Chasing Dragons excerpt

                                            PROLOGUE




    “Where is she?” Bayden growled. He pinned his king against the wall with an unbreakable hold, squeezing the throat tight as a vein throbbed against his fingers.
    The low king of Gracon gave him a smile that was part sneer. “You won’t get her back,” he choked. He didn’t care that he was feeling faint. Bayden could kill him here behind his castle walls and he’d care less. His agenda was accomplished. Esa was his, should have always been his; Bayden would never get her back. Rushchon’s jealousy raged and tore at his insides, eating at the idea that Bayden had no right to claim her, no matter what his stupid dragon told him.
    “Tell me where she is or I swear I’ll let the dragon consume you.” Rushchon turned his head away from the heat of Bayden’s breath.
    “A little too warm is it? Wouldn’t want to damage your pretty boy face.” Bayden growled.
    “Do your worst, demon,” Rushchon gritted through his teeth. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead. He wasn’t sure whether he was flushed from the heat of the dragon’s breath or crazed with the excitement at deceiving this dragon. “You’ll never see her alive again,” he said and grunted, gasping for precious air as hard fingers tightened around his throat.
    “Bayden,” another hollered from the door. “She’s been found.”
    The low king snorted. “He lies, Bayden. She’s locked in the dark dying. Probably dead already.” He choked a harsh laugh.
    Bayden dug his nails deeper into Rushchon’s throat, squeezing, wanting to kill the man that kidnapped his wife. The dragon inside wanted him to burn.
Rushchon struggled at the locked grip. They would rue this day. His family had been trying to convince him to join their cause. Losing the dragons and their power was a craving that he was loathed to lose. But Elias had said he had a solution. When he got away from this dragon, he would join them and watch the beasts rot.
The anger in Bayden cleared and in the back of his mind he could hear Esa telling him to let Rushchon go. His chin hit his chest and his breath deepened. But then he could no longer hear her.
    “Bayden, she’s been found,” the other man reminded him. “Deal with him another time, Esa needs you. I’m afraid… you must come, it doesn’t look good, Bayden,” the man said.
    Bayden grabbed a handful of Rushchon’s shirt and thrust him against a low bench, snapping it beneath his weight. He stared at him, looking past the man who was his king, the man he was sworn to protect. He snarled and a slow growl rumbled at the back of his throat. With a hard jerk, he dragged Rushchon off the floor.
    “Esa needs you, Bayden,” the man said as he grabbed at Bayden’s arm just as it threw Rushchon across the floor. Bayden’s body began to burn, turning the man into the beast. It roared, shaking the ground and walls. Leather wings lifted up and down as he broke through the rafters and out into a sky of black clouds ready to burst with its storm.
    The other one followed, passing him to lead the way back to Esa, his Esa…his wife. The rain fell. Not the soft rain for new flowers like the ones growing at their home, but a torrential pounding that matched the anger and sorrow of his heart. He would make sure Esa was healed and then he was hunting the one he was sworn to protect. He would kill the one he was sworn to protect. And he would feel no remorse for destroying the blackest of hearts; a heart that his Esa had so misjudged as friend and not foe.
    He saw her then through the wet sky. What was she doing on the bridge?
    Bayden landed several yards away, his fire exploding and changing the dragon back to man. He ran to her. Mud splattered his clothing as he slid across the wet ground. He pulled her to him, wrapping his arms about her battered body.
    “Esa?” His voice cracked.
Her eyes fluttered and her gaze locked with his. Her dress, torn and bloody, helped to hide the many bruises that were splashed across her fair skin, hues of purple and blues bearing witness to the mistreatment at Rushchon’s hands. She couldn’t reach into Bayden’s mind to reassure him. It was impossible, all was lost. Her life, their child due days away. Bayden was losing everything he loved.
    “Esa, don’t go love,” he cried into her hair. “How did you get here, how did you get away?”
She clutched his hand, drawing it to her belly where their baby who was once active had become still. Then he knew his child had found the strength to leap so they would both be found.
    The rain beat down as Bayden stood with Esa in his arms; he handed her off to his gargoyle and then changed to the dragon. She lay limp in Pandon’s arms as he flew to sit on the dragon’s back where he gently held his delicate charge.
    The sky was a blur of dragons and riders, each shadowed by their gargoyles, all following Bayden in a funeral where they knew in their hearts that Esa was dying and worried at how Bayden would react when the breath was sucked out of his life. By the end of two days where candles were a constant vigil at her bedside and her dragon never left, both mother and baby were gone.
