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

by Craig Halloran

  The Troll's Toe. That was the place we were looking for. The Cleric of Barnabus, Finnius was his name, had proven to be a very unwilling participant after he let loose the location called Orcen Hold. His tongue had frozen in his clenched jaws. A well-placed spade to the knee, courtesy of Brenwar, and he'd told me what I was certain I needed to know.

  The light was dim as the sinking sun continued to dip behind the clouds and disappear, turning an otherwise hot day cold. The wind began to bang the wooden signs that hung from chains in front of the buildings, making the dreary trek from an unknown city worse.

  The firelight that gleamed from behind the dingy windows was a welcoming sight despite the coarse faces that glared at us with more remorse than curiosity. Blasted orcs. If it weren’t for them, I swear that life on Nalzambor would be an excellent party.

  “There,” Brenwar said, pointing his stubby finger in the rain. “Seems we’ve found what yer looking for. But Nath, it’s not too late to turn back. I’d say we're outnumbered here, uh, about a thousand to one.”

  “I thought you liked those kinds of odds,” I said, trying to wipe the rain from my face.

  “Er … well, I do. But, this place reeks. If I’m to die, I’d like it to be somewhere a little closer to my home.”

  “Die?”

  Brenwar looked a little bit ashamed when he said, “I just want to make sure I get a proper funeral. I’ll not have a bunch of orcs burying me in the sewer. Or you, either, for that matter.”

  Brenwar was a bit obsessive about his funeral. It's a special thing for a dwarf. If they had their way, they’d die in battle, but they just wanted to be remembered for it. Brenwar, an older man by dwarven standards, had lived longer than even me and more than likely had a couple hundred years to go. He’d been with me so long, it didn’t seem that he could ever die. But I’d seen other dwarves as great as him perish before.

  The wind picked up, banging the sign to the Troll’s Toe hard against the rickety building frame as we hitched our horses and went inside. Warm air and the smell of bread dough and stale ale greeted us as we sat down at a small table away from the firelight. The crowded room was momentarily quiet, more on account of Brenwar’s presence than mine. It wasn’t often you saw a dwarf in Orcen Hold, but Brenwar’s bushy-bearded face wasn’t the only one. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling we were all on our own.

  CHAPTER 11

  It was a rough bunch, as bad as I’d ever seen: tattooed, scarred, ornery, peg legged, eye patched, and hook handed. It looked like the perfect place to get in trouble. The men were as coarse and rude as the orcs and half-orcs that snorted and blustered around the bar. The women were as crass as the men, singing and dancing on a small stage, their voices as soothing as a glass of boiling water.

  “Now what?” Brenwar asked, looking back over his shoulder.

  “We wait,” I said, waving over a waitress with hips as big as an ogre's.

  “What will it be, weary travelers?” She had a gap-toothed smile.

  “Two of whatever tastes best with your ale,” Brenwar spouted. “Human food, not the orcen mishmash that tastes like mud and worms.”

  She tried to make a pretty smile, but it was quite frightening when she said, “As you wish, dwarven sire.”

  “I think she likes you,” I said.

  “I certainly don’t see why she wouldn’t,” he said, watching her prance away.

  I sat there, sulking and soaking, damp hood still covering my face. It wasn’t as if anyone would recognize me, but I’d still stick out like a sore thumb. There was something about my eyes and looks that drew stares, and for the most part, I like that kind of attention, but here, it was the kind of attention I didn’t want. I just needed to lie low and wait until the opportunity presented itself. In a pain-filled voice, Finnius had assured us that I would know.

  My appetite was barren, but the food wasn’t half bad as I sat there and picked at it. Something about the greasy meat and cheeses they served in the worst of places always made me want to come back for more. It was getting late, though, less than an hour from the middle of the night, and my wet clothes finally began to dry. The rain no longer splattered on the window panes, and I could again see the moon’s hazy glow. I craned my neck at the chatter about dragons that lingered in the air, but it was hard to make anything out over all the singing voices and carousing.

