Fantastical Ramblings

by Irene Radford

  In later days I would remember what I saw on that long lonely trek. But I did not feel anything.

  I think Brevelan and the cat dragged me some distance out of the valley, and up a hill or three. They paused often whenever a rocky overhang or the spreading branches of a tree offered a semblance of shelter. The woman’s teeth chattered. She and the cat clung to each other for warmth. Once they even curled around me on the ground throwing a second blanket over all of us.

  Perhaps we slept, tangled together for warmth and comfort.

  Eventually we reached level ground. A tingle of magic rippled over me as we passed into a clearing. As a wolf I had no problem crossing the invisible barrier—was it like the one Krej built to imprison me before working his evil spell? Would the barrier be so accepting if I still walked upright as a man?

  I might never know. Only the cat had seen my transformation. Brevelan saw me only as a wounded golden wolf. A new pet to gather close to her heart.

  Across a snowy field stood a hut. It looked almost as if it grew out of the land, thatch nearly reaching the ground, weathered plank walls, a rough chimney spouting a trickle of smoke like steam rising from a dragon’s breath.

  That memory seemed very far away, though I knew it had happened only hours ago.

  A little more fuss and Brevelan dragged me inside. Heat from the glowing coals in the hearth blasted me. I jolted out of my reverie back into reality. The pains seemed worse as the warmth rooted out the numbing chill.

  I think I whimpered again.

  Immediately Brevelan crouched beside me. She stroked my ears and spoke in soothing tones. The words passed beyond my ability to understand.

  The pains eased to a tolerable level.

  I think in that moment I fell in love with Brevelan of the magic clearing.

  She placed a bowl of fragrant broth before me. I studied it for long moments wondering how to drink it. I could not grasp the bowl with wolfen paws even if one of them were not broken or sprained and the other immobile from the dislocation.

  The cat appeared before me. She bent to the bowl and lapped a few drops of the nourishment. My wolf instincts took over. My tongue darted out, curled, captured a little moisture, drew it back into my mouth.

  Wonderful flavors and healing warmth coursed through me. I lay back exhausted after only a few mouthfuls. But the broth had already worked wonders on my body and my spirit.

  My Brevelan held my face in her hands. She looked directly into my eyes. “Who are you that a dragon called me out into a storm to rescue you?”

  I stared back at her wishing her to read my mind, challenging her to read the cat’s memories.

  Eventually she looked away and shook her head.

  “Now for the hard part, wolf. Don’t snap at me because it hurts.” Brevelan glared into my eyes.

  I accepted her words for truth and gritted my teeth. A tiny growl escaped me without thought.

  She was right. It did hurt. She splinted a break or two and bound my ribs so tightly I could barely breathe. She draped wet bandages around my shoulder and chest. As they dried they hardened. I could not move that limb if I wanted to.

  Once more I went into that place beyond pain. I wished only for the release of death. A prod to my mind broke my trance.

  (Remember.) A voice came to me from a far distance.

  Remember what?

  Pain still existed within me. Much of it oozed out of me. A few more tonguefuls of broth.

  Brevelan dragged me closer to the hearth and rolled me onto a dry blanket. She sat at my head, stroking my fur. Each time her hand touched my fur I grew sleepier and more in love. She sang to me. The cat joined us, adding her rhythmic purr to my lady’s song.

  Blue light engulfed us, shutting out the storm, shutting out the pain. My world shrank to this hut, my lady, and her song.

  Perhaps I drowsed. I awoke hungry again. The broth had cooled. I lapped it up anyway.

  Full tummy. Warmth. A lady to love. Safety.

  What about tomorrow? Would I remember who I was? I must remember that I was betrayed. The dragon had commanded it.

  Tomorrow.

  What is tomorrow?

  I knew only now.

  Warm.

  Safe.

  Not hungry.

  ~THE END~

  Friends in Strange Places

  This little vignette is some of the “extra” material that sometimes gets written for a book but never makes it into the book. This one is from The Glass Dragon, the Dragon Nimbus #1. Here’s the story of how Magician Jaylor and Crown Prince Darville met as adolescents.

