For centuries mankind has inhabited the coastal lands of the Sea of Fallen Stars and founded great kingdoms that thrive to this day. To the west runs the continental ridgeline of the Thunder Peaks, bastions of stone and ice soaring miles into the sky in a twisting, meandering, jagged line north to south.

Only a handful of great mountain passes exist in the entire range, one being the High Vale, through which the Thunder trade-route runs, and the most commonly used by caravans heading east or west to do business.

To the north of the coastal kingdoms is found the ancient fey forests and glades of the elves, a land of legend and lost secrets, magic and wonders beyond comprehension and imagination.

It is a world where few humans have been welcomed, and fewer have dared to delve into past the border woods, for to do so, often resulted in a savage death at the hands of elves or monsters. Yet this changed when a flight of marauding dragons came against the elves and defeated even their considerable might of spell and blade; only a handful of great magicians and heroes of legend, human, elf and half-elf, stood side by side and dealt a decisive blow to the dragons.

In honor of these valiant heroes the elven lords and ladies declared the border woods to the south, south-west and west of their kingdoms would be given into the care of the hero’s and their descendants for the generations to come.

To this day, six-hundred years later, their descendants live in twelve distinct communities which form a common ground between the human kingdoms and the elven kingdoms.

Some of the places are legendary, home to great magicians and druids, such as Shadowdale. Others for places of great learning and mysterious secrets waiting to be discovered; each of the fourteen territories is as unique as the inhabitants and the terrain around them.

Most of humanity who do not live in this world between the kingdoms of humanity and the elves simply lump them into one common kingdom called “The Dales.”

Human leaders from the south and the west have learned to leave the Dales alone; for on their own the folks of the land are stout, stubborn, skilled and relentless fighters who have annihilated more than one army. While the folk’s of the Dale may argue and skirmish one with the other, to cross one is to cross all, harm one is to harm all, and so it is by such a united front the Dales have maintained their independence.

Yet there is one who will soon to return after two-hundred years of enforced exile; his ambitions to conquer the Dales are only exceeded by the revenge he desires on his eldest of foes, the grand druid known as Brother Hart. Though bound by oath and magic from stepping into any of the Dales, his agents have been at work to divide and undermine each of them, pitting one faction against another, brother against sister, moving and positioning piece after piece on the grand chess board.

In addition to these factions within the Dales, he controls via proxies many hoards of bandits, brigands and of monstrous tribes of giants, orcs, ogres and goblins under the iron guidance of dark priests who answer to him alone; when the orders to march are given, these priests will lead the tribes unto glorious conquest…

But even the grandest of plans can come undone by the simplest of actors in a play or a plot; especially when she is one who dreams of dragons!

₰₰ One ₰₰​

The ogres and orcs advanced on the seemingly abandoned encampment, tools and utensils tossed away in the panicked flight of its inhabitants, the central fire still blazing beneath a half-cooked boar which hung over the flames. Upon the command of their chieftain the orcs swarmed the simple log cabins, abandoned in advance of the orc war party entering the High Vale’s northern frontier.

Blood Drinker and his bodyguards – tough, muscle-bound, battle-scarred, stone-dense brained brutes to a one –claimed the boar for themselves and commenced to feast. The remaining raiders returned with their plunder, a vast collection of ale, spirits, beer and fresh meat, along with a few fine blades and sets of armor and shields.

“Something does not feel right, there is someone watching us,” Blood Drinker stated and gestured for some of his guards to spread out and take up watch positions. One half-ogre, Grinner, took shelter next to a massive stone of mottled gray-brown coloration surrounded by the debris of centuries of time beyond count. He took note of the gentle breeze that played across the stone with a soft whistling sound unlike anything he had ever heard before…

Nor would he hear it again…for he turned to face the stone after hearing a faint scraping sound, and gazed deep into the blazing glare of twin pools of molten-iron that declared he is to die.

₰​

Chieftain Blood Drinker lifted his mug of ale to his fellow tribesmen and declared their raid a success, “My fellow warriors we have won an awesome victory over the humans and human-kin in the lands long ago taken from us…” He went into a tirade of crimes and humiliations ‘inflicted’ upon orcs and ogres by the humans going back centuries, though his tribe arrived in the region only two decades ago.

“Now, with the might of Night Shades benefaction for our cause, we shall be rid of the humans and begin to build an empire of orcs and ogres,” he raised his arms high as the tribe cried out his name and that of the one who has supported their efforts. “Soon there will be more victories such as this one…ACK!”

His three-score count of orc and ogre followers looked on in horror, the arrow stuck to its fletching quivered in Blood Drinker’s heart. He gave a final half-growl, half-gurgle shout of defiance as his eyes glazed over and he plunged face-first into the roaring fire as Grinner screamed in unearthly horror.

As one, they all turned and gazed upon an apparition come to life – the one who has claimed Grinner. For the very ‘stone’ Grinner had sheltered behind rose to its full stature, waves of primordial terror flowed across the gathered tribe and caused them to run, scream, babble in mind-shattering terror, or beg for mercy where they knew none would be granted…

Slightly larger than a Clydesdale the great beast roared in triumph, its twin iron-hard, razor-sharp frills which run from skull to tail glistening in the evening light. Its mottled hide shifted in coloration to a sandy brown rent with iridescent fires, and its great jaw opened to reveal great teeth of glistening ivory capable of cleaving the strongest of armor.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

In quick succession three of the orcs toppled to the ground and flopped about like a landed fish as they passed onto the next world. Each one had a similar arrow planted deep into their heart; the fletching confirmed it to be the same as which felled Blood Drinker. In five heartbeats, five more orcs fell.

At that moment the great beast unleashed a ground-shaking, mind-rending, battle-loving scream as it leapt into the gathered mass of flesh and bone. Razor-sharp projections along its limbs and side flared out and rent flesh as its whip-like tail – keen edged and hitting with the force of a giant – slashed left and right on its rampage of destruction.

One orc warrior, braver or dumber than the rest challenged the great beast as he whirled his spear around in a display of martial prowess many a soldier would have envied. “Face me dragon for I know of your kind, I, Huntsman Reaver, have slain over a score of your kin and am not impressed…”

A moment later the mighty dragon stepped upon the smoldering corpse of Huntsman Reaver, reduced to char and cooked flesh by its fiery breath. “You think these brutes would realize by now,” the dragon said, sheer contempt for the orcs and ogres in a voice akin to a rockslide on the move, “I have no others of my kind, and none are my equal…’

For some time the orgy of death continued as orcs and ogres, fell to the dragon and the unseen archer one upon another. As the twin moons began their climb into the evening sky, both returned to the abandoned village.

The dragon sniffed the air and cringed, his nose wrinkled in disgust. “These blasted orcs and their kin never seem to understand something as simple as bathing…” he said to his companion, whose melodious laughter reminded one of wind chimes merged with the bubbling voice of a alpine brook.

“Come, come Marcus, you know the orc-kin in the Thunder Peaks do not get such niceties as bathing,” she said while pulling back her cloaks hood, ending the magical concealment endowed in its fabric.

Returning to full visibility she stood before Marcus and looked over his hide, took note of the new scratches that laced the toughened scales which few weapons, manufactured or natural, could pierce; most weaponry shattered before reaching the soft flesh sheltered underneath.

“Three years, thirty-five orc-kin tribes, bandits, raiders, and their monstrous allies we have invested in time or reaped in battle to ensure the safety of the High Vale.” She looked up into Marcus’s blazing eyes and continued, “Our profits, such as we get, go to help out in the Dales wherever Brother Hart has found need of the funds…”

“And as for your earlier comment yes, you are unique in the world,” she smiled at him, “no other dragon or dragon-kin can claim to be close to what you are…” she circled around his mass as she spoke, inspecting him to ensure no hidden injuries had occurred, “there are no others like you…”

Marcus turned his head and looked upon her lithe form, “You mean we my dear Snow Cat have no one like us in the entire world,” he reminded her with all due politeness that belied the savage reputation of dragon-kind.