    Faces were shocked when he came storming down the stairs. Sadness vanished in the lines of his face, instead anger boiled and flames licked his feet. He yelled at all to leave, he demanded that no one stay behind. No one could have predicted his reaction; grief and anger would have been an accepted outlet for his emotions, but Bayden, mentor and leader, was now shutting all from his life.
    Only rumors would be heard how his dragon torched his home, attacking it at every angle, destroying any remembrance of his wife. Those same rumors would tell how he walked away with her in his arms, the building burning at their back as he never once looked over his shoulder. And still those same rumors would tell how he buried her and laid down, covering her grave and letting his dragon sleep. His heart utterly broken he couldn’t seek his revenge.
    But then his revenge may never have been able to come about. Only days after Esa died and Bayden disappeared, the dragons began to attack one another.




                                            CHAPTER ONE

         
    It was a monumental unpleasant task. Sixteen year old Deagon Maddock stared miserably into a room filled with years, maybe even centuries worth of accumulated personal mementos and…, well the only word he could come up with to describe the violent upheaval he was staring at was… junk. He dreaded having to clean another room, but there was no other option other than shut the door and ignore it. The problem with that idea though was that the junk had the door jammed back against the wall. He shuddered with revulsion at his impending chore as he stared reluctantly at the mess and exhaled noisily at a room overflowing with layers of parchment, glass, clothing, furniture, and about anything else that he was sure at this point would not surprise him, including the few rats he had spied running amongst the chaos. He had already painstakingly cleared four identical rooms to this one; piled debris of unwanted objects flowing up hidden walls, racing to reach the ceiling as it passed over the center of the floor on its way to spilling out into the hall, the entirety of it a swelling boil waiting to explode.
    He wasn’t sure why he bothered, he hadn’t found anything of value so far. A vision of the place caught up in flames had crossed his mind too many times to count. He squared his shoulders and forced himself to finish; it took him two long days to clear everything out of the room; same as the others, dull oak and stone lined the walls, an occasional hole where rats had eaten through, and spared of rot, a wood floor shined with scratches and discoloration.
    At last, one item remained. To the right of the door stood an oversized wardrobe cabinet; interestingly, the edges were engraved with dragons, a pleasant surprise that mesmerized him when he first noticed it; he had stood dazed as he ran his fingers leisurely over the carvings. He accidentally let a few curses slip when he realized there was no key.
    Thinking that the wood might be old enough to be rotten, he pressed against the doors; they bowed at the pressure. He grimaced; watch him break his foot with his fool idea. He grabbed the edges of the cabinet, holding tight as he kicked three times and felt the old wood split beneath his boot. The busted fragments captured his foot and he yanked it free of its hold. His arms flopped to his sides in disgust. After a slight diversion of retrieving his boot and replacing it to its proper place, he then pulled and tossed the splintered sections carelessly over his shoulder.
    On the cabinet floor was a chest. The wood was rough, almost as if the person who made it had been hurried and denied the proper time to smooth the surface. It was at least two feet long and half as wide. Bound by a thick heavy chain, it was braced by an even heavier padlock. And just behind it leaned a tall object. Not really hidden, but protected, covered by an aged, burgundy velvet throw. His first thought was that it was a painting. He grunted at the weight as he tried to carefully lift it, holding his breath as he struggled to not drop it while he propped it against the wall. He was amazed the painting fit the confinements of the cabinet at all. It had to be six feet high and if he stretched his arms wide, his fingers just reached the edges; compared to his sixteen year old, five-foot-ten, not quite a man’s body, the thing was massive. He gently tugged the throw and his jaw dropped slack at the sight before him as the cover slipped to the floor.
    It was the creature that captured his immediate attention; it blazed with the sun, towering over the man who stood beneath outstretched wings. But as he went to touch it, his hand froze; he was almost positive the dragon’s eyes glared bright red at him. He shoved his hands in his pockets, blinking fast he shivered a chill that passed over his shoulders. Then Deagon’s eyebrows hinted at a slight lift as he recognized a family resemblance in the man. It was in the smirk of the mouth and the olive green eyes that the Maddocks seemed to inherited. His brow creased at the pristine condition of the portrait, it was perfect, as if the years it had been hidden away in its own junk yard had not suffered it any grief. Glancing at the chest he couldn’t help but wonder why they had been locked away together and forgotten?
    He reached in and grabbed the chest, dragged it to the floor and then….
    “Fantastic. No key,” he muttered.