  <<>>

  Darville de Draconis, Crown Prince of Coronnan, kept a wary eye on the river as he put his back into his oar strokes. Sheltered by a myriad of islands, the water flowed evenly toward the Great Bay, barely affected by the tides.

  A riffle opposite the current made him gasp. He pulled the oars into his little boat and watched the small disturbance.

  The monster did not rise. Perhaps the swimming dragon was merely a tale told to frighten children. No one had actually seen the beast after all; only tales of slaughtered sheep and horses that wandered too near the riverbank.

  Besides everyone knew that everything good and wonderful came from dragons. Dragons were the source of magic, and magic made life bearable. Everything from grinding grains, to water flowing through conduits into the city wells, to healing, to the wonders of Temple rituals came from magic.

  If only the Council of Provinces believed as strongly in magic and dragons as they did their own importance, life in the palace would be a lot more peaceful.

  He started rowing again. Sacred Isle loomed large in his periphery. He breathed a sigh of relief when his boat scraped bottom.

  With the ease of long practice he jumped out and dragged his craft above the tide line. It seemed pretty high right now, not likely to go much higher. When he had run away from his tutors, governors, and tailors this morning he hadn’t taken the time to check the tide charts. All of Coronnan City scheduled their lives around the tides that surged up the Coronnan River from the Great Bay twice each day. The many islands in the river delta that comprised the city were connected by a series of bridges. If the city were ever attacked, the bridges could be collapsed as the population retreated inward to the defenses of Palace Isle and University Isle. Without the bridges each neighborhood was cut off from the others.

  Sacred Isle had never been connected to the city by a bridge. That was why Darville had chosen it for this day’s escape. He wasn’t likely to be found and would have the time and privacy to explore to his heart’s content.

  He breathed deeply of the salty air. Other than the occasional bird chirp and the rush of water, no other sounds disturbed his peace. No one railed at him to be smarter, faster, stronger, and wiser than everyone else.

  He’d be alone here; a rare and treasured experience.

  “What are you doing on my island?” A squarely built, boy about a year younger than Darville stood on the bank, fists on hips, feet braced, and a belligerent look on his face.

  “This is my island,” the prince shouted back, anger robbing him of control of his emotions. “No one comes here but me.”

  “I was here first!” The younger boy followed up his words by dashing forward and shoving against Darville’s chest.

  “Who are you?” Darville demanded. He dropped the lead rope on his boat and returned the shove. His opponent reeled backward. The prince tackled him.

  “I’m Jaylor, and this is my island,” the other boy cried. He kicked up, trying to loosen Darville’s hold.

  They rolled in the mud exchanging blows.

  Red filled the prince’s vision. What right had this common city boy to claim the one place in all of Coronnan City that should be deserted? Only journeyman magicians came to this haunted place. And then only to cut their staffs from the circle of sacred oaks at the center of the island.

  Water lapped at Darville’s back. He didn’t care. He wanted only to h
umble this boy Jaylor, and send him back where he came from. He thrust his fist into Jaylor’s gut and rolled on top. He drew back his elbow to slam another blow into the boy’s face.

  But he wasn’t there.

  Darville staggered upright and whirled. A sharp pain in his gut sent him wobbling and flailing backward. He splashed into the water.

  The current grabbed him and drew him eastward, toward the bay.

  Jaylor laughed.

  The prince tried to get his feet under him. Only water. “Help! I can’t swim,” he called.

  “Tell me another one, rich boy. No one grows up in a city full of islands not knowing how to swim.”

  “I can’t.” Darville sank gulping water. He thrashed and fought to keep his head where he could breathe. Pure panic kept him moving. If his father ever found out about this, Darville would have a dragon’s own time sneaking out of the palace again.

  Then he knew true fear. His mind and body grew numb with chill. Darkness crept from the periphery toward the center of his vision. He would die in a few moments. If he did not drown the river dragon would gobble him.

  “S’murghit, you really can’t swim.” Jaylor ran along the bank, keeping even with Darville.