He watched the gentle breeze play with the bangs of her snow-white, amber-threaded hair; tears began to emerge in her eyes of liquid emerald-green. Her feline ears fell and that sleek tail ceased its calm flowing from side to side, while a soft sniffle reached his ears; the warning sign of a storm about to break loose from his cat-girl companion.

Marcus lifted his eyes to the heavens, sighed, and wondered when he will learn not to say such things.

He moved deeper into the woods near a bubbling brook and away from the accursed smell of the orcs and ogres; then he settled on the ground, drew his tail up over his forelimbs, flapped his own majestic ears shut and curled up to sleep out the tempest Snow Cat unleashed upon the world in wave after wave of feline fury any covey of Harpies would have been envious of…

An hour later, her fury spent and utterly exhausted, Snow Cat plopped down on the ground, curled up next to Marcus, and then fell into a deep, dream-troubled sleep she shared with Marcus due to their unique heritage.

Marcus remained troubled by the matter his sharp, inhuman mind refused to let go of – the name given by the orc chief…Night Shade.

Both of them have fought and defeated small sects and cells of the dark goddess called Shar, and her priesthood commonly known as the Night Shades…So are they facing another such sect, or is it something more?

“Enough of that Marcus, please quiet your thoughts so I can sleep…” Snow Cat mumbled to him, her voice half slurred due to her exhaustion. “We need to head back to High Castle…”

Marcus opened his eyes and looked at Snow Cat.

He saw that her blanket had fallen free of her shoulder, causing her to shiver in the chilled night air. With a display of amazing dexterity, he delicately placed the blanket back over her with his teeth, then moved his massive bulk around her to keep her warm…tough as she may be, she did have limitations that left her exposed with the raw elements.

“Yes, tomorrow we shall return to High Castle and collect our payment for dealing with the raiders,” Marcus said to no one in particular. “Once again, we will have to deal with people who cannot accept who, or what, we are; no, we are just a bunch of ‘coin-greedy mercenaries who work for the highest bidder…’ instead of folks who want to make a difference…”

“Brother, shut up before I bash you on the nose…” Snow Cat softly said in her state of half-slumber.

Marcus snorted in bemusement at the contrasts between him and her. “At least Brother Hart is noble enough to look past our origins; after all he had managed to raise the two of us over the centuries since we came into the world…”

He shut up when Snow Cat daintily smashed her fist onto his armored nose.

 

To dream...

₰₰ Two ₰₰​

During the night Snow Cat dreamed of ancient times and places, of other beings she is a part of yet is not. With the dreams comes the song, a melody older than time itself; and yet always as new and expanding as the first dawn of light that caresses a newborn faun born under the stars. The song speaks to her of the earth and sky, of fire and water, all elements locked in eternal conflict and yet in harmony.

It calls out with the force of the tempest, speaks unto her with the power of an untamable firestorm; shouts with the raging surge of the tsunami and roars as the earth during a great quake. It is eternal, familiar and comforting, and one she knows to the fibers of her soul, and one she fears answering…

Too many questions without answers come to her within that song, and more questions in the dreams it brings her into. In her slumber she felt the gentle caress and comforting touch of Marcus via their mind-to-mind link, a feat they were both born with. HE had found the answers to the questions she asks, questions he insists only she can answer when she chooses to do so.

So it is in the night she dreams of another, seeing through his eyes of a time long past and seeks for answers that may not exist…

₰​

I sat there by the great pond, listening to the cornucopia of sounds which flowed and merged one into another. The small waterfall cascading across the rocks, the birds trilling their songs of love and life, and then the sound of a certain lady swimming nude in the pond…

“The water is wonderful Rin, I love how warm and steamy it is, it makes my skin tingle as the bubbles from beneath come to the surface,” Sandra called out to me, her voice melodious and filled with joy.

For the sake of propriety I kept my back turned to her, as some manner of decorum must be followed until she says otherwise. However, due to an ‘accident’ of my chosen location I did manage to see her out of the corner of my eye, carefully monitoring the young lady I had found injured in the mountains not too far from here. Her rich amber hair and eyes glowed with primordial fires, something that caught me off guard…

No matter though, for in the few weeks she has stayed with me to recover and learn of the mountains, I have come to love her – mind, body and indomitable spirit. I can only hope to have the affection returned in the same measure.

I cleared my throat that suddenly went as dry as a desert in a drought. “I find the pond is good to relax in, though sometimes it’s a bit on the small side,” I stated to her and waited for her response, if any were given.

No response came nor noise of her in the water.

I could not see her out of the corner of my eyes nor hear her breathing or her heartbeat with my preternaturally keen senses. In the sudden silence I called twice more, genuine concern having creeped into my voice.

Silence still reigned across the pond; not even the birds and insects cried out, chirped or a hundred other signs of life in the area…it occurred to me that one of my old foes may be in the area, even now approaching me with my back to them, ready to rend me apart with their talons…

Enough is enough; I decided that if death was coming I will meet it head on as one of my kind should…

I rolled to my side and started to arise when I discovered a very beautiful and wondrous thing occurring there before my eyes…

Sandra was halfway out of the water, propped on her elbows. The wet hair, dripping on the stone, flowing down to encompass her bared breasts that glistened with droplets of water that gleam like a thousand diamonds; combined with her glowing smile; started my heart to racing away faster than ever before.

“You say this pool is on the small side? This thing is big enough you can drop a house four floors in height into it with room for a massive barn and many other buildings at the same time!” She shook her head and looked at me with an impish grin of bemusement. Her eyes danced with that ancient power, and the song of all of my kind danced and flowed from her heart and being; merged and linked forever with me…

With my keen senses I easily caught the heat of desire coming out in her, her heart beating a little faster; her breathing is a bit more rapid and shallow. Her eyes casually swept over my body; taking in each molded shape of muscles and frame, the tiniest wisp of a lustful smile playing on her damp lips.

The slight chill of the air causes the heated water clinging to her body to rise in small columns of steam; they carry her scent and odors into his nose, a cornucopia of sweet fragrances that I savor like a taster of wine savors the mixture of sensations to the refined pallet.

As she leans across me to pick up her towel, I beheld the droplets of water clinging to her shiny skin dance with the light passing through them; causing a number of brief, miniature rainbows to appear. Looking at her smiling face, I arched my eyebrows up and down in rapid, playful and suggestive movements, drawing a tittering laugh from her that was a mixture of fun and desire.

She reached down for support with one delicate hand, missing the knee for which it was to rest upon with such grace and dainty joy that would make any mans heart melt away. Instead, it caught me fully upon the one portion of a man’s anatomy we all dread having crushed in the Nutcracker maneuver, intentionally or not…

Her astonished gasp of shock and a cringe of sympathetic horror was beyond my ken at that moment as my eyes crossed between their respective sockets, mouth clenched shut as a series of soft, kitten-like mewling sounds fled far away. Smoke and steam cascaded in massive columns that clawed for the heavens far above the two of us as my brain imploded in searing waves of pain…

Ever so slowly, as if time itself was determined to hold onto the moment of the most horrendous embarrassment I could have happen, my body toppled forward into the pond. My foot caught Kimberly behind the calf of her leg and pulled her in with me, she gave off an earth-shattering scream of terror that caused hideously ugly and smelly harpy miles away to clap in sadistic glee.

We surfaced facing each other and giggled from the embarrassment which played upon our faces.

That eternal song of my kind, which had already linked me to her and her unto me, played loud and clear, and in that instant I understood the truth of the lady before me. Something I should have been aware of from the first moment we met. Goes to show that no matter how many centuries of life you live, with or without company, an old fool is still a fool…just like me!

“So you are a dragon in human shape? Or are you a half-blood who is not aware of her heritage?” I dared to ask her, dreading the answer if I guessed wrong, but ask I must. In my life I have learned that to dream and dare to follow that dream, to choose to be more than the mortal frame you come into the world with, and defines who you are and what you become.

