Song of the Ovulum

by Bryan Davis

  Song of the Ovulum

  Volume 1 in the Children of the Bard® series

  Copyright © 2011 by Bryan Davis

  Published by Scrub Jay Journeys

  All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in printed reviews, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (printed, written, photocopied, visual electronic, audio, or otherwise) without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Printed Edition ISBN: 978-1-946253-75-0

  EPUB Edition ISBN: 978-1-946253-74-3

  Mobi Edition ISBN: 978-1-946253-73-6

  CHILDREN OF THE BARD, ORACLES OF FIRE, and DRAGONS IN OUR MIDST are registered trademarks of Bryan Davis.

  Bryan Davis website – http://www.daviscrossing.com

  Purchase autographed copies - http://www.theauthorschair.com/shopping/

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  A whip never draws love from those who kneel. Only mercy can penetrate a heart, soften it with healing balm, and set it ablaze with devotion. This story is for those who wish to learn the mercy song—the melody of grace, the harmony of forgiveness, the rhythm of a heart set free. After your chains are broken, perhaps someone will ask you, “What is your mercy song?” Then, you will be able to pass the liberating music on to another imprisoned soul.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Special thanks to Jason Waguespack who helped me come up with the idea for this book. Without your help in brainstorming, this series might never have come to pass.

  Thank you to my wife, who also happens to be my editor. You are amazing. Even after reading the entire manuscript multiple times, you never fail to find a new way to improve the story. Most of all, I appreciate your emotional and spiritual support. I couldn’t do this without you.

  As always, I give thanks to God, the great musician who composed and taught me my mercy song. I look forward to singing it in your presence when my time as your minstrel has come to an end.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  When I completed The Bones of Makaidos, I thought the adventures of Billy, Bonnie, Walter, and company had reached an end. In that book’s epilogue, however, I left hints that a new adventure with new characters might be forthcoming. Still, I didn’t want to continue in this world of dragons, anthrozils, and slayers unless I came up with a really great idea. Well, after a round of brainstorming with contributor Jason Waguespack, an idea took shape, a cool concept that gave birth to Song of the Ovulum. I am excited about this new series, Children of the Bard, four books that will continue the excitement and heart of Dragons in our Midst and Oracles of Fire.

  Although it will be helpful to read the eight books in the previous two series before reading Song of the Ovulum, it isn’t essential. This story can be enjoyed without knowing the history behind these pages. Yet, if you choose to take the leap into Song of the Ovulum without reading the other stories, I highly recommend that you first check out Jason’s recap at the end. It should provide all the information you need to embark on this new adventure.

  With that said, I invite you to turn the page and explore a new world of fantasy and adventure. Ladies and gentlemen, prepare to draw your swords. The heroes and heroines within these pages are going to need all the help they can get.

  BONNIE’S CHAINS

  Some nights I lie awake and reach

  For hands I would enfold,

  To feel my friend’s familiar warmth,

  His lovely eyes behold.

  Yet when my fingers stretch for his,

  I grasp but empty air;

  I rise and search the silent room.

  Alas! He isn’t there.

  Oh will this nightmare never end?

  This pain, this lonely war?

  Will dawn arise and bring you back

  To arms that ache for yours?

  We battled foes of ghost and flesh

  In fields of sky and sod.

  You bore my soul on paths through hell;

  I carried yours to God.

  My soul I stitched to yours alone;

  I wrapped you in my wings.

  You set my heart aflame with love,

  And now my spirit sings.

  To God who hears my every prayer

  This orphan’s outcries burn;

  On wings to altars filled with light,

  I beg for your return.

  As long as you are out of reach,

  My heart is never free.

  These hands, these arms are tightly bound

  By chains I cannot see.

  Come back to me my hero friend!

  And tear my chains in two.

  Restore the warmth, inflame my heart,

  And fill my arms with you.

