Dragon In The Needles Read online

  Dragon In The Needles

  By

  Bruce Leslie

  Copyright © 2017 Bruce Leslie

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, send e-mail to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  [email protected]

  This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Except for the Battle of Oxhorn Bridge, that is totally the Battle of Stamford Bridge - look it up!

  For Sophia, my 11 year old editor.

  And Karen, for tolerating my lunacy while I worked on my “imaginary” book.

  Also by Bruce Leslie:

  Dragon In Gallis: The Lump Adventures Book Two

  Chubby Wizard: Wrath Of The Manticore

  Nerdspawn Genesis

  Prologue

  1: The Turnip Bowl

  2: Meena

  3: Old Red Line

  4: Morning Ruckus

  5: Leaving Windthorne

  6: Tilley

  7: Molgadon

  8: Catamounts

  9: Solson Birch

  10: Dragon or Wyrm?

  11: The Battle of Oxhorn Bridge

  12: Crossing The Bridge

  13: Meena Falls Ill

  14: The Crone’s Keep

  15: The Potato Patch

  16: The Crone Of Bleuderry

  17: The Western Woods

  18: The Western Abbey

  19: Escape

  20: Bane Of The Dragon

  21: A Big Hole

  22: The Needles

  23. Uneasy Peace

  24. Some Stay, Some Go

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  The tall, thin, dark-haired man pointed. “You’ll need to get in there.” He looked at the man beside him. The other man stood a head shorter than he did, and had his own patch of dark hair perched atop a face with rat-like features. He nudged the shorter man’s shoulder. “Don’t be shy about it!”

  The two men stood before a high, jagged cluster of limestone needles that rose nearly two-hundred feet above them. The great, stony peaks had sheer faces that pressed against one another to form a near complete circle, save for a narrow cleft. The opening was not quite as wide as the taller man’s shoulders, and the stone that framed it had a fine edge that looked as sharp as any blade. Just a few yards away was a heap of ugly brown stones, held back by rough-cut planks that were braced by two wooden posts wedged into the ground.

  “You always make me go into these tricky ones.” The shorter man’s eyebrows dropped into a scowl as he uncoiled a rope in rapid, brusque motions. “It wouldn’t hurt for you to go in this time.” He threw one end of the rope at his colleague’s feet with a snort.

  “What sense would that make? I can’t squirrel through there like you can.” The tall man held the rope up to his eyes and inspected it. “Besides, If I bang my head and get stuck in there, then where will we be?” He shook his head. “No stones to peddle to the crone, no coins for our pockets, and no chance at being the richest fellows in the Common Lands.” He hitched the end of the rope to a long, wooden pallet atop three small wheels. “We can’t rightly call ourselves quarrymen if we don’t quarry some stone. Now take the sled and get in there!” He shoved the flat, wooden apparatus at the shorter man.

  “I know, always the dirty work for little Darak, while Ivan sits back and counts his coin”. The little man held the wooden pallet close to his chest and slid through the narrow space between the two high, limestone columns.

  The tall man picked the other end of the rope up from the ground and began wrapping it around his waist. He shouted into the crevice and his voice echoed off the flat faces of the stone. “When we sell the stone in Bleuderry, you’ll quit your complaining.” He tied a strong knot in the rope at his hip. “I’m the haggler, not you!” He tugged at the knot. “They’ve got the coin, we’ve got the stones.” He held his hands wide. “I make sure we get as much of the coin for as few of the stones as possible.”

  “And I’m sure you’ll keep two coins for everyone you share!” The shorter man’s answer echoed back through the stone. “Besides, there are probably lizards in here.”

  The tall man chuckled. “If you see any, grab a few. Maybe we can sell those as well.”

  “You know I don’t like those lizards, I heard they give you…” his voice quivered as he spoke the last word, “…w-warts.”

  “Ah, now wouldn’t that make you a good sight prettier!” The tall man laughed again, this time louder and longer. “Warts to go with your beady eyes!”