I am a dragon, the ruler of all in the mountains for hundreds of miles. I am the one who has seen mighty realms rise and fall a dozen times over in my centuries of life. I am he who has loved other dragons and humans and elves; I have watched them pass into the mists of eternity when their mortal bodies finally succumbed to death in the end.

Countless times I have dared to dream, and to pursue those dreams; to grow into more than being ‘just another dragon.’ I am more than ‘dragon’ even within the eternal song we are all linked by; for I have chosen to be me.

Sandra smiled and gave me a coy look, then nodded her head. “It sure as heck took you long enough to figure that out, as ancient and wise and all-powerful as you are Rin. I have heard you dream and sing in the song for the last thirty-seven years and have sought you out; I wanted to be with you since that first time my dreams were linked with yours, and so I dared to dream of finding my love, and in the journey have become who I want to be…I want to be yours if you will have me Rin?”

“Sandra if we go through with this you know what it means…” I began to ask of her, but was shushed by her silent nod.

“I am a Song Dragon and you are a Metallic Bronze, one of the ‘lawful’ and ‘good’ of our kind,” she declared, “it is not forbidden by anyone for our kind to intermingle or even become mates. Our children will reside among humanity and grant their protection to those who are even now founding the Dales. I hope they have my eyes though…”

I saw her eyes for the first time in their true form, twin pools of liquid-silver moonlight that captivated my mind as it captured my heart.

She scooted up to me and placed her arms around my body, then kissed me with her burning lips that held passion beyond imagination. So it was that we, two dragons of different bloodlines – me of the metallic bronze, she a song-dragon – entered into a dance of love and desire, a union consummated that very hour…

So it is we became a couple and soon a family; in the generations to come our descendants will found the order called the Sisters of Essembra.

₰​

Her startled gasp escaped past her lips as she woke in wide-eyed panic. So powerful was the union of dragon with dragon in the dream it still held onto her being. Her breath came in labored, rasping gasps as she tried to swallow but her parched lips prevented it. “Why did that one have to come to me again? Every time we come to the High Vale I have that same dream, it makes me feel so…”

Her eyes locked onto those of Marcus who had awakened to see what had so alarmed her.

She blushed, a fiery red that shone from beneath the soft short fur that covered her cheeks. Her tail swished rapidly back and forth in clear sign of her absolute embarrassment. “Not one word Marcus, not one word…’ she said to him as he chuckled and she drifted off to sleep again.

“Sister of mine you are who you choose to be, not what your body or form dictate. I am a dragon and yet I am your brother as when we came into the world…” She felt in the mind-to-mind sharing of Marcus the mental shrug he gave. Snow Cat pulled the blanket ever tighter around herself, tears cascading down her cheeks as Marcus hummed ancient songs of the dragons and times long past, songs known to him instinctively as he is a true dragon…and known to Snow Cat in her soul…

Where does a cat-girl who is not one, and yet is one, fit into the larger world…why can she not be what she wants to be…

Marcus gently nuzzled her with his large head, reassuring her that all will be fine, and in time she will have the desired answers.

 

i FOUND you

- grumble - grumble - now I gotta go search my tomes for references of SONG dragons

 

All I will say for now Darthel is there are more surprises to come; in this tale I explore new twists to dragons and those around them. Just be patient and in due time all shall be revealed (in more ways than one!)

I am doing something different with this saga, its about 2/3 written and still open ended; new sections will be posted about once a week due to the pending CAW 16 challenge.

 

Your chaos is showing.

Well written and engaging.

 

Very engaging snow.
As usual, you've drawn the reader into a world that is not their own and within a short period of time, shown this world to us in a manner that makes it easy to imagine it. Well done.

 

One of his best qualities it the ability to paint a picture using words.

 

Bruteforce, Darthel and TCO - thank you very much.

 

Since people have been asking...

₰₰ Three ₰₰​

“If you come down on the price three-pence per dozen, I will buy the remainder in one bundle,” Brother Hart said to the old merchant, a lady renowned for her hot temper, hackling laugh and shrewd eye for goods of high quality and value. He gave her a warm, gentle, flirtatious smile that drew a sweet chuckle past her lips and a grin of pure mirth.

Behind him he heard a patrol of High Vales famed Pegasus Archery Company pass through the market square.
The sight of the disciplined, bow-armed, lightly armored warriors and magicians astride their winged mounts still thrilled him as on his first visit to the community. Its members casually waved to him as he has long since become a common sight in the market due to his travels around the Dales.

“Are you still interested in making a purchase or fantasizing about them winged horses good Brother?” the lady, Melina Strong-heart, said to him, her voice cutting through his daydream as a keen-edged axe bites deep and hard into a tree. He gave her a sheepish grin and paid for the goods which went into his nearly full haversack.

“Brother Hart in all seriousness there is something you should know,” Melina said with a clear look of fear on her face. She gestures with one hand for him to draw closer as they pretended to examine and bicker over an old book she had brought out from a satchel she wore. “This showed up five days ago, and the one called “Owl” insisted I give it to you for your perusal; plus a message concerning those wayward whelps of yours…”

She paused at the sudden scowl which crossed Brother Harts face.

His gentle continence became hard, cold and fierce as his eyes flared with azure-blue fires and she stumbled to get her next words out, “…she said that I am to tell you ‘the Sisters are watching your wards, we have yet to determine where they stand in the Dales.’ She then commented on the fact that the orcs and ogres are none too appreciative about the ongoing war those two are waging on the tribes in the mountains…”

Brother Hart held up one finger to silence her and stated in an iron-hard voice, “Melinda, go and tell your fellow Sisters my message for them. The first of their order who dares to lay a hand on my ‘whelps’ deals with me; and they need to recall the last time my wrath was raised. That portion of the great desert still remains lifeless to this very day…”

Seeing the fear deep in her soul he knew his message was understood.

“Now then,” he said as he calmed down and placed the book in his haversack, “tell ‘Owl’ my thanks for the book and for her constant support, and I know very well what the book means. Also tell ‘Snowflake’ that she is the one my warning is meant for as she leads the Sisters. I will inform the leaders of the Dales and the villages to the south and west of us about the raiders.”

He shouldered his haversack and bowed to the still shaken Melinda. “Now if you will excuse me my ‘wayward whelps’ should be back by now. I have some new spells to teach them…”

He shook his head and sighed as the thundering retort of a spell-blast reached his ears.

“They’re here…’ he said and gave off another long sigh, one that bespoke of a man accustomed to long suffering and pandemonium that is induced by his most unusual of wards…

Brother Hart looked upward as the sound of neighing and beating wings caught his attention. Pegasus-born riders headed for the source of the spell-blast, their bows at the ready. His preternaturally keen senses detected the lethal magic contained in the knocked arrows…something that should not be; for the rules of the Pegasus Archery Company do not allow such to be wielded…

He gave off another deep sigh and looked around, “Just great, those youngsters are in trouble again.” When he spotted the small shrub growing among the hard-scrabble ground he grinned and called upon the ancient mystic lore of the druidic order to which he belonged. People in the market square watched and gawked as his form became translucent, gradually dissipating into sparkles of light that descended into the shrub and the deepest layers of the rock below.

Brother Hart was not fond of ‘stone walking’ as such magic is commonly called, yet there are occasions such as now when necessity demands it to be done. In the twinkling of an eye he crossed High Castle and emerged from a vine draped over a large stone wall…

Just in time to be flung to the ground by a massive spell-blast that shook the area. He heard the joy-filled battle cry of Marcus and knew his wards were in desperate trouble.

In the blink of an eye, with more grace than a cat and the strength of an elephant Brother Hart twirled, leaped up and landed on the balls of his feet, hands clenched around a blazing ball of white-hot death summoned into the world by his magic.