  PROLOGUE

  A winter storm is brewing. I can tell by the damp chill in the air. I hope we get blankets. Last year the guards told us they had to save the coats and blankets for the soldiers, but I don’t believe them. Malice spices their words, as chilling as last February’s blizzard. It was so cold one night, Ashley nearly froze to death. If not for wrapping her in my wings, I’m sure she would have died. Summer breezes thawed our bones, but autumn breezes portend another storm. Will we survive this time?

  It has been fifteen years since I last wrote in a journal. In spite of the miserable conditions, I am thankful for Walter’s courage in sneaking this little notebook and pencil to me. It will be difficult to keep them hidden, but Ashley and I managed to dig a small crevice in the wall behind the toilet. Since it’s near the rat hole, I doubt that anyone will look there, but when Stella’s on duty, you never know. Sometimes I think her piercing eyes can see through concrete.

  Ashley is asleep, curled on our mat in the corner. Poor thing. The experiments are getting more invasive. Of course, I grew accustomed to the never-ending needle jabs when my father tried to learn the secrets behind my dragon ancestry and the reasons my blood brought healing and youthful vigor. The Healers, or so they call themselves, are determined to unlock the secrets, and morning will dawn with my turn to face the electric shocks and specimen-collecting needles. My faith will have to remain strong.

  I have used much of our candle, so I must join Ashley in slumber soon. Yet, I fear the dreams. Of late they have been dark, foreboding, mysterious. It seems that they are a movie trailer—a montage of scenes that cast more shadows over this present distress. I know, of course, that God is with me even in the darkest of prisons, so the dreams, though piecemeal and fractured, have helped me feel his presence in inexpressible ways, as though he is calling me to more intimate fellowship than ever before. The darker the night, the brighter the flame, and the more precious it becomes to those who wait for the dawn.

  I am sure a new scene will enter my dreams tonight, a story from long ago that will provide another puzzlement. Maybe if I write the dreams, all will become clear. I pray for clarity. This cruel, twisted world is void of it.

  At one time, our plight seemed unimaginable. When Billy and I celebrated the birth of our twins, all was well. The people had accepted the existence of dragons and anthrozil hybrids, and the relationship between Earth and Second Eden was blossoming into an alliance of cross-dimensional worlds. Who could have predicted that rumors of war would begin to flourish only a year later? Who could have guessed that Billy and I would be forcibly separated and our children taken away before they were even weaned?

  I apologize for the smudges. My tears are smearing the pencil marks.

  If only they would allow my children to visit me! A glimpse is all I ask. What do Charles and Karen look like? Did they ever develop dragon traits? If not, have they been brainwashed to hate dragonkind? Are they even alive? Do they know I
exist? And what of my husband? Is Billy suffering the same brutality I have to endure? Will we ever be together again on this side of Heaven’s gates?

  At least Walter brings us news now and then, much of it dark and fearful, especially concerning the disease spreading among some anthrozils. The details are sketchy, and Walter can’t give us more than a few coded messages. Since he is not dragonkind, he is able to spy out our persecutors, but he does so at great risk. If they learn he is merely pretending to be on their side, what will they do to him? And does this pretense violate his conscience? But I leave that dilemma to him. I am not his judge. And now that I think about it, if the guards become suspicious, I should erase this paragraph. If they find this journal, Walter’s life will be forfeit.

  I must end now. Stella will come on duty soon, and if she is in a foul mood, she will likely torture me again.

  I hear footsteps. And chains.

  Help me, Lord!

  Bonnie Bannister

  THE LISTENERS

  Joran set an arrow to his bowstring. The giant lay on his back only a few paces ahead, quiet and motionless. He was a clever one; his pose could be a ploy. If this Naphil’s heart still had life, he wouldn’t be able to hide it for long.