  The current surged and spilled around something big moving rapidly upstream, against the outgoing tide.

  The world suddenly grew quiet, as if every bird, bee, rock, tree, and even the wind, listened for the sounds of danger.

  “The monster,” Darville cried. “He’s going to eat me.”

  “Not if I can help it.” Jaylor increased his pace.

  In a thunder of flapping wings, hundreds of birds launched themselves upward. What could frighten them all at the same time?

  Darville looked downriver and gulped. A pair of yellow eyes stared at him from the water’s surface. Huge eyes that did not blink.

  Then a knobby black head with a long snout rose up. The beast opened its maw wide revealing row upon row of dagger-sharp teeth.

  The tide continued to drag Darville closer and closer to the monster.

  A dark shadow flew overhead. The shadow loosed a tremendous roar.

  “A dragon,” Jaylor croaked. “A real dragon.”

  The monster in the river opened his mouth wider.

  “Get away.” Jaylor threw something bright toward the beast’s mouth. It snapped its jaws closed just before a bright ball of fire exploded in front of it.

  It backed off a few feet. Anger gleamed red around the yellow of its eyes.

  “Magic,” Darville gulped. He swallowed another mouthful of water. Jaylor had a good reason to come to the island. But wasn’t he kind of young to be a journeyman about to go on quest?

  The outgoing tide dragged him further and further from the safety of shore. He kicked and flailed helplessly. His heavy court tunic, now waterlogged dragged him down…

  The dragon shadow above shrank as it dove toward the narrow river channel. A small trickle of fire leaked from its mouth in the direction of the monster.

  Darville noted the sunlight reflecting off the dragon’s shimmering silver hide. A juvenile, he thought and his heart sank. Only a full sized dragon could blast the river beast with enough fire to kill it or send it fleeing.

  Still this youngster of a dragon, with just barely any color on its wingtips, veins and spinal horns, seemed too big to fit between the steep banks of the nearest islands. He’d not be able to spread his wings wide enough to fly and grab Darville.

  “The dragon... it’s shrinking,” Jaylor cried from the tip of Sacred Isle. He was too far away to save Darville. “And and… it’s turning black.”

  The dragon continued decreasing its size until it resembled a large black housecat with wings. Frantically flapping to hover above Darville, it extended long talons and snagged them in the boy’s tunic at the neckline. Then he rose up a few inches.

  The creature’s hot breath fanned Darville’s neck. It smelled of sulfur. But its breathing sounded strained.

  Darville breathed deeply, prepared for another dunking. A shift in the water surface drew his attention. “Look out,” he cried. “The monster is coming back!”

  Jaylor threw another bright ball of fire. This one landed smartly on the tip of the beast’s muzzle. Then it exploded, showering the beast with sparks that continued to burn underwater. It roared in pain, whirled, and dove. It thrashed its tail in one last defiant gesture. The backwash threatened to swamp Darville and the miniature dragon… um… cat?

  Jaylor dove into the water and swam the short distance to Darville in swift clean strokes.

  “I’ve got you, now.” He threw an arm about Darville’s neck and dragged him toward the nearest shore, the very tip of Sacred Isle.

  The miniature dragon, that truly did look like a large black (so black it was almost purple) house cat with wings, hovered close above them until they crawled up onto a pebbly beach. Then it landed on the grassy bank above them and began to preen and bathe, just like the cat it resembled.

  “What is that thing?” Darville asked, pointing at the black creature that had helped save him. He panted in exhaustion and his teeth chattered with chill.

  Jaylor had to breathe deeply for a couple of moments before he could answer. “It’s a flywacket,” he said.

  “A flywacket?” Darville’s eyes widened in awe. “There hasn’t been a flywacket in Coronnan in... well... over a hundred years.”

  (Two hundred sixteen years.)

  “Who said that?” both boys asked.

  (I did.)

  They stared at the black cat intently. He stopped his bath long enough to glare back at them.

  “If you are a true flywacket, then you are a transformed purple-tip dragon,” Darville accused.