Another ground-shaking, stone-splitting, bone-jarring spell-blast shook the area and nearly toppled Brother Hart for a second time. Shouts of joy and triumph echoed across the land as he charged around the edge of the stone wall and saw the band of armed men who surrounded Marcus and Snow Cat, and shouted for his children to duck…

The men stared slack-jawed at the glowing orb of pulsating fury matched only by the blazing anger in his eyes.

“Get away from them now,” he declared in a voice that demanded instant compliance, “You dare to threaten them as your other assassins fly this way…”

His remaining words were drowned out as the stone wall collapsed, along with the rest of the massive old tower it had been attached to, and fell on him. He did not know what was worse – being embarrassed from assuming the men threatened his children, having the wall unexpectedly fall upon him, or feeling the hellish forces of the orb unleashed upon him beneath the massive heap of stone rubble.

 

the saga continues...

₰₰ Four ₰₰​

“Papa,” Snow Cat and Marcus shouted as the two watched the stone tower fall upon their adoptive father. The farmer, his family, and a patrol of the Pegasus Archers Company who had stopped by to see the spectacle rushed over to the smoldering heap of debris and began to move the stones one after another to save the man most of them called mentor or friends.

“Marcus come on we got to save him!” Snow Cat shouted, concern and fear blended in equal measure for the man she has called father for the last two hundred years. “He may be a crazy-old immortal and eccentric human but he is my papa…’ she cried out as her magic, a complex spell used to telekinetically move objects failed to dislodge any of the massive stones.

“Blast it I can’t even do normal magic to save him!” she roared in desperate frustration.

“Marcus, get your fat tail over here and help me!” she shouted again and again until she looked at him with fury blazing in her eyes. The sight of Marcus caused her anger to dissipate, true alarm rising as she turned to see what he gazed upon in the sky…

Marcus pawed the ground, digging great furrows into the loose earth and gouging hard stone. His wings flared out in full, glistening with iridescent fires and his tail swept to-and-fro as he worked himself into a battle rage as his ancient foes approached…

Sergeant Kenneth Broad-Leaf, long standing member of the Pegasus Archer Company, looked from Marcus’s molten-iron eyes to the ‘patrol’ coming in towards them, bows already knocked with arrows that glowed in the light. “Does anyone recognize them?” not one of his men did, “They are not members of our company…”

“Are you sure Sergeant?” Marcus inquired with a roar, his massive chest heaving like a great bellow hooked to a mighty forge. Everyone save for Snow Cat began to back up; their hearts pounded in growing fear and panic induced by the surging, growing, magnifying aura of primordial power that radiated from Marcus.

“Yes…yes Marcus they’re not of the company…” Sergeant Kenneth’s words were cut off by the sudden roar of Marcus who soared into the sky born aloft on wings that blazed with iridescent fires. As he regained control over himself Kenneth shouted for his men to get to their mounts and help Marcus out.

“Blast it already! My bow is back at the inn!” Snow Cat shouted, utterly frustrated by her inability to join in the battle high overhead. She heard the farmer rush his family back into their stone house and bolt the door tight in a futile effort to keep his kinfolk safe; she stomped hard on a stone which had shifted beneath her feet.

On a hunch Snow Cat focused on the fake patrol which spread out to ensure Marcus could be shot at from all sides and heights; she called forth to her mind the words of a spell of nullifying, a magic which unweaves spells, magical affects, rendering them harmless or useless. She finished calling out words of power and bound the mystical threads of the world to her will; one hand lifted to the fake patrol and unleashed the glowing power that danced around her fingertips.

The bluish-grey beam slashed across the nearest member of the fake patrol, cleaving the disguising magic and allowing their true nature to be revealed…

“Oh great, wyverns with riders, Marcus be careful!” she screamed to him. Wyverns, smaller kin to the true dragons such as Marcus the dimwitted brutes in and of themselves would be no threat to him, poison-stinger tail or not, save that the dozen man-like forms astride them included at least one user of magic…


Actually, more like three, as small pebble-sized orbs of fire cleaved through the sky towards her. In a screaming burst of motion Snow Cat leapt from the pile of rubble and wrapped her cloak around herself as tight as she could just before the thundering blasts of three fireballs tore into her followed an instant later by hellish heat, pressure and flame no mortal creature could survive...

Almost no creature that is, as one wyvern-rider and his mount discovered a moment later as he confidently swooped over the scene of Snow Cats ‘last stand.’ He scowled at the sudden sight of her blazing liquid emerald-green eyes…and learned a moment later what it meant to be on the receiving end of a white-hot lightning bolt that forked outward and took down the other two riders and their mounts.

Snow Cat watched with growing apprehension the aerial battle between the wyvern-riders and Marcus, a ballet of death carried out in sweeping arcs and rapid dives followed by desperate beating of wings to regain the high ground advantage.

The wyvern-riders, expert archers indeed, scored hit upon hit upon hit on Marcus with their enchanted arrows. Each time a barrier of magical force absorbed or deflected the force of impact, leaving Marcus unharmed, then a flare of golden fires swept over him, and he became a blur of motion as he triggered a common battle-magic called ‘Hastening.’

“Oh beautiful move Marcus, beautiful…’ Snow Cat proclaimed. She knew the magic of a Hastening allowed the recipient of the magic to literally swim through time, always two or three steps ahead of their foes, and thus all the deadlier in close battle…

The wyvern-riders never had a chance as he shredded them apart one by one; the last falling to the earth as Sergeant Kenneth and his men soared on their Pegasus-mounts into the sky.

When Marcus landed on the still smoldering heap of stone he stretched to the heavens and rose on his hind legs, unleashed a roar of savage triumph; then he became sheepishly embarrassed as Snow Cat stood nearby, tapping on one foot with both arms crossed over her singed and smoldering shirt. He gently blew away some of the soot and ash bound in her snow-white hair and licked her face clean as she impotently slapped him on his armored head.

A stone shifted and fell away from the heap of rubble and spared Marcus the hell storm Snow Cat was about to unleash.

From the hollow spot beneath steam and smoke flowed upward in great columns of blackened ruin. Hacking and coughing Brother Hart climbed out and fell to his knees, then looked at his children in turn. “What are you two just standing around for, there are some fake Pegasus-company riders coming this way…”

He stopped speaking as Snow Cat and Marcus walked off to the farmers’ house, she complaining about her brothers ‘constant need to show off.’ His gaze fell upon the ruined carcasses of the wyverns and their riders as Sergeant Kenneth and his men landed nearby.

“And here I thought they were the ones in danger…” he said as he stood up and went to speak with the good Sergeant to find out what the heck is going on this time. “At least I can feast on some fairly fresh wyvern, been a few years since my last treat of wyvern steak and meat-pies…”

“Interesting children you have there good Brother Hart,” Sergeant Kenneth declared as he and his men led their Pegasus-mounts to the heap of rubble that Brother Hart stood upon. “I wish I had a brother and sister like them, the mischief I could have gotten all of us into…”

“Is nothing compared to the mischief those two did get into in their decades long youth,” Brother Hart said to Sergeant Kenneth as he joined the riders band. He looked away from Kenneth to his men and then clarified, “I adopted and raised those two; raised them as my own and thus that is how they are ‘brother and sister.’ As you can easily see, she is a cat-girl and he is a true dragon…and together they are chaos given life.”

Kenneth laughed, slapped the good Brother on his back and imagined the pure mischief Snow Cat and Marcus had inflicted upon the old man.

Later on in the barracks he and his men discussed the matter of the days battle with the wyverns and their riders, though they could find no concrete answers and one massive mystery – how did Brother Hart survive for so long buried under hundreds of tons of stone and debris…even with such magic as he had at his command?

Sergeant Kenneth had no answers for his men and decided to peruse the matter at a later date as he intended to go fishing that fine afternoon at the local pond.