    Deagon slid his hand along the cabinet walls, searching for anything that might suggest a hidden compartment. But after everything he had been through, he really didn’t expect things to be suddenly easy for him, though it would have been nice this once. He turned to study the painting, devouring every inch; the imposing fortress that was once the strength of the Maddock name stood proud behind the man and dragon, this was the place his sweat and hard work was cleaning, this is what the five rooms and crumbled stone once looked like. It must have been magnificent in its day. His eyes narrowed when he noticed the gargoyle. He’d almost forgotten they were part of the dragon legends. And this one happened to be holding a key. His heart began to pound.
     Deagon ran out the front through the heavy wood doors and turned in circles as he looked around. The scenery wasn’t the same as the painting, too much must have changed. He tried to mentally figure the gargoyle’s position against the painting’s layout when a flash of green winked at him from the tree line several yards to the west; he strolled towards it; surprise did not truly express his feelings when he came upon the object of his search.
    Though vines slithered over its surface and a thorn bush threatened to prick the skin and tear the clothing of any who dared to pass, Deagon could make out the hard stone features of the gargoyle and the key it held protectively in its left hand. He reached in to claim the notched metal, holding his breath as the thorns scraped his arms through the thin material of his sleeve.
    He squeezed his prize in his hands and gave a last look to the gargoyle. At three feet tall, its wings were tucked neat and tight behind him, a slight bulbous nose set between eyes that stared nowhere, and razor sharp teeth protruded slightly under the upper lip; he shivered thinking he heard a growl. But if the green light came from the vicinity of this statue, Deagon didn’t see anything that he could attribute to the flash he had witnessed earlier. He turned and hurried back, giving a quick glance at the doors as he ran through and slammed them shut behind him, pulling the bar down to lock any intruder out; it didn’t even register that there were other ways in. He leaned against the doors, shaking, he slid to the floor; there were two observations: first, it wasn’t the first time he’d seen the cracked carvings of a dragon in the weathered doors, but it was the first time he wondered if there was a truth to the Maddock connection, especially in light of finding the stone gargoyle: and second, he wasn’t sure if the pounding in his chest was for the excitement of finding the key or the fear at the chance that he had really heard a noise coming from the statue, as ridiculous as that idea was. But then he didn’t see the stone finger move as the gargoyle cocked his head and focused old eyes on him. When Deagon had disappeared from view, Gailan nodded and closed his emerald eyes as he resumed his frozen stance.
Back inside, Deagon dragged the chest across the wood floors into the main room. He groaned as he lugged it onto a table that creaked beneath its weight and made a quick prayer that the key would work. Nervously he twisted the thin metal and the padlock popped sending the thick chains tumbling to the floor with a loud jumbled clang. His face fell when he lifted the lid, his shoulders slumped and he frowned his disappointment at the contents. No jewels or gold, only a book. An ancient book by the looks of it. Where the painting seemed to have been created yesterday, the book had the appearance it had endured thousands of years. The aged brown leather casing was dry and cracked, its deep grooves imitating rivers traveling across its thick cover. It filled the area of the chest, barely giving him space to slip his fingers in to retrieve it. Strange that no words adorned its cover. Stranger still that with six inches of parchment between its jacket, it felt weightless in his arms. The pages crackled when he opened it. To say he was astonished was an understatement. Not only was there not a single word on the outside, but the inside was blank as well. He flipped the pages and found only empty yellowed bound paper.
    “What use is a book with no words?” he muttered.
    The fireplace popped. He contemplated the lump of paper as fuel just before throwing it in. He thought it would have burned. He couldn’t believe it when it flew out of the flames, hissing as it landed on the floor with a thump. He picked it up after a moments hesitation and inspected the cover. Where were the burn marks? He tossed it in the fire again. He jumped back when the book flew out at him and landed at his feet.
“What the heavens?” he gasped. The hair on his arms and neck stood straight.
    He stood and gave the book a hard kick, sending it flying through the opening to hit the back wall behind the snapping flames. He was unprepared as he saw it fly out, soar through the air, and aim straight for him. He dodged trying to avoid getting hit, but it slammed into his stomach and his knees buckled as he slid to the floor, doubling over in pain. He felt like someone had kicked the breath out of him. For just a moment or two, he laid there, chest burning, not able to breathe. More than that, he was stunned by what had just happened.
    “Stupid book,” he choked as he lifted himself on trembling elbows.
    He grabbed the book and instantly dropped it while muttering another curse. His hand burned. It felt as if he had grabbed the end of a hot poker and held it two seconds too long. He rubbed his hand trying to ease the feverish ache and glared at the book, irritated at the slight rush of fear that raced through his heart. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, telling himself he was imagining things and then against his better judgment he reached over and tapped it, checking to see if it was still hot. The book remained still and he buried his face in his hands and groaned. 
