotten-looking rattled cups at him, whispering little pleas he tried to ignore. In the houses above, some of the windows were broken and he could hear shouting and screams. The alleyways were littered with trash and filth that rolled by like tumbleweeds in a Western film.
It couldn’t have been scarier if it was mid-night, and wolves were howling and a fog had covered the ground.
Trevor quickened his pace.
“Well, what do we have ‘ere?”
Suddenly, a goblin came walking out of a side alleyway— and it was about as hideous as you‘d think. The goblin was abnormally tall (at least six feet, in fact), with pale green skin that was dotted with black warts and boils and a bunch of scars. The goblin’s straggly black hair had been pulled back to a ponytail, revealing a pair of ears that were pointed, like an elf’s. It was dressed in a clay-colored vest and a pair of slacks, both of them dirty and aged. But worst of all, the goblin held a wooden club and its tip had been punctured with a bunch of rusted nails.
Or rather, the worst part was that the goblin wasn’t alone. Three other goblins emerged from the same alleyway, dressed in the same fashion and were just as filthy and were holding other crude weapons like pieces of chain and bent-up swords.
“It’s a dwarf, you nitwit!” one of the goblins said, smacking the first across the head.
“Ain’t never seen a dwarf that big before,” another goblin said.
“No, it’s a dwarf, all right,” said the last goblin. “And dwarves have got to pay the toll.”
When he said “the toll”, all four goblins started grinning and Trevor could see that, all in all, they had about six teeth between them. They started walking towards him, mashing their weapons on their bruised palms and gnashing their teeth.
Trevor didn’t know what the goblins meant by “the toll” but he wasn’t about to give them his bag of gold coins and hope for the best.
Fight or flight.
As usual, this wasn’t so much of a choice as a habit; Trevor turned and ran as fast as he could.
“After him, lads!” the goblin leader shouted.
The goblins were blocking the way to the docks, so Trevor doubled back and ran through the alleyway, even though he was getting further away from the sea—and from safety. He took a left between two houses, checked over his shoulder, and saw that the goblins were in hot pursuit.
This alleyway snaked its way out into what seemed to be the town center, where hundreds of tiny canopies had been set up in four parallel rows, operated by merchants of all shapes, sizes and races. Here, the cobblestoned streets were bustling with dwarves, goblins and even some groups of Halflings.
Without thinking much, Trevor ran out and joined the fray.
“Tired of your dirty, sweat-stained tunic?” a merchant asked. “Fresh tunics here at a fraction of the cost!”
He made his way through the crowd, all the while keeping the sea (and the docks) ahead of him. Trevor kept getting pushed this way and that by people much shorter than he was but he did his best to keep moving, dreading all the while that one of goblins was going to pop out in front of him and demand that he pay “the toll”. Trevor even bumped shoulders with a goblin, but this goblin looked unfamiliar and all the goblin did was look perfectly irritated by it.
Soon, it became easier to move through the crowd and as Trevor looked around, he realized that the merchant booths were becoming scarcer. The town centre led out to a bustling fish market, constructed in much the same way and the sea looked closer than ever. Rejuvenated now, he made his way past the hoards of dwarven fishermen and all the smells of freshly-caught fish until he heard a familiar sound off in the distance—cranes lifting and hauling crates around.
And sure enough, as Trevor ran past the fish market, the streets ended abruptly, as if they had been cut off by a cleaver and wooden planks extended off to both sides, all the way to the docks and the sea beyond. He ran to what he thought was the center of the docks (careful to avoid the chalk squares) and looked around for Erling. But Erling wasn’t anywhere to be found; all he could see were masses of dwarves.
“Erling!” he called out. No answer.
Getting anxious now, Trevor looked all about him, but no one turned around or even paid much attention to him.
“Erling!”
Erling…
Trevor waited for well over five minutes (which was long enough for him to regret ever running off in the first place) before he found Erling… or rather, Erling found him.