His commander though informed him a few minutes later of his new orders – to lead a diplomatic escort of guards, magicians and priests to Shadowdale with the caravan headed by Master Roerich…

The escort is for three High Vale Councilmen who are to conduct matters of trade and diplomacy; the first two gave no problems for the Sergeant when they were named – Brenner and Justinian, people he has served under in the past.

The third…that one nearly caused Sergeant Kenneth to quit the Pegasus Archery Company on the spot!

“Councilman Cronus,” Sergeant Kenneth covered his eyes with a hand and groaned while falling back into a chair. “Why does that one have to be along, weeks of his unending, self-serving, wind-bag lectures at Master Roerich – they hate each other…”

“Not quite Sergeant,” his commander declared, “Roerich does not hate the man, but I have been informed you are to work with two others – two hired by Roerich for their unique abilities – and to listen to their specific commands and directives; they have much you can learn and are hated all the worse by Cronus…”

The good Sergeant decided that becoming a monk in the far southern deserts would be preferable, for all in the High Vale knew of the fanatical loathing Cronus held for Marcus and Snow Cat; then he was shown a set of old documents from the founding of the company over a century before, documents regarding Snow Cat…

He whistled in shock and nodded, agreeing with his commander when the instructions of ‘follow her commands and directives.’

 

₰₰ Five ₰₰​

Late in the evening, in the smallish barn behind the ‘Sword-smiths Inn’ where Snow Cat and Marcus stayed, they and Brother Hart discussed their dealing with their latest adventures. Brother Hart shook his head at the latest mayhem these two have inflicted upon the orc-kin, and ogre-kin, tribes which inhabit the forbidding mountains north of the High Vale.

“A friend of mine mentioned that the tribes are not amused by your successes,” he said unto Snow Cat and Marcus. “Now then, according to the Pegasus-riders Captain, and the local Sheriff it appears these tribes hired some assassins to deal with the both of you once and for all; and given the magical armament they had carried, they want you very, very dead.”

Snow Cat, seated on the ground next to Marcus, stopped combing her snow-white hair. Alarmed, she looked on Brother Hart and gulped. She then pushed away lockets of hair blown over her eyes by a hot burst of air from Marcus – it showed his contempt for mere orc-hired assassins.

“It could not have been the orc and ogre chieftains,” Marcus said with calm confidence in his deductions. “On several occasions the chieftains we have eliminated spoke of ‘Night Shades,’ in the singular and plural. So we may be facing a sect or two of the dark goddess Shar in the region.”

Marcus continued, “Given the level of training and organization the orc-kin tribes have been showing lately, especially with some of them now riding the stone-brained pathetic-excuses-for-dragon-kin wyverns. Given a few years, and sufficient support and leadership such as these evil priests, they could become a dangerous force to deal with.”

“I figured as much, and there may be more behind it than just the priests; many of my animal and elven friends in the wilds have spoken of a great darkness now in the Dales.” He pulled from his haversack the book given to him by Melinda. As he handed it to Snow Cat, he explained that there are others ‘keeping an eye on them.’ He did not mention of the Sisters of Essembra, for Marcus and Snow Cat have crossed arms with them and their agents in the past.

“No matter what we will be here for a few days and I have some new magic to teach you two…” he saw the looks on their faces. He sighed and shook his head, “Okay what now…”

“Papa we are leaving tomorrow with a caravan to Shadowdale via the old river trail,” Snow Cat said with real trepidation in her voice. “Marcus noted that some of the armor the orcs wore came from that area. We want to check it out and see what we can dig up...”

Brother Hart sighed, and then covered his face with a hand as he shook his head, “please, please for heavens sake; try not to destroy anything while you are in Mistledale, not this time! Remember that when you ‘inadvertently’ set fire to High Lord Heresk’s meeting hall, his residence and his prized horse-drawn coach…it took years for you two to work off the damage.”

“Very well,” Marcus said with a sigh and held up one claw, “I promise not to torch those areas even if Lord Hot Head the High Lord Heresk of Mistledale dares to challenge me to personal combat, and wound up missing the seat of his britches. If he tries to make a play on Snow Cat and tries to kill her again, there will be nothing to hold me back!”

“Great, just great, my iron-hided brother is once again interfering in my love life…” Snow Cat began as she crossed her arms and looked at Marcus with eyes glowing with green flames. Waves of feline fury flowed off of her, radiating out so far and fast that all people within a hundred or so paces grew uncomfortable, they sought the source of this unease, never having placed its origins with a certain cat-girl…

“Hold it there Snow Cat, tune down the ‘raging feline’ act of yours before you cause a stampede or ten,” Hart warmed her in a tone of ‘father knows best,’ and ‘father will not be denied or disrespected.’ He held up his hands before her, which silencec while her eyes still raged with a tempest akin to Marcus in battle. “I do know better than to argue with the two of you once your minds have been made up. Just remember though, the folks of Mistledale will give you no problems at all, you are well known there as here in the High Vale.”

Brother Hart sighed as Snow Cat impatiently tapped her foot and Marcus chuckled. “How akin these two are and yet so different,” he said to himself, “in battle she is calm and iron-willed while Marcus is the hot blooded, devil-may-care, claws-to-steel brawler. In all other matters Snow Cat is as temperamental as anything…”

Hart breathed deeply, and exhaled slowly, his impatience with Snow Cat banished. “Now in Archendale and in Deepingdale you will have problems. They have been harassed by wyverns and other dragon-kin; you may want to check that out as well as your path crosses that region…”

He paused and shook his head, and laughed at himself.

“Never mind you do as you deem best, I have to remember not to impose my will on you two.” Brother Hart smiled at Snow Cat and Marcus. “I am so proud of you two, all that you have accomplished and how unique the two of you are in the world…”

“Oh no, why, why did you have to say that…” Marcus asked as his ears lowered along the sides of his head and he curled up into a tightly formed armored ball. He chuckled when Brother Hart gulped in consternation, and listened with silent glee as Snow Cats tempest-strength rage dumped on their adoptive father for some time.

Marcus mulled over Brother Harts comment, as he and Snow Cat are truly unique in this world; and in more than one way…

Over two-hundred years ago a mad magician, dedicated to the forces of darkness, experimented with captured dragon eggs. He sought to infuse the life-force many monsters and near-human creatures; always he sought to create the ‘perfect army’ to complete his conquest of the Dales.

Brother Hart brought those plans to a crashing end, crushed the mad magicians armies and enforced a magical banishment on the mad magician which would last for two centuries of time. The surviving dragon eggs came to Shadowdale with Hart, where he tended to them day by day, as loving a father as if he had sired each unborn dragon himself.

Sadly, as the months flowed into a year and more, only one egg proved viable; the rest had perished due to the foul magic of the mad magician. From that lone egg was born Marcus, a being forged of three different dragon bloodlines; yet one other, a twin, was born as well…one who is a dragon and not a dragon…

Soon the sounds of his deep, steady, bellows-intense snoring filled the barn…

 

OK. You are bringing out the uniqueness of the two. Let's see where you take us.

 

Thank you Darthel, I have been releasing the new parts more often due to the number of PM requests I have received.

 

₰₰ Six ₰₰​

The hunter advanced through the shadows unto the small barn shared by Marcus and Snow Cat it halted as the cat-girl unleashed an ear-splitting, stone-shaking, bone-breaking, keening scream of feminine feline fury at something the one called Brother Hart had declared moments before. The raging tempest of the cat-girl had confirmed its quarry is finally at hand and it can show up those brick-brained wyverns what real carnage and cunning is all about.

Having reached the side of the barn it paused and focused its preternaturally keen hearing on those who still remained within its sheltering confines. It heard and then saw Brother Hart leave the barn by a small side door with such speed that an owl took wing from the barn, circled thrice and then perched on a high tree branch to witness the coming battle.

The owl hooted at Brother Hart as the man walked up to the tree and placed his hands upon it, invoked the magic of his Druidic faith and disappeared into the depths of the slender pine. Two other owls circled the barn before joining the first at its perch; probably a family unit as far as the hunter was concerned.