  “Still..still…” The shorter man stammered before he found his words. “Still a good sight prettier than you, with your big nose and that scar on your cheek!”

  The tall man watched the rope uncoil at his feet as his companion went further into the rocks. He sat on the patch off grass in front of the narrow opening and lay back on the grass with his hands behind his head. The sun shined bright between the clouds that drifted overhead. A gentle breeze swam through the network of massive limestone needles. He looked at the rope and saw that it had uncoiled fully, but heard no sounds of flat stones dropping on the wooden surface of the sled. Other than the soft sound of the wind moving gently through the rocks, everything was quiet. No birds were singing, nor could ground squirrels be heard rustling in the brush. After several more minutes of silence the tall man exhaled a long, slow breath. He got back to his feet and shouted. “What are you doing in there? Nothing worth grabbing?”

  “The smell in here is terrible.” The shorter man spoke at a slower pace than before. “I should have brought a torch, it’s too dark in here.” His voice echoed from farther away and sounded hollow. “The ground, it’s…it’s all wet and slippery. It’s not like usual.” He fell silent for a moment, then shouted, “I think all the stones have been pushed out of the center. They’ve been pushed into the nooks.”

  “Then stick your skinny arms in the nooks and get them!” The tall man grinned. “And maybe you’ll find some of your pretty lizards in there too!” He let out a single, loud laugh.

  A low sound began echoing between the rocks and grew steadily louder. It sounded like wet leather being scraped by a blade in long, slow, deliberate strokes. Though the scraping grew louder, it remained slow. Another sound could be heard along with the scrapes. It sounded like a handful of pebbles being dropped on a stone, four bursts at a time. Both of the sounds continued to grow louder as their source seemed to get closer.

  “Are things alright in there?” Now there was no laughter in the tall man’s voice.

  “Ivan, pull the rope!” The shorter man shouted from within the rocks, as loud as his lungs would allow.

  The tall man grabbed the rope tied around his waist with both hands and leaned back hard.

  More shouts poured out from within the rocks. “Pull! Pull! For mercy, give it all you’ve got!”

  The tall man failed to draw so much as an inch of rope from the crevice and stopped pulling. He stepped to the cleft between the sharp, limestone needles and put his head and one shoulder within it to investigate. There was a narrow corridor of light that penetrated the rocky labyrinth and gave him a glimpse of what was happening inside.

  A deafening hiss erupted from a place within the stony enclosure that was untouched by the light. The smaller man came into view, running toward his companion with outstretched arms. His normally tan face
was white as chalk. His mouth hung open and indecipherable cries streamed out. The man’s cries were accompanied by a profuse amount of sweat that beaded up on his brow. Behind him, as large as the frightened man’s face, a single, red eye opened in the dark.

  1: The Turnip Bowl

  The Lump adjusted the drab, brown leather vest fastened tightly around his chest. His body was feeling the day’s chores. His hands were still covered in soil from digging turnips, three heavy sacks worth. One sack he delivered to the tavern’s kitchen, the other two to the stable for use in the following days. He pulled up his thick leather belt, along with the tiny sword that it held against his right hip. His arms ached from swinging the heavy axe he used to chop cords of wood. The wood was used for the stew fire, and for the brick oven that baked bread twice a week.

  He took off his old leather cap and ran his fleshy hand through his mop of dark brown hair. His back felt like it didn’t want to straighten after the many trips carrying cut wood to the dry room. He felt dull thuds of pain in his feet as he stomped his boots, knocking off the thick layer of mud that had crusted on them. His shoulders burned from stacking heavy stones around the tavern’s fire pit. As he stroked his closely cut beard, what he felt most was his empty stomach. It twisted and growled for food. The Lump was ready for his stew, more than he had ever been ready for anything in his life.

  The large, broad man walked under the tavern sign that read The Turnip Bowl in faded red letters. “Wendy, please, can I have some of the best stew in Windthorne?”

