Mississippi DEAD

by Weaver, Shawn

  I decide to go down. Placing my hand on the iron railing, I reach my other hand for the wall. I can barely touch both at the same time. Using my toes, I feel for each step, and make my way down. As I move, each step gets easier and easier, and when I reach the garage level. I effortlessly find the door.

  Grabbing the lever, I push it open and hear the echo of a door open, floors above. Then I hear the sound of a heavy body falling as they miss the first step. Something inside tells me to go and help. But the door closes with a solid sound; the sound bites into my chest, panicking me. Instead of going up, I step into the parking garage.

  Tides of War

  Volume One:

  SENSE OF HONOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  On leathery wings he flew, drifting on the currents of wind miles above the highest cloud. The air was thin up here; nevertheless, it did not matter. He was strong and so was the dragon that he was riding on.

  Snapping the reigns, the armored rider signaled for the red scaled dragon to fly faster and higher. Responding to the tug upward, it did just that, more than happy to accommodate its master.

  Wings beat at a fiery pace as the wind blew across its thick scales. The higher the dragon climbed, the more it seemed to enjoy itself. Letting loose a roar of immeasurable power, the beast showed its fierceness. Luckily, none but the rider was there to see it.

  “Restless ‘eh Simeriah?” The rider asked.

  With a gloved hand, Steel slapped the dragon on the side of the neck. If he had not been wearing gloves, he would not have even attempted to do such a thing. For a red dragon’s scale covered hide was sharp as a blade, and hot as a furnace.

  “Well don’t you worry? We’ll get you into battle yet,” Steel continued. Hoping that one day he could be the warrior that his father had been. Hopefully proving himself to be as strong and powerful as his father’s legend was.

  Pulling on the reigns, Steel changed their direction. Simeriah spun easily to the left in response. Suddenly they dipped into a still air pocket. For a moment the dragon and rider dropped like a rock. But with a beat of her huge wings, Simeriah regained control and altitude.

  “Whoa!” Steel shouted, pulling back on the reigns.

  Trying to keep the beast steady, the young solider knew full well that the dragon could easily turn over dropping him into the void below. Not worrying how long they had been in the air, Steel looked down at the clouds that drifted far below, hiding the world under an endless sheet of cotton. Suddenly the clouds split open, showing the blue of ocean and the growing dot that was approaching land.

  “A fall from this height would surely kill me,” Steel whispered to himself, knowing full well that if he fell he would be dead before he hit the water.

  Sunlight glistened off the armor he wore. Making the silver, gold and red metal plates shine like minor suns. If anyone far below looked up at this moment. They would have thought that the God Apollo had once again returned from Mount Olympus.

  Wind raced into the eye slits of the red helms faceplate, making Steel blink frequently to get the sting of fast moving air out. For years now his eyes had ceased to water whenever he flew. But the biting sting of air was something you could never get rid of.

  A smile crossed Steel’s lips as he thought back to the days when he first started to fly in the Royal Legions of Ishtabar. All session’s ending with him soaked in sweat, tears racing down his cheeks. Many of the days he had ended up wetter than if he had been standing in the pouring rain.

  Thoughts of those days made him feel lighter in the chest, relieving the nervousness that had settled there. Steel knew there were more good times to come. Or, at least he hoped there was.

  But first he had to do as his father had asked. Take leave from the grunt work in the Kingdom of Ishtabar’s Royal Legions and train to become a master within the dragon brigade. To fill the spot that his father held as a leader of men, and protector of the land he knew and loved.

  Leaning far over to the right to clear the dragon’s girth, Steel looked down. He could see coastline appearing ahead, putting an end to the enormous ocean that he had crossed.

  Shouting towards the dragon’s large ears, he said, “Just a little more.”

  From deep within its throat, Simeriah grunted back a reply of acknowledgement. The time had not yet come for this particular dragon to speak.