From the far side of the barn came the cry of a field mouse nearly caught by another owl, followed by the death scream of a mouse less fortunate than its brethren. Inch by inch the hunter closed the distance to the small side door that hung wide open, allowing it to hear the rhythmic snoring of Marcus.

“All too easy an end to this mission,” the hunter said to itself. It imagined the praise, honor and fortune its master will heap upon it for the death of Marcus and Snow Cat. “Yes, Night Shade will be pleased…” it fell silent as a chain of owl hoots carried out through the wooded land around the barn. Detecting no threats or hidden foes it continued to advance on the door…

The hunter, a dragon-kin commonly known as an “Ambush Drake’ for its particular hunting style, crouched, ready to spring and smash its way into the barn. Its ears flared back alongside of its skull as it anticipated the thrill of its six-inch fangs and talons tearing into Marcus’s flesh and its nigh-impervious hide in turn deflecting blow after inefficient blow from Marcus as he knew terror and died a slow, pain-filled death.

It will feed on the carcass of Marcus and then of the cat-girl…

The Ambush Drake paused as it realized for the first time that the cat-girl was not in the barn, for it had not seen or heard her leave…

“The owls,” it said as the first of three magically charged arrows slammed into its body, piercing the armored hide it so long believed to be impervious, and screamed as the magical essence of lightning contained in each arrow wracked its body from nose to tail and back again…white-hot pain crashed into its mind as muscles and nerves refused to obey any command given to them…

The hunter opened its mind to reach out unto its master, and had time to declare “Master I have failed, as have the wyvern-riders earlier today…both told…old man…caravan tomorrow…river route…”

Its trial of pain and suffering ended a moment later, when the unyielding force of Marcus’s jaws completely crushed its neck.

₰​

From the roof of the Sword-Smith Inn a lone figure watched as Marcus and Snow Cat explained what had gone on minutes before when they ambushed the Ambush Drake just outside the small barn. His preternaturally keen hearing easily picked up each question pressed by members of the Pegasus Archery Company who had been sent to investigate the disturbance.

Rannoch, priest of the dark goddess Shar, learned more of how his enemies worked and thought; especially as they gave detailed accounts of dealing with the Ambush Drake. At one point he raised an eyebrow in surprise, “So they can speak the language of the Avian’s? The owls alerted them to the Ambush Drakes approach and assisted them in a counter ambush…hmmm.”

He felt the mystical communications of his master encroach into his thoughts. “Always these two have shown up to interfere with my plans,” his master said with a disgusted snort, “Brother Hart may be a powerful druid, immortal and so much more, yet his weakness is his children. Rannoch of the priesthood of Shar find a way to destroy them and end the threat they represent.”

His master informed them what the Ambush Drake had passed on before dying, plus another surprise about some who accompanied the caravan as well. “Others who spy from within its perimeter…” he said with a soft whistle of shock and surprise.

“So they are headed for the river road with a caravan,” Rannoch mulled this over and decided that he had to eliminate these foes and the caravan before they reached Archendale. No matter what, his master has insisted the river road be kept closed, even at the cost of his own life…and he had the might of the orc-kin tribes in the area of the Thunder Road that the caravan will travel…

He stood up and braced one hand upon the high chimney next to him and smiled. He summoned the mystical forces granted to him by his dark goddess and shrouded himself with shadows. When they dissipated Rannoch was gone.

₰​

Unable to sleep after taking down the ambush drake Snow Cat had propped up against Marcus’s massive frame and delved into the strange book give to them by Brother Hart. It was a journal of sorts, a mixture of rambling plans, poetry, thoughts and accounts of delivered goods to many orc-kin tribes in the mountains and some in the area of the river road…

The very route she and Marcus will travel towards in the morning when the caravan departs.

She smelled something odd and blanched at the memory of Marcus disposing of the Ambush Drakes corpse earlier; the Pegasus-company members asked for him to aid them in dragging it away, he provided a simpler solution and incinerated it with carefully measured blasts of his fiery breath. The only thing worse than the pungent smell of its burned flesh had been hearing its bones crack as Marcus enjoyed a late-evening snack.

An owl hooted from the barns rafters as she put the book back in her haversack. Snow Cat smiled, called back to it in the language of the owls. She thanked it for the assistance with the Ambush Drake, and then returned to her effort of getting some sleep.

The owl that is not an owl departed a moment later on silent wings for Essembra, capital of Battledale, to tell the tale to her fellow Sisters, the Sisters of Essembra who are keenly interested in the doings of Marcus and Snow Cat.

 

Very Engaging

Keep them coming snow, some of your best storytelling to date

 

Thank you Wolf Knight, I have found some grammatical foul-ups that I should have caught on the editing and proofing (the old trees/forest or forest/trees thing with me).

When I started to write this story I just figured it would be as the second To Dream of Dragons, then I began to wonder something as I tried to weave the story into a larger world...why not explore issues of dragons many authors, at least in my reading experience, have not really delved into...

So this is actually two tales in one, that of Snow Cat and how she dreams, and a revelation of dragons as well.

Hopefully by its conclusion others will learn to Dream of Dragons and come to love the wonder of them as I have discovered in a new way.

 

Yes, there were some errors, including a screw up with Sandra's name in the dream, you called her Kimberly in one sentence. Like I said some of you best storytelling, not best technical writing but I assume you'll go back and correct all of that when you post it as one story once completed.

 

₰₰ [FONT=&quot]Seven [/FONT]₰₰​

Deep in his manor, High Lord Heresk of Mistledale fumed, his rage grew greater by the moment as he stomped around his office – he cursed, swore, flung priceless objects into the walls and slammed his fist through the wooden door of six-inch thick, iron-plate covered, oak.

His guards and advisors listened with dispassionate expressions on their faces, long used to the volcanic rages when the unexpected has occurred. Today is one such day: High Lord Heresk has learned that Master Roerich will bring his caravan to Mistledale via the old river route, to force it open, thus allowing for swifter trade among the Western and North-western Dales.

The increased trade is not the problem, as it would benefit all in Mistledale as a whole. The problem is the two beings Master Roerich had hired as part of the caravan guard, specifically a certain cat-girl and dragon.

“Curse that man to the depths of the eternal hells,” High Lord Heresk howled. He slammed his fist upon the great oak desk before him. Enhanced by his ever-building rage, the great desk snapped like kindling, sending a storm of dust, debris and paperwork flying about the office. For nearly an hour more his tempest continued to ever greater levels of insults, curses, howls and growls, as his face grew redder and redder, the veins of his neck corded and bulged thick and strong.

He whirled upon the stranger who calmly sat in the great armchair, no expression or emotion showing in answer to his rage. “I ask you again, this is truth? Marcus the devil dragon and Snow Cat are coming here with Master Roerich via the river-route if they make it to Essembra in Battledale?”

“Yes it will be so, they have used their unholy magic to charm the good Master Roerich to ‘hire them’ for the sole purpose of reaching Mistledale. Here they intend to ‘settle matters of honor,’ with you High Lord Heresk,” the strange man said. Each word he spoke was friendly, calm, compassionate, and reassuring that he only had the High Lord’s best interests in mind…

Of course, the man had withheld the fact that just before the meeting with the High Lord he, an agent of Night Shade, had enhanced his speech with special magic that made them sound all the more plausible and thus be accepted as truth. He now took a calculated risk, and by the force of his own will, as he had been taught long ago by his superiors among the priesthood of Shar, cast a spell that dominated the High Lord and all of those in the room, bending all of his thoughts and ways to his will and purpose.