  Surrounded by curtains of smoke, Joran tiptoed over fallen branches, scorched leaves, and blackened evergreen needles littering the carpet of thin grass. Narrow fire lines crackled here and there, looking like sizzling orange serpents as they gobbled the debris. Pools of thick tar dotted the area, less-than-subtle evidence of the recent battle between a dragon and the demon that got away. Unlike the Naphil, the demon, one of the lesser Watchers, seemed no smarter than a pomegranate, so Makaidos, though an inexperienced dragon, would likely catch him eventually.

  Joran leaped over one of the black pools and halted, holding his breath to avoid taking in the noxious fumes. The giant hadn’t moved a muscle. Even the arrow protruding from his chest stayed perfectly still. A single arrow rarely slew one of these beastly humanoids, and they had been known to swim underwater for more than a league, so he might be holding his breath.

  While Joran’s sister crept up behind him, her sword in one hand and their captivity lyre in the other, he listened for the slightest noise. Even from a distance, and even with the surrounding fires emitting pops and snaps, the Naphil’s heartbeat would be easy for his sensitive ears to detect. Still, nothing sounded, not a thump or a breath. He was either dead, or the pools of darkness had slowed his heart to an imperceptible level.

  “Is the lyre detecting anything?” Joran asked.

  Selah slid her sword into its scabbard and held the lyre’s wooden frame with both hands, lifting the strings close to her eyes. “The G string is vibrating slightly. It’s the only one not housing a demon.”

  “That’s a good enough sign for me. The ovulum has to be around here somewhere.”

  A fly landed on the giant’s bulbous nose, but his pale, bearded face didn’t twitch. As the sun eased toward the western horizon, its rays broke through a gap in the trees and struck the giant’s closed eyelids. Still, he remained motionless. Dead or not, he wasn’t about to start a fight anytime soon.

  Joran looked up. The smoky sky revealed no winged creatures at all, no demonic Watcher or warrior dragon, but the Watcher could return at any moment to retrieve the ovulum, if the Naphil still had it.

  “No signs of life,” he said as he released the arrow from his string and pushed it into the quiver on his back. “But no other sign of the ovulum either.”

  Selah stepped around one of the black pools and pointed at the giant. “He has a supplies bag on his belt, but we should be able to hear the ovulum if it’s in there.”

  “I’ll check.” Joran eased up to the giant’s body and listened to the goatskin bag. No song of the ovulum emanated from within. After sliding his bow up to his shoulder, Joran untied the bag’s leather drawstring and pulled it open. Inside lay several black scarabs, each one the size of his palm, but since their eyes lacked any hint of fiery redness, they had not yet been activated as weapons. They posed no threat.

  As he retied the bag, a faint melody reached his ears, but it seemed warped, troubled. He followed the sound to a spot under the giant’s meaty arm. Using both hands, he shoved the arm out of the way, revealing a pool where blood had collected and blended with black resin to create a thick slurry. A glass egg lay half-submerged in the mire.

  While Selah again skulked closer, Joran slid his hands under the ovulum and lifted it carefully. The demon’s ammunition, sticky dark resin it shot from its eyes, still adhered to the surface and slowly oozed onto Joran’s fingers. No wonder the ovulum’s song sounded so troubled. This liquid curse, this evil spell of hopelessness, must have distorted the holy sound. Apparently the demon planned to keep the ovulum’s rescuers from hearing its call.

  Joran looked up again. Since Makaidos wasn’t around to burn the spell away, he would have to risk a song. It could draw the demon back, but it was the only way to restore the ovulum.

  He eyed the resin as it began crawling from the glass shell to his wrists. The ovulum wasn’t the only one needing to be saved. This stuff could take over his mind if he didn’t hurry. “Selah, I need a rhythm.”

  She pressed close from behind and peered around his arm. “A cleansing song?”

  He nodded. “If you add a harmony, it might go faster. We need to get out of here as soon as we can. Makaidos will find his way home … if he survived. He’s not exactly experienced in demon hunting.”

  “You’d better fight those doubts.” Her voice carried a calming tone. “If you let that darkness spell affect you, you won’t be able to sing.”