    “It’s an empty book. A stupid, empty book,” he grumbled. “This is crazy.” 
    He shook his head and drummed his fingers on the floor next to his legs, deliberating his next course of action while arguing aloud over taking his chances and picking the book up or just leaving it alone. He was positive he didn’t want to experience that painful sensation again. His fingers still stung from the last attack, now if that didn’t sound absurd. A lump of papers violently defending itself. He would have laughed if tears of pain weren’t at this moment stinging his eyes.
    Finally, his better judgment lost with the decision to try again. 
    “Ouch,” he snapped.
    Deagon snatched his hand back and stuck it under his arm, wincing at the multiple sharp stings while simultaneously muttering his curses beneath his breath. This time the book shot tiny needles out its leather skin—just where his hand touched—causing pin pricks of blood to be drawn from his palm and fingers. He held his hand and rocked back and forth, his hand throbbing in rhythm with each pulsating pound that drummed his ears.
    “What do you want, an apology?” His words dripped with sarcasm. “Fine.”
    He gathered himself up and bowed low to the book while still holding his wounded hand. “Forgive me. I sincerely apologize for putting you in the fire.” Under his breath he muttered, “You deserved it.”
He cocked an eye at the book and wondered if he had been alone too long. He was talking to the book as if it were alive. The thought would have been laughable if he hadn’t been attacked by the thing; if at this very instant needles weren’t receding back into the cracked leather.
    He threw himself into a chair and glared toward the room that held the painting. “What would you have me do?” he hollered. Silence answered him.
    He got to his feet and walked past the book, making sure there was plenty of space between them as he approached the room and entered.
    “That thing is alive,” he told the dragon, as with much effort he moved the painting out to the hall. He shot a glance over his shoulder back to where he had tried to destroy the book, half expecting the thing to come after him. “Don’t look at me like that,”  he whispered. “I’m telling you it’s alive.”
Deagon paced the hall, making his case to the dragon knowing good and well it could not reply to his wild accusation. The book was alive. What other reason could explain how it could have gone to the trouble of protecting itself? And what was so fascinating that he was drawn to it like a wild animal to its kill?
    “Fool,” he called himself, knowing he was going to attempt it again.
    He took a quick look at the book, agitated with the prospect that it might become hostile and attack him again. With a swift poke to its back edge, Deagon jumped; he was sure it was going to come after him. He poked its back edge again. The book remained still and Deagon sighed with relief that he wasn’t attacked. With an uncertain confidence, he gathered the book into his arm and sat on the edge of his chair; warily he opened the front cover and gently thumbed through the fragile pages. Each page, from the first to the last was empty, void of any word. He would welcome pictures even. His brain rattled in his head wondering why such a book would protect itself for absolutely nothing.
    “What are you?” he whispered at it.
    Instantly the book glowed a soft amber as it rose into the air. His eyes widened as the book opened and revealed to him pages of spells and tales. Pictures that stood still and pictures that flowed with motion. They showed him dragons and riders, kings and queens, peasants in the fields, and patrons on cobbled city streets. The most captivating pictures were the ones of the dragon and the human seeming to flow into and out of each other. He marveled at the magic that enveloped the book as it showed the secrets it had been hiding.
    “It’s a magical book,” he whispered softly.
    He jumped up and in his haste he tagged the book with his chest, sending it in a backwards spin as it nearly tumbled from the air.
    “It’s a magical book,” he said a little louder with contained excitement.
    His eyes narrowed as he stared at it. 
    “What can you do?” he asked, feeling an uncertain anticipation at what might happen next. His enthusiasm nearly erased the fact that it had caused him harm.
    With a disturbed excitement, the book whirled around; flapping pages it flew across the room and back, soaring till it reached the ceiling and then plummeting within inches of the floor; the book snapped shut. At a slow unhurried pace, the book floated up and calmly levitated with contents open. Curious, Deagon stepped forward. A youthful red dragon sat, challenging a dare with its stare, clutching a crystal ball in the circle of its tail. 
    Deagon frowned and gave an agitated shake of his head. “This tells me nothing.”