He waited a ten-count to ensure the now silent men, eyes glazed over, mouths hanging open, were fully in the grip of his spell. The instructions he gave to the High Lord and his men were simple: should Master Roerich reach Essembra, the capital of Battledale…

“Slay them all; Roerich and his men, plus Marcus and Snow Cat to avenge the dishonor the Devil Dragon had done to you before when you tried to have your way with the cat-girl.” Night Shades agent looked at the High Lord with a haughty, arrogance-filled expression on his face, “You will forget this meeting has occurred, along with any reports of strange men and orc-kin and ogre-kin gathering in the forests to the south of Mistledale along the river-route. I am leaving now and will instruct you in the future as it becomes necessary, you will do as I command…”

With that the man pulled the shadows around himself, stepped into their depths and emerged in the night to rejoin the caravan of Master Roerich. “Plans within plans, pit one faction of the Dales against another, and see if this time the Sisters of Essembra will dispose of Marcus once and for all…”

[FONT=&quot]
[/FONT]

₰₰ [FONT=&quot]Eight [/FONT]₰₰​

High above the caravan Marcus luxuriated in the ever shifting air currents, updrafts and downward surges that writhed and flowed about him. Too few ground dwelling creatures understood how complex these winds were, an ever shifting and changing tapestry akin to the might currents of the great oceans and inland seas. His wings cleaved deep into the air as he soared ever higher, circling far around the caravan he and Snow Cat had agreed to escort to Shadowdale.

The dainty fist of Snow Cat tapped on his armored neck, drawing his attention to a suddenly developing storm off of the western flank of the Thunder Peaks. Named for the great storms that brewed up without warning, the peaks formed a vast north-south chain of stone and earth hundreds of miles in length, the Thunder-road, via the High Dale, marked the southernmost and easiest route for caravans to reach the ocean-facing kingdoms.

Marcus looked over his shoulder at Snow Cat astride the dragon-saddle she used when traveling on dragon-back. Her braided hair and cloak flowed like pennants from a flag pole in the wind as she motioned for him to head back to the caravan; any warning they can get of the building storm may mean the difference between shelter and sudden devastation for one and all.

He felt Snow Cat tighten her grip on the riding harness and press her legs against his massive frame as she carefully leaned forward between his shoulder blades. This told him how fast they had to get to the caravan, and a quick glance at the frothing, writhing, climbing columns of utterly dark clouds confirmed her assessment. He folded his wings against his body and entered into a steep dive which will take them to the ground inside of 30 seconds.

His joy-filled roar of excitement echoed far and wide, terrifying people and caused animals to flee for safety, due to the full primordial might of Marcus. He calculated where to land alongside the wagon of Master Roerich, leader of the Caravan.

“Simple and direct, best way to do it when time is of the essence,” he said to Snow Cat via their mind-to-mind bond they shared. He sensed and felt her growing terror; the death-tight grip had increased in proportion to her panic as the earth climbed upward with ever-growing speed.

“Easy for you to say,” Snow Cat roared at him via their shared bond. “You’re not the one who will get turned into mush if you slam into a tree or such; you can go turtle, and I CANNOT!”

Marcus chuckled at the reference of ‘go turtle’ spoken of by his sister. It’s their personal name for a tactic long perfected by Marcus when in battle: he angles his dives from the sky or timed a charge on a surface of smooth ice, stone or the like to curl up into a large armored ball. Any creature hit by this mass of dragon-flesh is hurt by the impact itself and the iron-hard, razor-sharp projections from his limbs, sides, and twin frills. If he is faced with a true threat he cannot quickly counter with claw and teeth, magic and incinerating breath, he can also ‘go turtle’ and become a nigh invulnerable battlement, often with his sister sheltered (she would say smothered) within his protective grip.

Once again, Marcus roared in sheer delight, while Snow Cat screamed as one who was going to die!

₰​

Master Roerich, leader of the caravan, sat astride his calico-spotted gelding as the caravan slowly snaked its way down the trail. He, Captain Laurence and Sergeant Kenneth, leader of the Pegasus Archer Company detachment escorting three High Vale councilmen, discussed the best means of defending the caravan from ambushes along the trail at key points.

“From what I have discussed with Snow Cat and Marcus, due to their familiarity with the region, we may face attacks by orc-kin and ogre-kin from a dozen or more tribes,” Master Roerich said. “They cannot field more than two-score count of warriors each, but if we have to fight them off one at a time, we can be ground down before reaching Archendale or Deepingdale. We will need all of the men we have and then some for the river trail and the battles we shall face.”

“I wish my detachment had been allowed to bring our Pegasus’s along,” Sergeant Kenneth sourly said from the seat of his dapple-gray charger. He held up one hand to stop any argument before it began again, “I know that the woodlands will render such flying mounts all but useless; but even one or two would make a difference.”

“Which is why,” Master Roerich said in a steady, patient voice, “I hired Snow Cat and Marcus to accompany us in the woods; those two give us an extra edge. Their unpredictable actions may be a bit troublesome but it more than is compensated by the raw power they bring to the guards…”

“You mean the uttermost foulness that unholy duo brings from their mere existence in this world?” came the loud, proud, arrogant and self-righteous and absolutely loathed voice of Councilman Cronus, merchant and leader from the governing body of merchants of the High Vale. From the saddle of his great Clydesdale he waved a mailed fist at Master Roerich as if the man were little more than a condemned sinner instead of the leader of the caravan.

“Councilman Cronus, you and your fellow Council members,” here Master Roerich referred to Justinian and Brennan, fellow merchants and leaders from High Vale, “have agreed to abide by all the rules and regulations of the caravan until we reach Shadowdale. I lead this caravan, and thus you answer to me...”

Having seen the pending confrontation, Captain Laurence and a dozen guards rushed over. Master Roerich gave a signal to them, upon which they slowed to a halt a dozen paces shy of the gathered men; their eyes never ceased watching for the first sign of hostile action, nor did hands leave the hilts of swords or axe handles…

Sergeant Kenneth rode up alongside Councilman Cronus, his eyes blazed in self-righteous anger.

“Sergeant, as the leader of the High Vale’s diplomatic group I order you and your men to arrest this man for threats made against me. You will then seize the entire caravan and execute the abominations given the names of Snow Cat and Marcus; then you will…” Councilman Cronus ceased speaking as he fell from the saddle, out cold, and tumbled to the ground with all the grace of a sack of potatoes.

“That hurt but needed doing,” Sergeant Kenneth declared and motioned for two of his men to deliver the fallen councilman to his wagon. He turned to face Captain Laurence and his men who still remained watchful but quiet. “I have been given written instructions from High Councilman Jambis of the High Vale, in regards how to deal with that old fool of a priest Cronus,” he gestured to Master Roerich, “he has seen the orders, and spoke with the High Councilman before we departed from the High Vale.”


“The good Sergeant speaks the truth,” Councilman Justinian declared as his horse trotted to a halt a short distance from the Sergeant Kenneth. “Any who have been in the High Vale know of Cronus’s hatred for all who are not human. For some reason he especially loathes Marcus and Snow Cat…”

He startled as a large shape landed inches away from his mount that reared and neighed in terror. Men near and far, oxen, horses, cattle and other pets and beasts screamed, cursed, fainted or bolted for cover as Marcus reared from his abrupt landing. Four horses bolted for the hills and took Dancer, Wolf, Reaper and Badger – barbarians from the far northern lands – with them.

Many of the seasoned drovers, guards, magicians and warrior-priests laid wagers down on how fast they would return to the caravan, with or without horses, or even come back at all if they were not eaten by a great beast or monster.

“Good Councilman Justinian,” Marcus declared with a respectful bow of his head, “the man loathes us for one lone reason; the last patrol he led to ‘end the orc-kin threat to the High Vale’ was a grand disaster. I and my sister saved his worthless hide and he had the audacity to claim we ambushed his force!”

Master Roerich scowled as the caravan came to a halt, word reaching him fast of a wagon that had thrown a wheel and blocked the road. “More bad luck…” he mumbled to himself.

Marcus bowed down to the caravan leader, “Master Roerich we have a great storm coming to the north,” he pointed with his fore-talon, “Its going to be a bloody big one, and you need to get moving as fast as possible before it hits this region of the trade-route.”