“Sir, you abandoned me, you did!” Erling said, tugging at Trevor’s t-shirt.
“Erling!” Trevor exhaled in relief. “We need to get out of here. I ran into some goblins and they wanted me to pay some kind of toll so I ran away from them.”
“You ran away from goblins?” Erling asked. “Why didn’t you give them the coins that I gave you?”
Trevor tried to think of a good excuse, but really he had acted on his first instinct, which was to run away and he told Erling so. All the while, Trevor kept glancing around the docks, but the goblins were nowhere to be found.
Erling kept staring at Trevor but he could tell that Trevor was serious, so he sighed and said: “We can’t pay the goblins’ toll, sir. And if they find out who you are, they will kill you—or hold you for ransom. We must leave these docks and fast. Follow me, sir, and keep a good mind not to get lost this time.”
Now, Trevor hadn’t gotten lost before but he certainly wasn’t about to now, so he followed Erling so closely he almost stepped on the Halfling’s hairy ankles. Erling led him to the southeast corner of the docks, where a bunch of freight-ships were tied and buoyed. Trevor thought they were about to sneak inside a large ship but instead, Erling made a beeline for an ornately-crafted ship.
It couldn’t have been more than a schooner—about the size of The Dawn Treader—but every inch of the ship was lovingly crafted: its hull had been carved from the stalks of hundred-foot redwood trees and so were both of the masts. As far as portholes were concerned, there were five on each side; the sails were white and red, but were tied up around the masts. At the bow, there was a lady figurine carved out from the hull and ran underneath the bowsprit; at first, Trevor thought it was a mermaid, but as he looked closer, he realized she had pointed elven ears.
Yet, nothing about this ship seemed odd to Trevor and although it was well-made, he would’ve thought it was a normal ship, if not for one thing: dragon wings.
On each side of the ship, fixed at about center in the hull, a dragon wing was held by a massive hinge and each wing tip was attached to four taut metal chains. These chains stretched back into small holes inside the hull; from there, Trevor could only wonder where they went. The dragon wings must’ve been twenty feet tall, too, though Trevor couldn’t hazard a guess as to what they had been made from.
“That’s an elvish dragon-ship, it is,” Erling said.
Trevor nodded but nearly tripped over his own feet, he was so amazed.
All the dock workers seemed to be just as fascinated by this dragon-ship because most were already crowding over by the ship. Even some of the crane operators turned off their machinery and climbed down the ladder to see what all the commotion was about.
“The Gods have come!” a dwarf screamed out, running into the crowd.
“The Gods will bless us!”
“Gods?” Trevor asked, turning to Erling.
“The dwarves think that them elves are gods, they do,” Erling said. “At least, that’s what the dock workers think because they don’t know any better. The elves always bring exotic things with them in their dragon-ships, and because most dwarves have never seen a dragon, they think these dragon-ships come from another world. But we Halflings know better… and so do the goblins.”
“Why don’t the goblins tell them the truth?” Trevor asked. “Oh, they could but—” Erling had to stop because a dwarf bumped into him then disappeared into the crowd, which was growing by the second. “The goblins could, but they won’t, because they like to keep the dock workers ignorant. They’re easier to control that way.”
After Erling got shoved again, Trevor offered to take the lead, which couldn’t have been a better idea because Trevor towered over most everyone in the crowd. Some even moved out of the way, thinking that Trevor himself was a God (or rather, an elf).
Soon enough, they reached the front of the crowd, even though Erling kept apologizing to everyone they had just cut in front of.
From here, Trevor watched the dragon-ship. A hatch opened and a gangway slid out that was then attached to the dock. Then, the elf captain emerged. He surveyed the subjects before him, covered head-to-foot in an ornately decorated iron suit. You couldn’t see his face, either, because he wore a dragon-shaped helmet, also fashioned from iron. Seeing that all was in order, the elf approached the crowd.