  Steel knew of other dragons that spoke to their bond-mates. Those who were the first a dragon had set eyes upon at birth. Marking them the one person, who they would risk their lives to protect and serve until death.

  “Maybe one day we’ll hold the bond,” Steel said, hoping quietly. Though secretly, he feared that it may never come.

  Sitting back in the saddle as the dragon flew on the fast moving air currents. Steel felt the beast’s body relax as its powerful membranes stretched out catching every ounce of air. Her powerful wings held them aloft in the sky. Cresting the clouds as miles passed beneath them. Both knew that their journey had just begun. Though neither knew just what the future would hold or when the adventure would be over.

  Available US:

  http://www.amazon.com/Sense-of-Honor-ebook/dp/B003Y74R0K/ref=la_B0039B3OW8_1_6_title_1_kin?ie=UTF8&qid=1355512064&sr=1-6

  Available UK:

  http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sense-of-Honor-ebook/dp/B003Y74R0K/ref=la_B0039B3OW8_1_6_title_1_kin?ie=UTF8&qid=1355512599&sr=1-6

  Volume Two:

  Dragons Chest

  CHAPTER ONE

  Tyree Loveland disliked this room. Not because of the dark and foreboding presence the entire chamber created. Or the strong smell of sulfur that hung in air. The pungent smell clearly refused to be mixed with the scents of a hundred other exotic powders, each having their own meaning and purpose, some kind and gentle, while others were deadly to the touch.

  Nor was it the man before him, who swiftly moved from table to cauldron. It was the simple fact that this room brought out his curiosity and the fact that, once again, this curiosity may take the better of him.

  Locked from within, by a crossbeam that lay across the center of each shutter, both large windows on either side of this circular room were closed tight. But still, a breeze slipped through the chamber. It seemed as if the air was rippling through the chambers stonewalls.

  As the breeze circled the chamber, it brought with it a heavy damp feeling. Nevertheless, Tyree knew better. The chamber was not damp in the slightest. Built solid with stone and mortar, the room that they were in, was sealed tight from the outside world.

  This could mean only one thing. The breeze was coming from the cauldron sitting in the center of the chamber. Tyree did not know why the air was flowing from that point. Nor was he going to ask the man standing before the blackened steel cauldron why. For things of magic were not his to ask upon. That is, not to ask questions of what was happening at this point in his lessons. But one day, he hoped to be more than just a gopher for the wizard before him. Who, in his fast and deliberate ways, tended to the boiling cauldron.

  Covered in soot and dressed in a worn simple woolen tunic and trousers, dyed a drab brown. Tyree felt that if he kept still and quiet long enough. He would just blend in with the stone walls of the chamber. But the thin tunic he wore was barely thick enough to keep the morning chill off of his small frame. Though he tried not to, he could not help but to shiver.

  “Hold it tight boy,” Master Well said, in a voice that held gentleness within its commanding tone. Letting out a small huff of exertion, Tyree did as he was told. Even though his fingers were aching from holding onto the thin iron handle of a heavy pail, its weight was deceiving in its size and shape.

  Tyree glanced up at Master Well. Their eyes met, as the wizard dropped a mossy leaf into the pail Tyree held. His face and hands seemed to float in the air above Tyree’s head. As the hooded cloak the mage wore shimmered with magic, making his form mix with the darkness that surrounded the chamber.

  With a barely audible hiss, the mossy green leaf disappeared into the murky liq
uid that reached halfway up the side of the pail. A wisp of white smoke drifted up from the spot where the leaf vanished, bringing a slight smile of satisfaction to Master Well’s aged face.

  He watched as the wisp of smoke dissipated quickly. This turned the mage’s smile into a stern tight lip grimace. Huffing through his long, but thin nose, Master Well caused the ends of his grayish mustache to ruffle outward, mixing into his long hair and beard.

  Tyree found Master Well’s dark eyes to be deceiving, even though the wrinkle lines of age crept around their edges. The wizard’s eyes seemed at times to be those of a young man. If his age was either seventy or one hundred and seventy, Tyree could not tell the difference. Nevertheless, if Tyree’s father had it right, the age of one hundred and seventy was closer to the truth.