  Brenwar nudged me, pointing over toward a mousy man with hunched shoulders whispering among the tables. I watched him, his lips flapping in a feverish and convincing fashion. Some shoved him away, while others minded his words with keen interest. He had my interest as well. Dragons. I could see the word on his lips as plain as the nose on his face. I wasn’t a lip reader or mind reader, but when it came to anything about dragons, I could just tell.

  Like a busy rodent, he darted from one table to the next, collecting coins and scowls while directing the people toward the back of the room, where I watched them disappear behind the fireplace mantel. Don’t ask for it. Wait for it. That’s what the cleric Finnius had said. It made sense, too. Asking would only rouse suspicion.

  “You think he’ll make it our way or not?” Brenwar combed some food from his beard.

  The little man’s head popped up our way as if he’d heard Brenwar’s question. He scurried toward us, his ferret face nervous, eyes prying into the shadows beneath my hood. Brenwar shoved him back a step.

  “Some privacy, man.”

  The small man hissed a little then spoke fast.

  “Dragon fights. Five gold. Dragon fights. Five gold. Last chance. One. Two. Three …” his fingers were collapsing on his hand. “Four. Fi—”

  “Sure,” I said, sliding the coins over the table.

  He frowned.

  “Five for you!” he said, offended, scowling at Brenwar. “Seven for the dwarf!”

  “Why you little—” Brenwar made a fist.

  “Six,” I insisted. You have to barter with dealers like these or else they won’t respect you, and that can lead to trouble.

  “Fine,” he said, snatching the additional coins I pushed his way. He left two tokens, each wooden with a dragon face carved into it. “Under thirty minutes. Be late and no see.”

  I looked over at Brenwar as the little wispy-haired man left and said, “I suppose we should go, then.”

  Brenwar finished off the last of his ale and wiped his mouth.

  “I suppose,” he said, casting an odd look over at the large stone fireplace. “It’s underground, it is. I feel the draft and the shifting of the stones. We’re over a cave or something carved from the mountain. Bad work. Not dwarven.” He got up and patted his belly. “Probably collapse on us, it will. They probably let the orcs build the tunnel.”

  “You’ll dig us out if it does, won’t you?” I followed him behind the mantel. He didn’t say a word.

  One thing about Nalzambor, there were always new places to go. It was impossible to ever see what was behind every door in every city, and for the most part it was exciting. The chill from the damp clothes and biting air had worn off now, and the hearth of the stone fireplace was like a warm summer day. I put my hand on the rock, nice and toasty, which made me think of when I used to lie alongside my father’s belly when I was a boy. He’d tell the most excellent stories, and even though they usually lasted more than a week, I never got bored of them.

  We followed a man and woman of questionable character down a narrow, winding stairwell.

  “Bah. Orcen engineers. There should be no such thing,” Brenwar complained, his heavy feet thundering down the steps.

  At the bottom, two half-orcen men waited, armored in chain mail from head to toe, and two more stood behind them, spears at the ready. The tips of my fingers tingled. I realized I still had my sword and Brenwar his war axe, but the pair before us, with steel swinging on their hips, paid their tokens and moved on down a tunnel to where many loud voices were shouting. The half-orcen man snatched my token from my hand and sneered.

  “Take down you
r hood.”

  Brenwar stiffened at my side, hands clutching his weapon with white knuckles.

  I looked down into the half-orcen eyes and growled, “I paid my share. No one said hoods weren’t allowed. You have something against hoods?”

  His lip curled back, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. I wouldn’t let him. I looked deeper into him. I could see his hate and fear. There was little good in him but enough man left for him to step aside.

  “Go ahead,” he said, blinking hard and moving on to the next people.

  Making our way down the tunnel cut through the rock, I could feel the cool draft nipping at my sweating neck. The sound of voices was getting louder now. A mix of races I could hear. Men mostly, but orcs, too, and a few dwarves as well. We emerged into a cavernous room, part cave, part auditorium, with seats carved from stone that formed a crude arena. The excited voices were shouting at a shimmering black curtain that covered an object in the center about twenty feet high and thirty feet wide. The hair on my neck stiffened as I pushed my way through the crowd that circled and pressed around the wall that surrounded it.