    Every color the page held scattered, filling the air with a fine crystal powder. Sparkling multicolored dust swirled above the pages, growing into a raging dust storm that rushed back to the safety of the book to be spit out in the form of a replicate statue of the picture where it hung in mid air. Deagon circled it in disbelief and caught his breath as the eyes glowed dim red. He pulled the small dragon from where it floated in front of him and secured it tightly in his shaking hands; a slow warmth traveled up his arms. The small dragon seemed almost real as it blinked glowing red eyes and blew small puffs of fire at him, then it flipped the end of its tail unhurriedly up and down and then sideways. Deagon held a firm grasp to the likeness of the once famous Pachemus dragons: the Gracon fire dragon.       
    Deagon looked to the book with raised eyebrows as a thrill of exhilarating expectancy pulsed swiftly through him. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
The book went searching again. Zipping through the air, flipping pages; it rushed him, flinging a single sheet at him as it flew by. Words written in black ink splashed across the fragile paper:


     One can’t find what isn’t seen
when it is hidden from the eyes.
    A single glance, an intense
gaze, and a truth revealed at sight.  
Present meets past and a
prophesied myth is at long last alive.
     And the question that has been
asked is finally answered. Why?


    “What does that mean? Why what? It doesn’t make sense,” he said with whispered confusion.
    A light grew inside the dragon globe, intensifying; it blinded him and he was forced to close his eyes; the light faded, leaving behind a swirling red mist that fizzled and then evaporated. He stared at the sleeping girl who appeared behind the glass. His face warmed and he felt a sudden embarrassment at watching her sleep. But he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
    “Who is she?” he asked.     
    Mist swirled inside the globe and he was disappointed when the girl’s image vanished. The globe darkened and then instantly brightened again as clouds rolling over the tips of a massive snow peaked mountain came into view. The red eyes of the dragon glowed brighter while its tail lightly tapped the globe.
    A tingling sensation crept up his neck and for the first time in forever, despite some of his confusion, he was excited like he had never been in his life. 
    Deagon had heard the stories before, but he never thought there was any truth to them. Dragons. Who in their right mind would believe in them? He wanted to when he was younger. But then most children do believe in the unbelievable. The summer he was seven his parents had finally agreed to take him to the yearly dragon festival where they rushed him past the story tellers, but he had been able to catch some of their words. When he asked his parents about it later, they vaguely informed him it was an old legend and that he could better serve his time with the things important to today. But still, his young mind wondered to the overheard snippets of the tale. Something about dragons and how they once served in the king’s guard. But envy and hate caused them to turn against each other, killing at sight until not a single one of them was left. But he also remembered fingers pointing at them with whispers of a Maddock who had been a rider turned traitor. All in the name of power.  Deagon was old enough now to understand why his parents wouldn’t want to take him there. Having a leader of the dragon killers as an ancestor was an embarrassment then as much as it was today.
    Personally, he didn’t think it made any sense. Why would they want more power than they already had at their disposal? He thought it nonsense, a stupid story to entertain the masses. Still, it was interesting that one of his ancestors was named. So, did this mean the stories were real? He couldn’t explain away the things happening to him at this moment, almost forcing him to believe the truth of the past. The painting even seemed to call for him to believe.
    “There, right there,” he accused the dragon in the painting. “You were looking at me.”
    He threw himself back into the chair and mulled over his situation. He was still staring at the portrait when his nose unexpectedly curled at an odor of mildew and rot penetrating his nostrils, it seemed to fill the room and surround him like a clinging vine. He turned his head, allowing his eyes to case the room searching for the source of the foul stench. 
    “The walls are whispering that you have found the book of the dragon,” an invisible voice growled.
    Deagon jerked. Chilled bumps caused him to shiver; every strand of hair seemed to stand straight out. His hands clenched the arms of the chair as he guardedly looked around, but nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Except for the foul smell.
    “Do you realize what you have there boy?” the gruff voice asked. It sniffed loudly. “Likely not.”
    Deagon jerked again and searched the room for the owner’s voice.
    “I see you found them. It’s due time that somebody did.”
    Again Deagon looked around the room with a mixture of fright and indignation.
    “Who and where are you?” he said trying to sound intimidating. His brave facade might have worked if he hadn’t stammered his words. His demand was followed by silence. He jumped when the fire snapped.
    “Show yourself. Are you a spineless coward who hides in the shadows?” Deagon said. He would have patted himself on the back for his quick wit but his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. At least he didn’t stammer this time.  
    A light smoke swirled the air and Deagon choked as the biggest man he had ever seen in his life appeared from nowhere; he stood no more than three feet away. Rusty red colored the hair on his head, beard, and arms. His broad chest and arms pumped with muscle, he positively bulged. Curses, but he could see straight through him. Deagon’s jaw dropped and he froze at the sight of the man who was a ghost.
