Dragon In Gallis Read online

  Dragon In Gallis

  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.

  For my family, and the people who read the first book. Much to my surprise, they are not the same people.

  Also by Bruce Leslie:

  Dragon In The Needles: The Lump Adventures Book One

  Chubby Wizard: Wrath Of The Manticore

  Prologue

  1: Leaves and Stones

  2: Gifts and Messages

  3: Ground Apples

  4: Steeplecross

  5: A Ferry Ride

  6: Pog’s Landing

  7: On The Road

  8: Back In Bleuderry

  9: Brief Reunion

  10: Meeting A King

  11: Inquisition

  12: Slippery Slope

  13: Gallows

  14: An Old Friend

  15: Green Acolytes

  16: Ruined City

  17: Hill-Folks

  18: Six-Toe

  19: An Appeal

  20: Short On Time

  21: Saddle Pass

  22: Unmasked

  23: Grey-Top Heights

  24: Smoke Blower

  25: Allies

  26: Enemies

  27: Dragonkeeper

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  “There is only one response to treachery!” The High Commander addressed the host of Gallisian footmen assembled before him. “Brutal, swift, overwhelming force is the cure for such a malady.” He rested one hand on the hilt of his sword while the other grasped the fur draped across his shoulders, atop his black, iron mail. “Our King must demand that the wretched Needlers respect his domain and honor his sovereignty, for, if not, he would hardly be a King.”

  The Commander removed his black, cloth hat and looked up at the full moon that shone pale in the clear, night sky. “It is also by the command of Luna that we defend her chosen realm against all threats.” He lowered his eyes back to the men in front of him. “Luna, the beautiful mother above, she smiles upon Gallis. But, my good men, Luna demands we not suffer a witch to live.”

  In unison, the body of soldiers tapped the ends of their halberds against the ground, and shouted, “Luna!”

  The men’s shouts stirred night birds from the surrounding trees.

  Fifty men stood before their commander, in black iron mail hung over thick, gray tunics. Their metal helms were also black, with a single piece of iron projecting down the middle of their faces to guard their noses. They were nearly invisible in the shadows the moon cast through the forest at the northern edge of the Common Lands.

  The halberds in their hands were as tall and rigid as the men who held them. Atop the long, black poles that made up the body of the weapons sat fearsome, iron heads, deadly in every direction. The front side was the long, sharp blade of an axe, the top held a pointed spike similar to a boar-spear, and the back carried a sharp hook capable of disarming swordsmen and pulling riders off mounts. The weapon’s reach was far greater than a sword, its attack less discriminate than a spear, and its bite penetrated mail better than a bolt or arrow. The halberd was created to ensure the disgraces of The Great War were never again repeated in Gallis.

  “A hundred years ago, when the Great War ended, people sang of an everlasting peace. Those softlings to the south believed that foolishness and grew lazy. In Gallis, we knew better. We maintained our might and preserved our martial traditions, because we knew… we knew that this day would come.” The Commander put his hat back atop his head and paced in front of his men. “The Needlers must now be forced into submission. Their offense was an act of war!” He pointed down to the end of his leg. “If a wound festers in your foot, you must cut it off, lest the disease spread and destroy your whole body.” He stopped and his eyes grew narrow. “King Ferte will bring peace back to our land by way of battlefield domination. Our King will rid the Egg of this witch and any others that try to rise.”

  The footmen raised their halberds and shouted, “Aye!” They appeared mesmerized by their commander’s oration.

  Behind the men, a collection of jagged, limestone slabs rose up into the night sky. The great, stony peaks were the Needles, natural rock formations that marked a land not belonging to any kingdom, a land known as the Common Lands. Rising two hundred feet into the air like the discarded swords of long dead titans, they also served as the southern border of Gallis. It was from these Needles that a blind dragon appeared nearly three months prior, killing without warning or reason. A dragon that continued to terrorize the Kingdom’s denizens.

  The King decided the Needlers, the folk who lived among the Needles, sent the creature. He considered it proof of their envy of Gallisian might and honor.

  The Lunaris charged with bringing Luna’s work to the Common Lands shared what they knew of the place with their King. They believed a red-haired witch sent the dragon into Gallis.

  The High Commander resumed his pacing. “It has taken us ten weeks to recover from their vile act.” He raised a hand high in the air as he walked. “We are not broken by an underhanded sneak attack. Those cowards sent a dragon against us, and we still yet stand.” The Commander stopped pacing and faced his men. “The plague riddled monster took out half our regiment, but we fight on.” He held his hands wide and asked, “Men, what are we made of?”

  The footmen shouted back, “Iron!”

  A strong wind blew through the trees. It had a chill to it and carried the hoot of a lonely owl perched somewhere in the branches overhead.

  The Commander said, “Now, we show these treacherous fools what happens to those who rouse the ire of Gallis!” He balled his hand into a fist and held it before him. “We shall unleash fury greater than any eye-less dragon.” His finger pointed up at the moon. “Under Luna’s watchful gaze, we cannot fail!”