  “Kill the dragon!” someone cried, jostling my senses.

  An outcry of agreement followed along with a series of cheers. I could feel more bodies pressing against mine, a frenzied and gambling horde. From above, a powerful voice, amplified beyond the powers of nature, shouted out.

  “SILENCE!”

  I’d never seen so many loud and obnoxious people fall silent at once, yet they did, looking upward at the sound of the voice. A man as tall as he was wide stood in robes laced in arcane symbols, glittering different colors in the light. A dragon's claw, a big one, jostled around his fat neck as he ran his pudgy fingers through a mop of brown hair. He seemed tired, expressionless, and bored. He yawned, his mouth opening three times bigger than it looked.

  Brenwar nudged me, saying, “That ain’t no man.”

  Whatever he was, he kept on speaking.

  “SILENCE!”

  He said it once again, long and drawn out. At this rate, I’d never see what was underneath the curtain.

  “LET … THE … DRAGON … GAMES … BEEEEEEEE … GIIIIIIN!”

  There was a clap of thunder and a flash of light, followed by a series of gasps.

  I gawped at what I saw next: a cage. A series of ironworks constructed into a see-through dome of metal. But that wasn’t what got me. I’d seen plenty of cages before. Instead, it was who was perched inside on a swing. It was a dragon no taller than a dwarf, glimmering with orange and yellow scales, clawed wings covering his face and body. He shone like a diamond inside a room full of coal. My nerves turned to sheets of ice when the big fat man said, “SEND … IN … THE … TROLLS!”

  CHAPTER 12

  It seemed so out of place to imagine such things as trolls fighting a dragon, albeit a small one, to the death. My inner self was recoiling, uncertain what to do, when the cage doors opened on a tunnel to a rousing chorus of cheers. A troll—ten kinds of ugly all wrapped up into a ruddy piece of brawny flesh towering ten feet tall—stood there pounding its fist into its hand. The smacking was so loud it popped my ears. I tore my eyes away from the troll that lumbered, arms swinging into the walls, shaking the cage on its way into the chamber. The dragon was as still as a crane on his perch, unmoving. Good boy, I thought. I could tell he was a boy by the scales on his belly, a little darker than the orange and yellow scales on his body, unlike the girls, who were usually lighter than the rest.

  The troll, naked except for a burlap loincloth, narrowed its small eyes on the dragon and let out a terrible yell, loud and getting louder. A battle cry of sorts. A chorus of bestial fury. The dragon remained at peace on his perch, not showing the slightest degree of motion.

  The crowd quieted, all eyes as full as the moon and fixated on the dragon. My own heart was pounding in my chest like a team of galloping horses. The troll, every bit as dangerous as it was dumb, lumbered around the dragon like a predator sizing up its prey. Despite their lack of intelligence, trolls aren't impulsive, but once they make a decision, which usually involves something other than them dying, they stick to it.

  “What’s going on?” Brenwar muttered.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “KILL THE DRAGON!” someone cried.

  That’s when the chants began, a rising crescendo of fury, and like a frenzied ape, the troll beat its chest, charging the unmoving dragon, massive fists raised and ready to deal a lethal blow.

  The dragon’s wings popped open, his serpentine neck striking out as he began breathing a stream of white lava.

  The troll screamed in agony, thrashing under the weight of the dragon’s breath that coated it from head to toe with brilliant-white, burning oil. The troll's flesh charred and smoked, its efforts to escape diminishing. From where I stood, the heat was like sticking your face too close to a campfire. The crowd roared so loud I couldn’t hear myself think. I slapped Brenwar on the back, unable to hide my elation as the little dragon finished, leaving nothing left of the troll but the smoldering bones and an uncanny stink.

  Brenwar looked up at me, eyes as big as stones, and said, “Did you see that? I’ve never seen a dragon with breath like that!”

  Dragons. There were all kinds. Different makes and families, and each kind had a special weapon or two of its own. The orange dragons, called blazed ruffies, were among of the noblest and deadliest of them all. I had to get this one out, and soon. He was still young, and it would be at least a day before his breath returned.