But the crowd took several steps back, afraid of what the captain might do. The elf kept walking until he was a good distance from his dragon-ship and there was an uncomfortable silence.
Then, Erling whispered: “Start singing.”
“Start singing?” Trevor asked. “What do you mean?”
“The elves get quite nostalgic about singing, they do. It reminds them of a better time when they weren’t flying dragon- ships. Singing is just the distraction we need.”
Before Trevor could say anything else, Erling opened up his mouth and sang:
“After the Age of Man had come
The elves came walking one by one…”
Trevor looked around nervously. Everyone was looking at them.
He was about to tell Erling to stop when suddenly, the entire crowd joined in. The dwarves sang the bass line, and the few Halflings in the crowd covered soprano.
Erling sang through the second verse, then, as he noticed that the crowd no longer needed his help, he turned to Trevor and said: “See, what did Erling tell you? Right distracted, that elf is.”
Trevor looked over at the elf captain. Though Trevor couldn’t see through the captain’s dragon-shaped helmet, the captain stood still, as if he were in a trance.
“Now’s our chance,” Erling said.
Unfortunately for Trevor, this distraction had worked against him, too, because it caught the attention of some familiar goblins. You see, these goblins had followed Trevor through the market-place and the fish market, but they were all quite out of shape and by the time they reached the docks, Trevor was already far away.
The goblins were about ready to give up when they noticed a crowd gathered outside the dragon-ship, singing the words to an ancient elvish song. Then they noticed Trevor, who was standing half-a-head taller than everyone else. And to make matters worse, the goblins finally realized who Trevor was and how much he was worth.
“There’s the human!” one of the goblins cried out. “’E needs to pay the toll.”
“The toll!” the three other goblins chimed in and they started running.
Trevor spun around and gulped, as the goblins gnashed their teeth and prepared for battle.
Erling had more sense than Trevor, so he grabbed him by his t-shirt and led him through the crowd, up to the ship’s gangway. They ran right past the entranced elven captain, who didn’t even turn his head, up the gangway and right in to the hull of the dragon-ship.
By now, the crowd was finishing the fourth verse of the elvish song.
Inside, the hull was like Trevor had expected—it was sparsely decorated (it was a hull, after all, not the captain’s quarters) with concave walls and countless crates stacked about. But here, Trevor noticed that the four chains on each dragon wing were drawn taut to the center of the hull, where they were wound about a pair of massive metal cranks.
“What are those for?” Trevor said, eager to know how this ship worked.
But Erling didn’t answer. Instead, he seemed to be paralyzed in fear and when Trevor spun around, he could certainly see why.
Another elf stood about three feet away, dressed in a similar iron suit (minus the dragon-shaped helmet, of course) and around his neck, he had a small wooden whistle. Instead of drawing the scimitar that was sheathed at his side, the elf brought the whistle to his pale lips.
Trevor put his hands to his ears, fearing that the elf’s whistle might release some ear-shattering noise. But instead, no sound came out. It was almost like the elf had ended up with a dog whistle on accident. And just when Trevor was sure that nothing had happened, the elf captain appeared behind them; he still had his dragon-helmet on but it was easy to see that he wasn’t in a trance anymore.
In one terrible moment, Trevor watched as two elves pulled the gangway back into the ship and closed up the hull; all the while, the elf-captain kept staring at them. Then, he grabbed the hilt of his scimitar, drew his weapon and pointed the blade right at Trevor.
Trevor cried out, but Erling stepped forward and the elf- captain turned his blade towards the Halfling. Then, Erling started talking in a language that Trevor couldn’t understand.
The elf-captain seemed shocked by this, but kept his weapon steady.
Erling kept talking in what Trevor could only assume was Dragonshold’s form of Elvish, now motioning with his hands and getting quite enthusiastic, but it didn’t seem to help. The elf-captain just scowled then said a quick few words and drew back his scimitar, ready to attack.