  For when Tyree was just a child, his father, Jonathan Loveland, a gentle farmer from the valley of Snell, told Tyree bedtime stories of the man who lived within the ancient keep up on the hills of Wellview. Some stories, Tyree knew, were made to keep little children in line, warning that if they were not well behaved, did not tend to their chores, or clean their plates of evening dinner, something ungodly horrible would reach out of the keep on a dark evening’s night, raining untold horror upon their families.

  On the other hand, there were the adventurous stories of a great wizard, who battled evil, amassed riches, and went upon the most wondrous quests. Some stories surprised Tyree with their splendid twists and turns, while others were just the same old story rehashed with a slight twist to make it almost believable to hear once again.

  That all changed the day a small cart pulled by a small, but stocky mare covered with long matted brown hair, slowly made its way down the worn trail to Tyree's family home. The horse’s mane wildly jutted out in all directions, especially down its forehead, covering its eyes so there was no possible way it could see what was around itself.

  Hooves, seemingly to huge for the mare’s small size, clomped heavily along the worn road as it pulled its burden, a three-sided slat-walled wagon, holding a row of small wooden barrels in its bed. Tyree thought, that if he were stepped on by one of the horses huge hooves, he would end up a spot of jelly smashed easily into the ground.

  To Tyree’s surprise, the man holding the reigns was none other than the wizard who father had described in his many bedtime stories, sitting hunched over on the wagons bench, wearing a hat with a floppy oversized brim that drooped down at the edges. Amazingly, the hat’s long pointy top, bent at odd angles, still managed to reach for the sky in its length.

  Out from under the brim of the battered hat, long sandy gray hair flowed. Caught in a gentle breeze, wisps of the mage’s long hair and beard, stuck out in all directions, making it seem as if his hair had a mind of its own.

  When combined, all of his hair and the hanging brim of the hat, the face of the Master Well was blocked from view; all except for his nose, which appeared jutting out from the center of the mass of hair. Like his hat, the wizard’s nose was long and bent at an odd angle just before the tip, making it almost hook-like.

  By his looks, one could not be sure whether the man was a beggar, or just a weary traveler; for over his shoulders he wore a sun-bleached cloak, so worn and tattered was it, that its color was almost worn away, making the cloaks color indistinguishable of being either green or brown. Thin and bony fingers, ending in long jagged edge nails, pulled on the mare’s reigns, signaling for her to stop, as they reached the front door of Tyree's family home. The house was a small hovel actually, carved out of a large tree stump, that at one time was a gigantic tree that towered over the countryside. But to Tyree it was a palace, and the only home he knew for the last eighteen years.

  Glad for the break of pulling the wagon, the mare snorted, acknowledging its master’s command. This brought out a clamor from the surrounding fields; for visitors, especially in the planting season, were rare. For most of the people in the valley of Snell, there was no time for relaxing visits during this season. Planting time was short before the rains set in, and this was their lively hood. All knew if there are no crops, there is no food. Therefore, anyone out venturing at this time could only be out for one of three things; someone in need, a salesman hawking goods and trinkets, or just a lost traveler trying to find his way.

  But to many, it did not matter who it was. Any diversion from hardships of planting was a great joy, even if it were only for a brief moment, before they had to go back to tending the fields.

  Small bodies appeared from all around the surrounding fields, holding rakes and hoes, covered in the day’s dirt and grime. To most people who did not live in the valley, the workers would have been mistaken for young children. Though most were not, even a full-grown halfling was still half the size of a full grown adult in the human race.

  From the fields, six of Tyree’s sibling stopped their work; Jell and Stone in the east field of barley; Tarrin, appearing from the patchwork of sweet growing vine apples from the north; while Marko, Nod, and Kane, holding hoes in small strong hands, approached from the west field, where they were desperately trying to make a crop of stone wheat grow.