  “That should do it,” I said. “Let’s stick around and see what we can do to sneak this dragon out of here.”

  There was a lot of murmuring, most good, some bad. It seemed most of the people that liked to take chances had been smart enough to bet on the dragon. I was expecting everyone to leave, but most of them were sticking around and talking. Of course, how often do you get to see a live dragon fight? Their fascination sickened me.

  I looked above as the fat man whose mouth was too large for his face spoke again.

  SEND … IN … MORE … TROLLS!

  My heart sank down into my toes. “What?” I couldn’t hide my exclamation. Wooden double doors opened on the other side of the cage into the tunnel again. Two trolls, this time carrying shields and clubs and wearing helmets, charged the orange dragon on the perch. The crowd screamed. I screamed. The dragon didn’t stand a chance. He’d last another minute or two at most.

  “We've got to get him out of there, Brenwar!” I yelled.

  The dragon zoomed from his perch, dashing between the legs of one troll, who swung, missed, and bashed the other. Dragons are fast no matter how big they are. But no dragon with spent breath and little room to fly could last for long in that cage.

  “Find a way in, Brenwar!”

  As soon as I pushed one person away, two more appeared. The crowd was in a frenzy, trying to get a closer look. The cage, so far as I could see, didn’t have a door or opening except into the tunnel on the other side. I heard a sound like a rattlesnake's rattle. The ruffie clawed his way up one troll's back, tearing its flesh up like dirt, drawing an inhuman howl. He perched on one troll's head and taunted the other with the rattlesnake sound made by tiny fins that buzzed by his ears.

  WANG!

  One troll struck the other on its metal helmet just as the dragon darted away. It looked like two clumsy dogs trying to catch a mouse. One troll would swing, miss, and hit the other. That wouldn’t last forever. Dragons, for all their speed and skill, tire quickly after their dragon breath is spent. They are magic, and magic needs time to recharge. Trolls, however, tire about as easily as a wall of stone. Those two wouldn’t stop or slow until they were dead.

  “Brenwar!”

  I couldn’t see him, but I could see people falling like stones, a path of people parting within the throng before closing up again.

  The voice from above came again.

  “STOP … THEM!”

  I saw him, the fat mage, like a toad on a s
tool, pointing straight at me. The crowd, dazzled by the spectacular fight, gave the man little notice, but the guards, the ones armed to the teeth, were ready and coming after me. If they got me, I’d never get to the dragon in time, and I still hadn’t figured out a way inside the cage.

  “MOVE!” I shouted, but the people paid me no mind.

  That’s when I heard it, an awful sound, the sound of a dragon crying out, his shrieking so loud it hurt my ears. A troll had ahold of his wing. The dragon fought and fluttered, talons tearing into the troll's flesh, but its grip held firm. That’s when something snapped inside me. A geyser of power erupted within my bones. Fang, my sword, was glowing white hot in my hands. I was surrounded, but my mind was no longer my own. The guards and men were falling under the wrath of my blade. I ignored the fear-filled screams and howls of fury. I could not tell one man from another. All I wanted to do was save the dragon, and nothing was going to stop me.

  There was blood and fury in my eyes as I swung Fang into the iron cage. Fang cut into the iron as I chopped like a lumberjack gone mad. Hack! Hack! Hack! I was through, a troll's massive back awaiting me. I sent Fang through its spine and caught a glimmer of the dragon slithering away. Brenwar was yelling. I turned in time to see the other troll's club coming for me. I dove. Whump! The club missed my head. I rolled. Whump! It almost broke my back as I scrambled away. Crack! The troll fell over dead, thanks to the help of Brenwar’s war hammer catching it in the skull.

  “Come on!” He pulled me to my feet. Ahead, the large wooden double doors, at least ten inches thick, barred our escape from the coming wrath of who knows what.

  Brenwar charged, war hammer raised over his head, bellowing, “BARTFAAAAST!”

  There was a clap of thunder, the splintering of wood, and a giant hole in the doors that had momentarily barred our path. The dragon was gone like a bolt of orange lightning.