Erling was screaming now and Trevor closed his eyes, but at last, the Halfling said something that made the elf-captain stop. The elf- captain kept asking questions and Erling kept saying reassuring things and even though Trevor couldn’t understand a lick of what they were saying, it seemed like the two were bartering.
At last, Erling and the elf-captain seemed to reach an agreement because Erling held out his palm and the elf-captain nicked it with the tip of his scimitar, then did the same to himself, and then they both shook hands.
But just when Trevor thought they were safe, there was a terrible banging outside the ship’s hull. It sounded like several fists were pounding against the hull.
“Give us back the human!” “He must pay the toll!”
The goblins.
A cold sweat washed over Trevor; for a moment, he feared that the elf-captain was about to open up the gangway and throw him outside.
But Erling patted Trevor’s back. “Don’t you worry. The elves live above the goblins, they do. We’re safe now.”
The elf-captain nodded and (now that they were safe inside his dragon-ship) he removed his dragon-shaped helmet. Like all the elves Trevor had read about, the elf-captain was deathly skinny with a ghostlike complexion and a pair of thin purple lips. His eyes were pale-green, almost reptilian in both shape and color and if Trevor didn’t know better, he would’ve thought that the elf-captain was cold-blooded. He had silver hair that looked like wisps of fog and a pair of pointed ears, much like the female figure Trevor had seen on the dragon-ship’s bow.
The elf-captain fixed his pale eyes on Trevor, then said: “Welcome aboard The Arctic Scout, human. Follow me please.”
Trevor hesitated, but Erling gave him a nod, so he followed after the captain. The other elf (who was actually the captain’s second-in-command but didn’t speak any English) followed after Erling, a hand upon his scimitar.
The captain led them through the hull and up a set of wooden stairs to the deck. Once they were out in the open air, the captain shouted out a series of orders and the elven sailors got to work. Two elves climbed up the main mast with circus-like speed and released the sails while three more untethering the ropes that still held the dragon-ship to the dock. Six more elves ran to the bow and turned a massive wheel atop to raise up the ship’s anchor.
All the while, Trevor stared in awe.
“Elves know their way around a dragon-ship,” Erling said. “I’ll give ‘em that much.”
Trevor just nodded.
In a matter of minutes, the elves had untethered the ship and released the sails. The elf-captain moved to the stern, up to a peculiar steering wheel made from the same redwood as the hull— but this much was to be expected. What made the steering wheel peculiar was actually three levers that lay just to the side of it. As Trevor wondered what these levers could be used for, the dragon- ship jerked forward. The elf-captain turned the rudder starboard and soon, they were headed out of the docks.
The ship rocked back and forth, but Trevor didn’t have a problem with sea travel; in fact, he preferred it.
A few minutes later, though, the captain’s second-in- command came running up to the elf-captain, looking quite concerned. He whispered something to the captain, who glanced over his shoulder.
Erling turned around and looked in the same direction. “We’re being followed, sir.”
“What?” Trevor blurted out and spun around—but sure enough, a smaller boat was right behind them. It was a crude sort of ship, with a battered hull and rusted metal all along the deck with only one mast. Plus, the sails had been patched up so much, they looked more like quilts than sails.
But somehow, this ramshackle boat floated—and since it was much smaller than the dragon-ship, the boat was gaining on them, and fast. Four goblins were leaning out from the bowsprit, gnashing their teeth and flailing their weapons.
“Got to pay the toll!” one shouted. “You can’t run away from us, ‘uman!”
Trevor swallowed hard. He hoped that the dragon-ship would speed up soon, but instead, it seemed like the goblin ship was the one gaining speed. “What do they want?” Trevor asked.
“They’ve found out you’re human, sir,” Erling said. “No doubt they want to capture you and sell you to the highest bidder.”
“They’re gaining on us.”