“How long do we have Marcus?’ he calmly asked. Neither he nor his mount had flinched or startled when Marcus unexpectedly landed. “We need at least a half-hour to reach the nearest sheltered area once we clear the wagon out of the way; and some time after that to secure our camp…”

“You have two hours, not more than that,” Snow Cat said as she dismounted and queasily lowered herself to the ground. Normally she loved to fly with him, but when Marcus did a power dive; it became too much for her stomach. For a moment the ancient song came to life in full measure, it called and beckoned to her, and caused her to shake her head in a vain effort to be rid of the distraction.

Marcus looked at her and grew alarmed; she struggled to stay upright by leading upon him. He felt her inner turmoil, her own desires at war with the dual-heritage she shared with him. “Master Roerich I’ll escort my sister to the wagon you have provided for her, and then I’ll fly ahead and scout out the campsite. Not much will be insane enough to challenge me, or if it does, not live for very long…”

“Go ahead Marcus,” Master Roerich said with sympathy for Snow Cat. “Just keep an eye out for our four wayward guards and their mounts.” With that they parted - Marcus escorted his sister to find some rest, and Master Roerich to discuss things with the still shaken Sergeant Kenneth and Captain Laurence.

 

First tidings of greater trouble

₰₰ [FONT=&quot]Nine [/FONT]₰₰​

Looking upon the latest scene of carnage, Rannoch sighed and shook his head in disbelief. “Twelve days of my calling up storm after storm to slow down the caravan, one assault after another by monsters and orc-kin war parties and they still manage to win through…”

At long last he accepted that his master had been right. He had severely underestimated the combined might and skill of the cat-girl and the dragon as a fighting team. On their own they had decimated seven smaller war parties he had sent after the caravan, including one of wyvern-riders that by sheer weight of numbers and magical might should have brought them down…

Should have…just one small dragon and a cat-girl that knew some magic, and could handle a bow with good skill; together they fought in a coordinated matter only heard or read about in the stories and lore of dragons that hatch as twins from the same egg…dragons described in the ancient tomes he had studied as ‘two bodies and two minds, united as one being.”

He wandered the battlefield seeking any clues that could reveal new weaknesses in the cat-girl or dragons way of fighting or acting; anything he can exploit with the next ambush in mind. His anger boiled hot at the thought of how many resources he has wasted in this vain effort, the fact of having only one more chance to take them down once and for all…

A melodious voice calling from further down the trail drew his attention…

₰​

Marcus gave off a disgruntled sigh as Snow Cat called out from the nearby woods; the battle was over and he wanted to clean the blood and gore off of himself. He sank deeper into the cascading waters of the small waterfall he had found, only to be called for three more times. Finally she demanded via their snared mind-to-mind communications that he ‘drag his sorry tail out of the water and join in on the hunt.’

He snorted in disgust, droplets of water scattering in a spray of fine mist which became a rainbow of living fire and light that captivated him for some time…then he sensed the usage of priestly magic, and very close to his current spot within the waterfall.

Marcus focused all of his preternaturally keen senses upon the scent of magic he felt, one that was nearby and hidden amidst the shadows near him. His eyes narrowed to slits and he struggled to keep from growling as his quarry quietly stepped into sight, the mace suspended from the man’s belt radiated with unholy magic designed to kill with the least touch upon a mortal beings flesh…

He knew then and there, as confirmed by the man’s head to foot dark clothing of midnight black, that he faced a priest of the dark goddess Shar. His grin grew wide and fierce as he contemplated what the man will say to his goddess when he joined her in the afterlife in short order…

₰​

“Marcus, get your big brute of a body down here! We have a gaggle of orcs and ogres who need to do a fair amount of dying and I thought you might want your share of it!” Snow Cat called out into the night. Into the night she appeared again as her cloaks magic deactivated with a thought; the quiver on her hip shook and a soft pop-pop occurred as its magic went to work.

Her smile at the success of tonight’s hunt dissipated in an instant as she fought to adjust her unusual armor. The woven fabric, stronger than steel and enchanted to boot, slid and shifted here and there as if alive as Snow Cat tugged and scratched, growling in feline frustration as her eyes blazed in liquid emerald-green pools of power beyond measure.

One final adjustment to her bandolier of pouches and her quiver drew a smile, one which grew wider as her keen hearing and sense of smell detected ogres nearby. She crouched down and prepared an arrow, lined up a target along the shafts length and loosed it into the night with a blazing flare of devastation…

₰​

Rannoch watched the blazing arrow fly off into the night, wondering what ogre or orc would die, and gasped as it suddenly divided into thirteen projectiles. Thirteen ogres and orcs perished under the volley more fell in turn as that cursed cat-girl fired twice more into the panicked masses.

“Marcus come on already they’re getting away…” she paused in mid sentence, “very well, I’ll handle these idiots, and you take care of the other one…”

Rannoch wondered for a moment whom she had spoke with, and concluded that as with most non-humans she must be completely insane. He drew his night black cloak around his body and whispered a spell that rendered him undetectable to the cat-girls keen senses. Step by step he closed on her position, drawing his mace into hand and calling upon the unholy magic it contained.

He stopped, sensing that someone or something was close and watching his every move. No one should have detected him, nor been able to sneak up on him undetected. Yet he knew this had happened as the first pulse of hot breath flowed over his body, and he knew the end was at hand as the crushing weight of dragon fear began to take hold of him.

Fighting the fear he drew deep into his will to perform one last act for his goddess and to honor her, “And so it is concluded.”

With a shout of defiance and praise to Shar Rannoch jumped high into the air and whirled about, bringing his mace downward in a crushing arc with both hands to try and strike Marcus. He saw the blazing eyes of the dragon, hotter than molten iron in its rage and satisfaction.

Then his world ended in a brilliant holocaust of light, heat and flame…

₰​

After the melted stones cooled enough for Snow Cat to safely walk across their glass-smoothed and bubbled surface, she and Marcus examined the still steaming remains of Rannoch. Her nose crinkled in disgust from the smell of charred flesh and burned bone. Marcus merely chuckled at her discomfort; he took pride in this latest of kills.

He moved one fore-claw over the priests remains and asked of Snow Cat, “Come now sister of mine, which part do you wish to dine on first?” His mirth-filled grin lasted until he heard her flee into the bushes and retch her guts out.

Marcus examined the remains of the priest and teased away from the mess a heavy belt pouch that somehow had survived his flaming breath. Ever so gently and with a grace belying his clumsy-appearing form he opened it and pulled out small bags of coins and gemstones, some of great value; along with a book akin to the one that Brother Hart had given them back in the High Vale.

He heard Snow Cat approaching, a cloth held over her mouth and nose she had bespelled to keep the smells at bay. “Sister, look at this book the priest-al-a-charcoal had in his possession; its akin to the one Brother Hart gave to us…ouch, be careful with that will you!”

Snow Cat apologized as she adjusted the saddle straps and stirrups of the dragon-saddle mounted on his back. “I just wanted to be ready to leave; no sense staying around…you said a book?”

The two of them examined it for some time and concluded that it was a journal, ledger and list of contacts and plans; exactly as the first one back with the caravan, securely locked away in their wagon. “We have a dead priest of Shar working the region; training tribes of orc-kin and ogre-kin in exactly the same way as those of the High Vale we had decimated…” she tensed, annoyed by a sudden itch, “Marcus will you get my back…”

She all but melted away as his great armored knuckle scratched that blasted spot she could never reach just below her shoulder.

"I happen to have the only magical armor that induces itching..." Snow Cat complained, to which Marcus only chuckled, long used to her griping.

“We have to show this to Master Roerich and the others. I think we are in more trouble than any of us can imagine on this journey.”

If she and Marcus knew just how much trouble; both would have fled that instant to the far southern kingdoms.

 

Forgive me for being frank:
M O R E P L E A S E! :excited:

I haven't noted any grammatical errors, but that may change once I give it another read over.