  The footmen pounded there halberds against the ground repeatedly and let out shouts of approval. The din they created sounded like the low, constant rumble of distant thunder heard well before an impending storm.

  The Commander held his hands up to quiet the men. “We prepare to enter difficult terrain. Ways of passage are narrow, and offer concealment at every turn.” He tapped a finger against his face, next to his right eye. “We must be alert, we must strike down all we see.” He pulled back his lips in a snarl that showed his yellowing teeth. “We have no use for hostages, we are here to extinguish the spark before a fire can take hold.” His hands fell to his sides. “We will capture that young witch. She lives among them now, we will force her to undo her curse against us.” A slight grin crept across his face. “The Lunaris tell us the Needlers have little iron or steel, but instead fight with a coward’s weapon.” He shook his head slowly. “They use bows, like a hunter.” His eyes grew wide and his nostrils flared. “But I tell you now…” He paused to survey the soldiers with a long, arcing glance. “We are not easy prey!”

  Together, the footmen shouted, “Aye!”

  “This despicable, ruddy-headed witch the Lunaris speak of, she unleashed this monster upon us. Now she hides in there.” The Commander pointed over the men’s heads, in the direction of the limestone columns to their rear. “A dragon with no eyes, only the darkest, most twisted evil could conceive of that.” He crossed his arms. “But the wise sons of Luna believe what a witch does, a witch can also undo.” He looked at the ground for a moment, then lifted his face back to the gathered soldiers. “You men, you weapons of the realm, like myself you surely thought witches only existed in stories our nan’s told us for a fright.” His eyebrows rose, and his voice growled with rage. “Also, like me, you witnessed your brothers-in-arms being slaughtered by this hideous witch’s servant.”

  The footmen grumbled and spat at the ground with the mention of the terrible fate that befell their lost comrades. They quieted with their commander’s raised hand.

  The Commander said, “We will find the witch.” He placed his hands on his hips and his voice grew louder. “We will bind the witch.” His head tilted to one side and he drew a long, slow breath in through his nose. “We shall torture that irredeemable, little daughter of evil until she submits to Luna and our King.” He moved his head up and down in a slow nod. “She will rid our land of the dragon… then she will die.” He clutched the fur around his shoulders with both hands and thrust his chest forward. “And those Needler fools who follow her will paint these wretched, stone slabs red with their life’s blood!”

  The men raised their halberds and shouted, “Gallis!”

  “I know not what the rising sun and day may bring… but the night belongs to us!” The sound of steel sliding against leather echoed through the trees as the Commander drew his sword from its scabbard and held it high. “Now, we strike!”

  The footmen turned about to face the direction opposite the Commander. They lowered their halberds and began pouring through the narrow pass into the Needles two at a time, running briskly as they did so
. The body of men quickly funneled into the high, sharp, limestone slabs jutting up from the ground shouting battle-cries for their King and Country.

  A harsh screech echoed through the chill night air. More screeches joined it, one at a time, to make a cacophonous, ear-splitting chorus in the sky that swam around the charging footmen. The air whistled from long, diving wings and hooked yellow talons caught the moonlight as a parliament of owls descended.

  1: Leaves and Stones

  “I think this hand is going to be mine.” The Lump took the brown, leather cap off his head and ran one of his big hands through his dark hair. “I feel my luck changing. I feel it down in my gut!” He placed his cap back atop his head.

  It was a good day to sit outside and play cards. The air was cool, but the sun shone brightly in a clear sky. It was Spring in Aardland, and a rather pleasant one at that.

  “Just keep thinking that, big fellow.” Marty shuffled the deck of well worn playing cards while he spoke. “That feeling in your gut is likely just some bad milk you drank.” He dealt out the cards one at a time until each man had four.

  The two men sat at a bench outside the entry to The Turnip Bowl, the lone tavern in Windthorne. This tavern had been the Lump’s home for more than half his life. It was his aunt Wendy’s tavern, and she took him in more than a dozen years ago when his parents were killed by a dragon called Red-Line. The Lump had tangled with the dragon himself three months ago when he was recruited to drive it from the Needles. Unlike his parents, he survived the encounter. He didn’t kill the dragon, but he did gouge out its only eye. The other one was gouged out by his father, years before.

  Marty smiled while he looked at his cards. “I’ve been besting you six ways to sundown all afternoon.” The white-haired man tilted his head and looked across the bench at his much bigger opponent. “You should admit you’re no match for the mighty mind of Marty when it comes to playing leaves and stones.”

  Leaves and stones was a wagering game. Leaves was a reference to the cards each man held, stones were used to keep an account of who was winning and who was not. Both men had a pile of stones beside them. Marty, rather, had a pile of stones. The Lump had but a remaining few.

  “More like the muddy mind of Marty,” said the Lump. “Don’t forget who fixed your boots for you.”

  Marty had a bad habit of struggling to put on his boots. The source of the problem was, quite simply, that Marty was an idiot when it came to putting on boots. Without fail, he always tried to force his left boot onto his right foot. The Lump painted a red circle on the outside of Marty’s right boot so the man would always know which to put on first.