But Erling didn’t say anything; he just kept staring at the goblin ship. In a matter of minutes, the ship had managed to reduce their distance in half. In another few minutes, the goblins would be upon them—they’d board the ship and take it over by force and sell Trevor into slavery.
But no one seemed very worried by this. Erling was smiling and the elves seemed to be more amused than anything else.
“We have to do something,” Trevor said. “They’re gaining fast!”
The elf captain looked over at Trevor and his thin, pale lips pursed in a smirk.
Then, the captain pulled down on one of the levers next to the steering wheel; there was a great metal churning sound from inside the hull, as if a massive cog had just been turned.
In a matter of seconds, most of the elves on deck disappeared below. Then, Trevor heard a humongous scraping noise. He looked towards the port side, just in time to see one of the humongous dragon wing start to move. The wing fell down and, catching part of the updraft, lifted the bow of the ship upwards, if only for a moment. Then the chains attached to the dragon-wing went taut again and the wing was pulled back up.
Trevor glanced over starboard, and saw the other wing fall down; but this time, the wing caught more of the updraft and lifted up the bow for several seconds. Trevor held onto the deck, expecting that the ship would come crashing down again, but it didn’t—instead, the other dragon-wing came flapping down and the bow jerked up even higher.
Trevor was paralyzed with fear… he felt betrayed. All this time, he thought he was in for a nice, three-day journey by sea.
His mind could barely comprehend what was happening, because air travel simply wasn’t an option. Right before the dragon-ship lifted off the water entirely, Trevor lurched forward and grabbed a rail for support.
Each dragon wing beat faster and faster until the dragon-ship soared above the water and rose up at a dangerous incline. The elf- captain pulled another lever by his steering wheel and the dragon- ship kept gaining altitude, now buffeted by strong winds.
Trevor felt like vomiting.
All he could think about was his fear of heights.
Soon, being on the dragon-ship felt just like being on a hot air balloon as the town Davenport had been reduced to what seemed to be a miniature model set.
“Told you I would get you safe to Port Paravel, sir,” Erling said, his face beaming with pride.
Trevor nodded weakly and tried not to look down. Meanwhile, the dragon-ship soared through the sky, making a beeline for the city of Port Paravel.
CHAPTER 5
“Release me! I am not some dog one can lead blindly by the collar!”
So said Boril, the king of dwarves, as he was lead into Dracwyn Prison by someone four times bigger than him—a dragon, in fact. Boril swatted away the dragon’s hand (though the dragon could have easily grabbed him again), then walked over to a table in the center of the room.
Seating at the opposite end of this table, the Master smiled. All creatures could be controlled… especially dwarves, and though Boril was king, he would be no different. Boril was no better than a dog.
He will do as we ask. What if he refuses?
Fool! No dwarf can refuse gold.
The voices argued on and on—voices that had been inside the Master’s head as long as he could remember. But he tried to focus on the matter at hand.
“Please, sit down dear Boril,” the Master said, motioning towards the opposite chair. Then, he looked over to the dragon who had brought Boril here in the first place—a green dragon with only one eye and a scar across his face. “And you, my dear Corporal. You must be exhausted from your journey.” The Master pointed over to a rooting perch in the corner (a t-shaped metal bar that most dragons took to resting on), next to two torches fixed into the earthen walls.
But Corporal Rester simply shook his head. “I’d like to get down to business, if we could.”
“What?” Boril exclaimed, already seated in his chair. “Don’t tell me that my contract involves business with… that,” he pointed toward Corporal Rester. “Dragons are more untrustworthy than the eastern elves, more devious than the—”
“Watch your tongue, dwarf,” Corporal Rester nearly spat when he pronounced this last word.
“Gentlemen, please,” the Master bellowed, because if this argument continued, the Corporal would gut Boril in a matter of seconds. Corporal Rester was heartless… which is exactly
why the Master needed him.
Boril looked a while at the Corporal, trying to stare him down, then reluctantly turned and faced the Master.
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