  (Yes.)

  “But you can’t be a true dragon. Dragons always insist upon an introduction before they do anything for a human,” Jaylor insisted. He looked as if reciting a lesson.

  (Berrthoold,) the diminished dragon introduced himself. He sounded a little embarrassed at his forgetting proper protocol.

  “Dar... um… I’m Roy,” Darville introduced himself, determined to remain anonymous.

  Berrthoold chuckled in the back of his mind. Of course he’d know Darville’s true name. The dragons were tied to the royal family by blood, by magic, and by tradition.

  “Apprentice Magician, Jaylor.” The city boy stood up and bowed formally toward the dragon. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Bertie.”

  (Bertie?) the flywacket opened his mouth in a cat version of a smile. (You give me a nickname. We are friends.) He trotted over to Jaylor, stropped the magician’s legs. Then he sauntered over and butted his head against Darville’s chin.

  “Friends,” Darville said. He held out his hand to Jaylor as he cuddled the flywacket.

  “Friends,” Jaylor repeated, dropping to a sitting position so he could grasp Darville at the elbow.

  They pumped their arms once, then took turns scratching Bertie’s ears.

  “I’m afraid your boat is long gone, Roy,” Jaylor said quietly. “Any idea how we are going to get off this island? My gang won’t come get me until tomorrow morning. You’ll like them, we’re mostly apprentices in the city, but we’ve got the son of a palace guard, and a priest and a healer in training from the University. I have to stay all night on a deserted island to beat their dare. They think it’s haunted but I know it’s not. But you and I should really tell someone at the palace about the river dragon. It’s real! As real as a real dragon.” He scratched Bertie’s head as if to confirm his statement.

  “I think the University of Magicians should hear the report first,” Darville said, looking at the ground. “They might actually do something about it rather than spend all day arguing and fighting each other over who has the right to kill it and become a hero.”

  “Bertie, can you go back to being a dragon and fly us over to the main islands?” Jaylor looked directly into the flywacket’s eyes.

  (I have chosen to be a flywacket. A flywacke
t I must remain.)

  “Oh.” Darville’s shoulders sank in disappointment.

  “We’ll figure something out. We are friends after all,” Jaylor announced. “Just like I figured out how to throw witchfire without gathering dragon magic. That was really strange. ’Course I could only tell a friend that. My professors would punish me for not using dragon magic.”

  “I’ve never had a friend before,” Darville whispered.

  “Neither have I,” Jaylor replied. “Not a real friend. My gang isn’t really about friendship, it’s more about… about not being alone ’cause we’re different from other apprentices.”

  “Come on. Let’s go build a fire. Maybe someone will see it and come to investigate.” Darville stood up and slapped his friend on the back. “We defeated a river monster. Together we can do anything.”

  “But first we have to teach you to swim.” Jaylor slapped his back in return.

  ~THE END~

  The Curse of the Pendragon

  A Jewish friend of mine gave me the premise of this story—with a more dire curse at the end—when the first of the Merlin’s Descendants series was published by DAW Books in 1999. I just needed an anthology invitation to make that simple idea grow into a story. This world is so rich for my imagination that it has spawned two short stories and a CD of music by Heather Alexander available www.faerietaleminstral.com

  <<>>

  “Has Tryblith the Demon of Chaos taken all of your minds?” Wilfred of Kirkenwood, Don of Merton College Oxford, shouted at his students. He pounded his walking stick with each word.

  Power ran through the staff, begging him to cast a spell over these ignorant savages that would force them to listen and absorb his wisdom.

  He swallowed the urge. Forced learning would not last.

  The gathered throng of a dozen young men garbed in black gowns with hoods in Merton’s colors, cringed with each reverberation of the staff against the stone floor. That should be enough of a demonstration of power to make them sit up and listen.

  They all kept their eyes on their scrolls.

  “Not one of you has the sense you were born with!” Doctor Wilfred continued his tirade. His leg ached abominably. Otherwise he might have treated his students’ stupidity with a bit more gentleness.