    “Close your mouth boy. You’re going to have to get used to me, you are. I, um, sort of go with that book.” He began to pace stiffly back and forth with his hands behind his back.
    “Who are you?” Deagon’s voice cracked.
    The ghost crossed his arms and frowned. “Who am I? Don’t you even recognize me, boy? I should be insulted. Right? But then I am dead, so, maybe I’m not. No. I’m sure I am.”
    Deagon stood mute, eyebrows raised.
    “The painting? That’s me. Aldisar Montgomery Maddock,” he boasted proudly.
    Deagon continued to stare in silence, afraid to confirm what he assumed was a ghost just said. 
    “Look, I have waited five hundred years for someone to finally clean this place out and find their destiny. And it took long enough. And that,” he pointed at the book, “that would be my book you found,” Aldisar said, snubbing his nose at the book. “Snooty, all self-important, arrogant pile of papers. Nothing more than a bunch of gibberish and nonsense for words.” 
    The book flew to the air and tried to hit Aldisar on the back of his head, only to fall through.
    Aldisar laughed. “Ha, can’t hit me when you want any more, huh? I can say what I like and you can’t do a thing to me.”
    It was such a delightful thought that he laughed again. Rubbing his hands together he looked at Deagon. “It doesn’t take kindly to name calling. Now, dear boy, I do believe it belongs to you. Good riddance I say. Best to take care of what you say or you’ll be on the receiving end of that thing. Nasty disposition. Nasty,” he said shaking his head.
    “You’re the Maddock of the myths?” Deagon said astonished. 
    “In the flesh. Well, not quite, huh?” the ghost said with a frown on his face. “Spirit—in the spirit. Yes, that’s it, in the spirit. But it is me. Don’t you see the resemblance in the portrait?” He puffed his chest out and stood in the same posture he held at the time he posed for the painting. “I must admit, it is a fine likeness of me. Why, I am even holding the book.”
    Deagon gazed at the portrait. The ghost was right. He was holding the book clutched in his hand and held firm against his thigh. He hadn’t noticed that small detail until now.
    “Now, we have some work cut out for us.”
    “What do you mean we?” Deagon began slowly. He wasn’t ready to accept what he was seeing. “If you’re Aldisar Maddock, that means you are dead. Dead. In the ground. Vulture eaten.  Gone.”
    “Yeah, about that, oops.” Aldisar scratched the back of his head thoughtfully. “Can’t really explain it.
    “What is your name?” Aldisar was curious to know what to call his descendant.
    “Deagon,” he replied.
    “You look to still be a young lad, where are your parents?”
    “Dead. Killed a month ago,” Deagon said quietly.
    “Ah, and your uncle, the one who… well, didn’t really live here, could he? Where could he among all the….stuff?” Aldisar said looking abhorrently around him
    “He’s dead too.”
    “Eh, what for?” Aldisar said.
    “Don’t know,” Deagon said, “They were called to Penantrha. Someone ambushed them. That’s all they told me. Also told me that this place was mine.”
    “The city of the high king? Why would they go there?” Aldisar was curious. Eugene had never been called away to the king. Something was up. Maybe it was time. For what he really wasn’t all that sure.
    “Well, Deagon. I have waited five hundred years to correct my wrong,” he said, sternly, and then softly he finished, “just can’t remember what I’m wrong about.”
    Deagon snorted. “Not with me you won’t. Ghosts don’t exist.”
    “Have a little faith,” Aldisar implored. He walked through the table and then the chair to reach him. 
Deagon blinked without saying a word. It was all he could do to clench his jaw tight to keep from screaming. Ghosts don’t exist, he kept telling himself. For that matter, neither did magical books or lifelike dragon statues with glowing red eyes and crystal balls. 
    He decided he’d had enough. He turned and stomped out the room leaving behind the three things that were definitely giving him a headache. 
    “There is a reason that you were the one to discover us,” Aldisar hollered after him. Eugene had never tried, or that brother of his, that was for darn sure. Deagon left him standing alone in the room.
    Somehow, someway, Aldisar would right what he had wronged. For centuries he had prayed for someone to find the book so the magic could be restored. Now it seemed as if it would finally happen. What exactly, he still wasn’t too sure. He was tired of roaming around the empty halls of his fortress in silence and invisible. Well he had in the past, now he shuffled between five rooms; between walls would be more accurate, seeing how the rooms had been disgustingly occupied. A protection charm against those who would do harm to the book; he’d thought someone could have found a better way than to have it guarded by filth.                             
    He sighed, now he wondered just how he was going to fix everything when he couldn’t remember what it was he was suppose to fix. Maybe the boy will spark his memory.