  “Yes, I remember.” Marty ran a hand over the center of his head where his white hair grew sparse. “I still think you are in league with that bum cobbler!”

  The Lump fanned out his cards and inspected them. “My gut told me right. I know I’ve got you beat this time.” His meaty hand pushed his remaining stones to the center of the bench. “Here’s ten stones, I’m all in.”

  Marty chuckled and pushed in ten stones of his own. “Let’s lay ‘em down. You first.” His smile stretched from ear to ear.

  The Lump laid down his cards. He had two sevens and two fours.

  Marty’s smile disappeared. “Not bad, Lump.” Marty showed his cards. “Not good, either.” He had four knaves, one of each suit.

  The Lump wrinkled up his face. “Are you sure you’re not cheating?”

  “Why would I need to cheat against a player as rotten as you?” Marty scooped up the stones. “You’re just lucky we aren’t playing for coppers - or silver!”

  The Lump shook his head. “You know I don’t have any coppers.” He pointed a thick finger at the other man. “We aren’t all as handy at trade as you.”

  Marty laughed and counted his stones.

  The Lump was surprised at how well tavern business suited Marty. He turned his responsibilities over to his white-haired friend when he set off to deal with Red-Line. Though Marty had no experience with that type of work, he took to it like a rabbit to the underbrush. He made a quite tasty stew, and had a gift for talking endlessly with travelers who came into the tavern. The Lump thought Marty’s gift for chatter should be considered a curse, but most folk looking for a meal seemed to prefer having their ears talked off to being left alone. There were some things about people that the Lump couldn’t understand. If he was honest, he had to admit that he didn’t understand most things about people.

  The Lump wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “I’ll never understand how a numb-noggin like you makes so much coin with tavern work.”

  Marty raised his eyebrows. “You could have plenty of coin too, Lump, if you let people pay your for your labor.” He swept the stones off the bench and into a crate for another game on another day.

  “You know I don’t do what I do to get coin.” The Lump grunted. “I do it because someone ought to.”

  Ever since the Lump returned from the Needles three months ago, he felt like a different person. He never wanted to be a hero, he proclaimed loud and often that heroes were fools. That changed when he returned from his trip. He came home without Tilley, his mule and best friend. Brigands killed Tilley. What the Lump brought back in her place was a burning hatred for outlaws and scoundrels. His father had been the Hero of Aardland, but the Lump was satisfied to be the protector of Windthorne.

  It was only recently that Windthorne seemed to need much protection. The unease stirred in the north during the trouble in the Needles migrated south to richer lands. Anytime brigands came within a days ride of his home village, the Lump greeted them with little patience to go with his little sword. Word was quickly spreading about the giant of a man that carried what seemed to be a child’s weapon.

  In truth, it wasn’t a child’s sword the Lump carried, it was his father’s. The sword was small because his father, Silas the Swift, was a small fellow. The Lump’s large size came from his mother.

  “Why do you take it on your own shoulders to keep Windthorne quiet?” Marty asked, “Shouldn’t that be a job for the King and his men-at-arms?”

  The Lump snorted out a short laugh. “They day I count on Rondal to take care of me is the day you can go on and bury my body.” He sighed. “Besides, if a girl less than half my size can face a dragon, I can scrap with a few of these louse-infested, muskrat-loving, mud-kissing brigands!”

  Marty looked up at the sky, then back to the Lump. “No matter how many ne’er-do-wells you thump over the head, it won’t bring Tilley back.”

  “No, it won’t.” The Lump shook his head. “But I might help some other cantankerous mule live out a long and natural life.”

  Marty held his hands out by his sides. “Why don’t you get a new mule? Wendy offered to help you find one.” He pointed at himself with his thumb. “Why, I’d even help pay for it, on account of you being my friend and all.”

  “No.” The Lump rubbed his bearded chin. “There ain’t ever going to be another mule as good as Tilley.” He stood up from his seat at the bench. “I guess you won the wager. I owe you a favor.”

  “Wonderful!” said Marty. “You’re going to help me put up the new sign over the tavern.” He stood and turned to look at the old, faded sign. “I made a new one.”

  “I suppose it’s past due,” said the Lump. “That one is pretty much weathered away.”

  “I made a sturdy one, built it to last.” Marty put his hands on his hips and cocked his head to one side. “The problem is, it’s heavy. I’ll need you to do most of the lifting.”

  “Somehow, I’m not surprised.” The Lump scratched behind his ear. “Tell me where it is and I’ll fetch it.”

  Marty pointed to the side of the tavern opposite the stable. “It’s around there, you can’t miss it, it’s a big sign-shaped thing wrapped in canvas.”

  “How would I ever find it without you?” asked the Lump. He turned and walked toward the far side of the tavern. “Tell me again, what shape was it?”

  Marty shouted, “Sign-shaped, just like the old one, but bigger and wrapped in canvas.”

  “Swine-shaped, I got it!” The Lump laughed and turned the corner.