  From the back of the house, four pairs of tiny bare feet scurried, making long feathered, multi colored chickens run with fear of being crushed. Cries and giggles of happiness emitted from little bodies, not one taller than a foot and a half. Abruptly they stopped as they rounded the house, each bumping into the other like dominos. In front, Sam, the eldest by a few minutes from his three younger siblings, stood his ground as the others peered around his body.

  Opening the oaken front door to their home, mama emerged, wiping her hands on a stained cotton cloth that was slipped partially into her apron. With a friendly smile, she stepped away from their home. As soon as the four little ones saw their mothers step out from the doorway, they scurried to hide behind her, making her plaid skirt billow out as it brushed the ground. Bright little eyes peered out from the folds of her skirt, taking quick, but cautious, glimpses of the man on the wagon.

  Acting brave for his age, Sam stepped out from the folds of his mother’s skirt, standing as tall as his small frame would let him, a bristling one foot six inches. In his hands, he held out a small branch protectively, guarding his mother and family. That was, until the man in the wagon raised a hand to the brim of his hat. Lifting it slightly, a worn face was revealed, crossed with wrinkles and lines of age. Letting out a scream, Sam dropped the stick and charged back around his mother. With a warm laugh, mama reached a hand down and patted her brave child’s head.

  Just off to the northwest of the house. Tyree and his father stepped through the open doors of the barn. Hearing a heavy sigh issue from his father at the sight of the new visitor, Tyree looked up and saw him grimily set his jaw. Firmly father gripped the leather reigns in his tough work callused hands.

  “Finish unstrapping Betsy,” Father said, handing over the reins without looking down at Tyree. Wiping his hands on the tan vest he wore over his threadbare unbuttoned white work shirt, Johnathan Loveland let out another deep breath before walking away from the barn, and into the sunlight. As he moved away, Tyree could see a look of concern grow on his father’s face. But for what, he did not know.

  Betsy, father’s ten-year old black-coated mule, stepped from the cool comfort of the barn. Specially crossbred to grow to only half the size of a normal mule, but still hold the ruggedness of any larger sized mule, Betsy showed intelligence and patience that marked her lineage from its ancestry in the dwarven mines of Murdoch.

  She nudged Tyree’s shoulder, but he ignored the heavy shove from her large flat snout. Taking another step forward, Betsy snuffled Tyree ear. Without taking his eyes off of his father, Tyree lifted a hand and ruffled the mule’s thick coarse mane of dirty blonde hair.

  “Okay, let’s go,” Tyree said.

  Turning, he walked back into the barn without guiding Betsy. Loyal and trained as she was, the mule obediently followed him back into the barn to be groomed and fed. As he walked t
o Betsy’s stall, Tyree glanced over his shoulder through the doorway. He saw the human in the wagon lift a long hand in greeting.

  “Hail Master Well,” Tyree heard his father say in greeting to the wagons occupant.

  “And hail to you as well, Master Loveland,” Master Well returned, in a rich resonating voice that made his appearance pale in comparison.

  Stopping in front of the Betsy’s stall, Tyree unhooked the rope loop that held the gate closed to a rough-hewn post. He pulled it partially open, but stopped as he watched his small father reach a hand up toward the driver of the wagon. The tall human, bent low to take the greeting of shaking hands, the only pure humanistic form of greeting that Tyree ever saw done in his valley, for most halflings used a hug as a welcome.

  Stepping to Tyree’s side, Betsy reached for the gate with her snout, and briskly pushed it open, making Tyree shuffle quickly to the side, or be knocked over, as she walked into her home. Betsy turned around in her stall; giving a snort she shook her head, as if telling Tyree to pay attention to his duties. As he watched his father, Tyree never expected that such a simple handshake would change his life forever.

  “Snap to it boy!” Master Well said, startling Tyree out of his deep thoughts. He jumped slightly, making the contents of the bucket he held slosh around, threatening to spill out.