    He stared at the dragon in the painting. “Sorry old friend. I wish I knew what we did.”
    Meanwhile, Deagon’s frustration level was about to blow over what seemed inconceivable. If everything that had just happened turned out to be real, well then, when he returned to the main room, he would decide what to do. But what if everything was real? He wondered if he would be able to use the book for good. “Use the book for good,” he muttered. Indeed. The problem was that Deagon didn’t know what good he was expected to do.
    The book floated into the room. It was bare except for a chair, a night stand where an oil lamp burned low, and Deagon, who as he brooded, stared at the ceiling lying on his back atop thin blankets that covered an old, thinly stuffed, narrow feather bed. He rolled over, facing the wall in an attempt to ignore the book. It floated over him and nudged his shoulder.
    “What do you want?” Deagon mumbled. He was thinking he should be locked in an asylum for the insane for talking to a book; a book that was supposed to be an inanimate object, he corrected himself. Not to mention he was seeing a ghost. At least it was only one ghost and not several.   
The book nudged him again.
    “Fine. What?” he grumbled as he sat up.
The book floated back around him and landed in his lap. Pages began to flip until again it stopped. He stared at a picture of four monstrous dragons.
    “They don’t exist, book. They are of no use for me. Like the painting, they are just pictures.” His voice was dejected. He waved the back of his hand over the book. “Unless you can pull them out of the pages as well.”
The book spun around out of his lap and firmly smacked him on the back of his head. Deagon jumped off the bed.
    “Ouch, what was that for?” Rubbing his head, he glared at the book
    “I believe, my dear boy, you said something stupid. That or it was in the mood to give you a good lump.”
Deagon glared at Aldisar. “Let me guess, you used to say a lot of stupid things.”
Aldisar smiled and rubbed the back of his own head. “I’ve received my fair share of knots, that’s for sure. And not always when I deserved it. You can’t trust that thing. It has a mind of its own.”
Deagon snorted.
    Aldisar shrugged his shoulders and walked over to the darkest corner in the room.
    “Fine, don’t believe me. Just trying to help you not learn the hard way.”
    “Yeah, well, like I’d ask you.” Deagon gritted his teeth. “Book, show me again.”
    The book ignored him.
    “Please?” he begged with a sigh.
Deagon added the small pleasantry and found it to be the magic word for the book’s obedience. He scowled over at the corner when it chuckled.
    The book once again opened its pages, presenting  four dragons.
    “So, what now?” he said sarcastically.
    One dragon soared out the page to hang in the air above him. He heard the corner take in a deep breath, but ignored it. He assumed it was from the same sense of awe that he himself was feeling. What he failed to recognize was the emotion in that breath. 
    It had seemed forever that Aldisar remembered. Memories flooded his mind, rushing over him like the roaring of a river from the deep recesses of his consciousness. Despite seeing the portrait of his old dragon, it was this one that reminded him of their sins, of the actions that cost them their lives. He remembered the thrill of riding between the wings of his dragon, soaring high in the sky over the land and its people. He remembered the sensation of the power coursing through him. He remembered and missed the camaraderie of his friend. And he was remembering a past his heart told him could not be true.
    Shame forced his head down as an uncontrolled single tear flowed freely down his cheek.
    After five centuries in death and walking these dark halls, time had wiped away his regrets. But at the sight of this one particular dragon, his buried memories of their evil deeds and its consequences were restored. After all these years, it was now that he remembered. His sorrow ran deep, it split his heart and the pain tore at the center of his soul. He just didn’t understand why they had done it. He had never wanted anything but to be a rider to the dragon, a protector to the people.
    Unaware of Aldisar’s plight, Deagon reached for the dragon, his hand sweeping through and disturbing the dragon’s image. He stared, mesmerized by the vivid red and orange hues of its metallic scales. Awestruck by the repulsive beauty, he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Aldisar gliding toward him.
    “Beautiful isn’t he?” Aldisar’s voice was thick and he cleared his throat.
    “Beautiful? It’s hideous. One bite and you’re gone,” Deagon said.
    “They are powerful. And you dear boy, would be a mere snack to him. A bit of a nasty one at that, like a roasted grasshopper.” Aldisar chuckled.
    “Ha. You’re funny. Make jokes in your former lifetime, did you?” Deagon said.
    “I was quite the witty companion once,” said the ghost with a sniff.
    Deagon stared Aldisar in the eyes. They were olive green, the same as the portrait, the same as his, but there was also a sadness to them.
    “How do you know it’s a he? Are they all male?”