  “You can have some of the only stew in Windthorne.” Wendy had a broad smile on her face. Her hair, now more white than brown, was pulled up in a knot above her round face. “It’s a bit rabbit and a bit squirrel.” Evidence of the day’s work in the kitchen was splattered on the apron tied around her plump form.

  The Lump smiled and nodded his head at the familiar faces of Martin, Peter and Stuart. The three men ate nearly every supper in Windthorne’s lone tavern. He walked toward his usual chair at a small, isolated table in the corner, then came to a sudden stop. There was a small figure sitting in his chair.

  Travelers are bad news. Worse news when they’re sitting in my chair.

  It looked to be a girl wearing a dark green cloak. The hood pulled over her head prevented a good view of her features. She was eating mashed turnips and carrots with a heel of bread.

  The Lump turned back to the center of the room and chose a chair at the end of the great table where the familiar men sat. His throat tightened at the thought of listening to the prattle that his company considered conversation.

  Martin took a gulp of the amber liquid in his mug. “So, you decided to eat at the high table now, ‘eh Lump?”

  “The stranger’s in my seat.” The Lump looked toward the kitchen, turning his head away from the others. “Don’t know why the stranger had to sit in my seat. I just want to eat my stew in quiet.”

  “We told her to sit there.” Stuart chewed a bite of his bread while he spoke.

  Martin shoved Stuart’s shoulder, causing him to shift in his chair. “You weren’t supposed to tell him, you dim wit. We were going to have some fun with it!”

  The Lump’s shoulders tightened. He clamped his jaws down like he was trying to bite through a boot. He took a deep breath to keep from raising his voice. “Marty, your idea of a jape is likely to make me throw all three of you out for the night.”

  Peter wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I was not a part of this conspiracy.” He pointed at the men beside him. “I don’t care much for those two either.” He grinned at the Lump.

  “This better be the best stew I’ve ever eaten, being forced to endure the likes of you three.” The Lump felt his stomach squeeze in anticipation of the food.

  Wendy brought a large bowl of warm, brown broth with bits of meat floating in it. She approached the table and placed it in front of the large man. “Bitter company makes the meal go down quicker, my boy.” She slapped him on the back and handed him his tankard of goat’s milk before returning to the kitchen.

  The Lump took a long swig of the sour milk. It cooled his throat as it made its way down to his empty stomach. Milk’s much better than ale, besides, ale is just wasted on me. He grabbed his spoon and began to lower it into the soupy, brown mixture.

  “Wait, my boy! Wait!” Wendy trotted back out of the kitchen holding a basket covered with a clean, white cloth. “You can’t eat without some bread and a pinch or two of salt.”

  The Lump felt his chest rise and fall as he clenched his teeth again. His head felt like somehow the inside was growing too large for the outside. He watched Wendy unfold the cloth over the basket, one corner at a time. She inspected several pieces of bread before selecting two half-loaves to place in front of him.

  “Can I please start eating it now?” The Lump felt his hand squeezing the spoon tighter.

  Wendy stood up straight and placed her hands on her hips. “What was that?”

  He saw her look down her short, round nose, directly into his eyes. The big man felt small. “May I please eat now, ma’am?”

  “No, sir! Not without the salt. I can’t have people saying my stew is bland.” Wendy poured a tiny pile of salt into her left palm from a small jar. “No, no, that’s a bit too much.” She pinched some salt off the top of the pile, and placed it back in the vessel. “That should be about right.” She sprinkled the salt into the stew. “Your face looks awfully red, I think you might be taking a fever.” A short giggle escaped from her.

  The Lump once again moved his spoon toward the bowl, he could hear the growling in his stomach now. He scooped up a spoonful with a cube of meat in the center.

  “Stir it up first!” Wendy walked back to the kitchen.