  “I remember Seraphina saying something like that.” Joran mentally cringed. Resurrecting grief over Seraphina wasn’t the best way to counter negative thoughts.

  Selah’s eyebrow twitched, a sign of hurt, but a smile brushed it away. She played the lyre, alternating between two high notes. Following her upbeat rhythm, Joran began singing.

  Dark begone. Doubt depart.

  Light restore. Faith restart.

  Cast away the gloom and fear;

  Heed my words, let sight be clear.

  As he repeated the lyrics, the music intermixed with the resin, diluting it and forcing it to stream down the transparent shell, clearing its smooth surface. A bluish glow blossomed at the center and feathered out toward the inner edges. With every pulse, the ovulum emanated a musical note of its own, part of its signature melody, now unhindered by the demon’s curse and the giant’s smothering weight.

  Letting out a relieved sigh, Joran shook the leftover resin from his fingers and turned to Selah. “It’s alive.”

  She hooked the lyre’s bracket to her belt and took the egg, cradling it in her palms. “Thanks be to Elohim!”

  “Perhaps.” Joran jerked the arrow out of the Naphil’s chest and wiped the point clean on a clump of grass. “We have the ovulum. We’d better go.”

  “Perhaps?” Selah squinted at him. “Are doubts from the demon’s curse still lingering?”

  “Not really. I’m just thinking about what happened. With the angle I had, it seemed like an impossible shot, especially from a dragon’s back. I suppose divine guidance had something to do with it.”

  “Then why perhaps?”

  Joran shrugged. “I’m confused about the inconsistency. Why would Elohim help us today when he plans to kill us tomorrow?”

  “I know. I know. We’ve been over all that before.” Selah slid the ovulum into her own leather bag, tied the end closed, and attached it to another hook on her belt. “Speaking of dying tomorrow,” she said as she looked at the sky, “we have the ovulum, so why the rush to get home? I think we should wait for Makaidos.”

  “And risk facing the Watcher again? Are you sure?”

  “Today we live. Tomorrow we die.” Selah gripped her sword’s hilt. “That demon sang the foulest song I have ever heard. If we can silence him forever, it will be
worth enduring his obscenities. We have no guarantee that the flood will kill those monsters.”

  Joran gazed at Selah’s youthful face. Sweat streamed down her smudged cheeks, and dark hair flew about her bronzed forehead in spite of her carefully tied braid, stark contrasts to her sparkling eyes. Her loosely fitting earth-brown battle tunic and ankle-length trousers also acted as contradictions. Strong and lean from her training, her frame looked almost as athletic as his own, though she stood three inches shorter, one inch for each year younger. She had proven her skill time and again, but it didn’t seem right to allow a thirteen-year-old girl to endure the evil songs of the Watchers and fly into danger on the back of a dragon. Yet, what else could they do? The ark had to be protected. The ovula had to be preserved.

  He caressed her dirty cheek with his hand. “I’m sorry about the Watchers’ obscenities, but I can’t track their songs without you.”

  “I know.” She pressed his hand closer and kissed its heel. “Don’t worry about me. Elohim has put a shield around my heart.”

  Joran imagined a tough dragon-scale hide surrounding Selah’s heart. Her faith was so strong, so certain. Of course, no daughter of Methuselah could doubt Elohim’s existence, but how could she know for sure that a distant deity cared for her … or for anyone besides the few who would be allowed to ride to safety on the ark?

  Breaking their locked gazes, he turned to the west. The Watchers’ song, a dissonant assortment of notes, drifted into his ears. The filthy demon cried like a spoiled child, another sign of stupidity. He was nothing like the Silent One, the Watcher of legend who controlled his sound environment. It would be a great adventure to confront that demon, but he had kept himself scarce lately.

  “I can still hear him,” Joran said, “so if we follow the sound on foot, maybe we’ll find Makaidos.”