    Aldisar didn’t answer him right away. When he finally spoke, his speech was slow and disheartened. “Because, he was the last of the Gracon dragons to die.” He cleared his throat and ran shaky fingers though his thick red hair. “His name was Anhanan…., a leader in the Gracon Dragon Guard. See that long scar on his neck? I gave that to him. It’s because of me he’s dead.” He shrugged. “Of course, it would have been impossible without Kwon.” 
    “What?” Deagon stared wide eyed at the ghost who disappeared.
    Nodding toward the dragon, Deagon said to the book, “I don’t understand this. What does all of this have to do with me?”
    The book snapped shut and the dragon disappeared; he braced himself for the hit that never came. Instead, pages ruffled. The book zipped through the air, flying past him it spit a second sheet at him. He read:


The dragon slumbers as he waits,
patiently resting in the silent darkness
of his grave, sleeping until the day
when two will search, and his mate
hears the call, causing his heart to
lurch. With the magic of the book and
the determination of the assassin 
accused, two sides will join
and seek the ones who will return the
good, destroying the feud.


    “Is this saying the dragons are not gone forever? Is it saying they can be brought back? I think… ooh my head aches from thinking.” Deagon paced the room with too much information circling in his head.
    The book fluttered in the air while he tried to reason to himself with all that he had learned. But it stopped when he didn’t continue to speak. The book began flipping pages again.
    “Stop. I have had enough for today,” he hissed.
    The book dipped low and swiped at his legs, knocking him to the floor.
    “Would you stop doing that. That quite hurts you know,” he fumed.
    The book flipped through its pages again; it stopped and shoved itself at Deagon.
    “What?” he said a little too grumpy. The book nudged him.
    “Dream Weaver,” he read. “Weaving into another’s dream, calls for the golden path lit by a lantern’s lamp.”
    “A riddle?” Disgusted, he threw himself to his bed, grabbed, and spooned his pillow. He considered the possibility of asking Aldisar for help, but he was the last person—ghost—he wanted to see at the moment. And yet, he knew Aldisar would have the answer. As if summoned, the ghost appeared.
    “You’re looking perplexed. Do you require my help?” He had composed himself and felt compelled to help the boy, knowing full well his assistance, while needed, wasn’t wanted, but it didn’t hurt to ask. Maybe this was his purpose. To be left behind as a ghost might be the only way to help undo his wrong. Aldisar saw the riddle that puzzled the boy.
    “Dream Weaver, huh?” he said.
    "What does it mean?” Deagon asked.
    “Well, the Dream Weaver is a magic that allows you to enter the dream of another,” Aldisar told him.
Deagon sat up. “How does it work?”
    Aldisar scratched the chin beneath his beard. “Well, you have to know who to use it on first. But in your case, I’m assuming it’s the girl in the globe.”
    “Why her?” Deagon asked, his interest now curious.   
    “That is who the crystal ball showed you earlier.”
    “Oh.”
    “When you want to see something, all you have to do is ask it. Sometimes, like in this instance, you’re told.”
    “But what about Dream Weaver?” Deagon asked. He still didn’t understand.
    “The book will take you.”
    “How?”
    “By a golden path.” Aldisar the ghost disappeared.
    “Wait! Rat’s nest. That wasn’t much help.” 
    Deagon went and retrieved the red dragon; it rudely spit miniature flashes of fire at him. He sat on the floor in the main room, placing the red dragon in front of him and leaned back against the chair and stared into the glass globe as he relaxed and let the heat from the hearth warm him. 
    “Show me the girl again,” he ordered the crystal ball. The dragon’s eyes closed and the tail fell lifeless, and then the girl appeared behind the glass. She slept. “Take me to her dream,” he ordered, skeptical that it would work. The swirling mist in the globe parted and once again he saw her, and this time she wasn’t alone. He continued to stare at her and didn’t notice the book as it hovered, glowing soft amber while circling the air around him. Gold dust drifted, falling like snow out of its pages, sprinkling a light layer over the hair of his head, the crystal ball changed to a brilliant light.

    It was pitch black and he felt cold: he had the sensation that he was falling through empty space. Then there was light and warmth.   
    Across the field of grass and wildflowers he saw a girl who was no more than a year or two older than him. She stood fearlessly before a gigantic beast, the manifestation of the dragon he had seen earlier in the room, the one Aldisar had called Anhanan. He watched them secretly from a distance. Suddenly, she turned her gaze toward him and he was sure he saw a flicker of fear in her eyes.   
    Did she see him in the mist that swirled around him?


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