  “Yes ma’am.” The Lump lowered the spoon back into the bowl, and shouted in the direction of the kitchen. “I’m stirring it, haven’t tasted it yet!” After three obligatory circles through the broth with his spoon, he filled the utensil once more, and raised it to his mouth. He turned his head to Martin. “We’ll talk about your idea of fun after I’m done eating.”

  A loud crash came from behind the Lump. Startled by the noise, he dropped his spoon and the stew in it spilled onto the table. “Now what in the name of a sour-breathed sister is this?” He turned around in his chair to see what had made such a racket.

  A man stood in the doorway wearing a shiny, metal breastplate over a flowered, blue tunic. The stranger had a large sword on his left hip. On the crown of his head was a metal cap that looked just a little too small. Light brown hair spilled out around the cap and hung to the man’s shoulders.

  Keeping his eyes focused on the man’s sword, the Lump stood. “Easy there, fellow, Wendy makes the rules here, and I keep the order.” He took a slow step to his right to face the man at an angle, rather than head on. “Don’t know why you entered with such a stir, but I prefer you don’t draw your sword inside The Turnip Bowl.” He slid his hand to the hilt of his own dull, tiny sword.

  “I am Flynn Flint of Silverport. I’m here to claim the title of Hero of Aardland.” The man had a square jawline, blue eyes and a proud nose.

  “I don’t think we have that here.” The Lump could still smell his uneaten stew on the table behind him. “We’ve got stew, but you can’t have mine. We also have mashed turnips, though I’m not sure why anybody’d eat that.” The Lump heard chairs shuffling behind him and glanced over his shoulder with one eye. Martin was under the table, while Stuart and Peter ran to the kitchen.

  “I was told this is where I can find Oliver, son of the late Hero of Aardland.” The man pulled back his shoulders and thrust his chest forward. “The son of Silas the Swift.” He held his chin up high, looking the Lump squarely in the eyes.

  “That’s me, but people call me the Lump.” He looked around the room. The girl in the green cloak was still eating her turnips and carrots, unfazed by all the commotion. He quickly turned his attention back to the man with the sword. “You think I can help you find that t
itle you’re looking for?”

  “I plan to claim it, not find it.” The man paused. “I am here to claim it from you.” The would-be hero took a step closer to the Lump.

  The Lump raised his hands shoulder high. “You want it? You can have it. I don’t have a use for something like that, it’s yours. Now be on your way.”

  “It can’t just be given, as simply as a greeting or a platitude.” Flynn took another step closer to the Lump. “It has to be earned, by right of birth or right of combat.” He was now less than a sword stroke away.

  “Heroes are fools. Besides, I got no birthright, just a bowl of stew I’m trying to eat.” The Lump dropped his hands back to his sides. His jaw was no longer tight, his breathing grew easier. “You should also know that Wendy don’t allow no combat rights in here.”

  Flynn gripped the hilt of his sword and rattled it in its scabbard. “Then step outside and face your trial.”

  “I’d rather stay inside and face my supper.” The Lump felt his jaws tightening again. He fixed his eyes on Flynn’s sword once more.

  “Stay inside if you insist.” Flynn spread his feet shoulder length apart with his left leg forward. “Prepare to defend yourself!”

  The Lump felt the worn hilt of his own undersized sword in his palm again. He spoke with a quiet, calm voice. “I told you, Wendy don’t want no swords drawn in here.”

  “I’ve given you ample warning, Oliver. Defend yourself!” Flynn pulled his sword from its scabbard with a flourish and held it in both hands. “Present your arms or be struck down!”

  The Lump saw the shiny blade across from him. It looked new, unused. He pulled his own sword out of its leather loop on his belt. It felt awkward in his massive hand. It felt too large to be a knife, but not quite large enough to be a proper sword. “Sir, Wendy depends on me here, I just want to eat my supper.” He felt air enter his lungs as he inhaled deeply. He spoke as he exhaled. “Please leave. I’m no hero, and I’m sure not looking for a fight.”