Rise of the Dragon Read online

  Rise of the Dragon

  Wayne O'Brien

  Copyright © April 2017 Wayne O'Brien. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.

  Books may be purchased in quantity and/or special sales at Amazon.com

  Cover Design by: Jimmy Gibbs, Fiverr.com

  Interior Design by: Wayne O'Brien. Slick Style Productions

  Edited by: Tony Burnett, Fiverr.com

  Published by: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, North Charleston, SC

  ISBN: 1544110499

  ISBN-13: 978-1544110493

  Library of Congress Catalog Number: 2017903792

  1. Fiction 2. Fantasy 3. Urban Life

  First Edition

  Printed in USA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  PART OF A SERIES

  Although Rise of the Dragon is part one to the series War of the Dragons, it is a standalone story and need not be accompanied with the others.

  The series War of the Dragons is also part of a much larger book series entitled Lore, which follows the full history of the planet Ashra.

  RISE OF THE DRAGON

  The light, cast by the torches fixed to the walls outside, flickered through the cracks of the boarded windows, marking long lines across the worn wooden floor. The room was adorned with a blend of fine and cheaply made furniture; an oddity in a home with five rooms. The fire light, playing on the floor, was broken as a hooded figure entered the room. A knife gently glittered in the night air. The figure crept towards the bed where a man lay sleeping.

  The floor let out an ominous creak as the hooded figure slowly approached the side of the bed, knife raised and prepared for whatever might happen. On a small table next to where the dark haired man slept, lay a bronze key. Nimble fingers, sheathed in a black glove, penetrated the alternating light and dark; reaching towards the table. Silently grasping the key, the intruder slowly retraced his steps and backed out of the open door into the small hallway he had come through upon entering the house. A quick right turn and he was facing a heavy locked door, opposite the front door. The bronze key slid into the lock and turned stiffly. The bolt withdrew with a distinct clunk, and the door opened.

  Under the hood, blue eyes searched the dark room, surveying the floor, walls and ceiling. After a moment the intruder crept into the storage room.

  The gloves the figure wore slid off revealing dirty, weathered, hands. The right hand had a long scar reaching from the tip of his middle finger and up his arm until it disappeared beneath the cloak. The fingernail was long gone, livid red flesh a reminder of where it once was. His hand traced along the wall, gently feeling for anything out of place as he walked the perimeter of the room. There were some shelves holding different spices and herbs, some clay jugs of wine. There was nothing out of the ordinary for a mediocre merchant except for the small chest, lined in gold, which sat on a table near the back of the room. The ornate script was of elvish design.

  The naked finger tips inspected the table around the chest. Then he squatted down to examine the space under the table and the floor. That's when the intruder saw it, barely visible in the oppressive darkness of the room. Small holes peppered the floor under the table. Dried blood edged them.

  "So many before me," the intruder thought as he pulled a short pipe and small box from under the cloak. He opened the box and a spark came forth, igniting the oil soaked cotton. The flame shone painfully bright, and he puffed on the pipe until he was able to get a good lung full of smoke. Gently he blew the smoke around the chest. Behind it he saw the faint outline of a thin wire attached to the lid. He drew another lung full of smoke and blew it on the wire, following it back towards the wall, to where it disappeared behind a brick.

  The man pulled a small satchel from his cloak, placed it on the floor, and opened it. Inside was a wide variety of tiny tools. He grabbed a small hand held pick and a spade from the satchel and worked them between the bricks. After a moment one of them came loose and slid out easily. Behind the brick were some small gears to which the wire was attached.

  "An Elvish chest and Dwarven traps," he wondered. "What else has he been doing?"

  The hooded man put the tools back in the satchel and removed a small pair of long thin metal tongs. Carefully reaching into the opening in the wall, he removed the wire from the hook it was attached to, and then went back to the chest.

  Holding his breath, he slowly opened the lid. Nothing happened, except he could now see the interior of the chest. It was lined with red felt which gently supported the object he was searching for. The intruder put his tools back in the satchel. He slid his gloves back on before picking up the treasure. Then he quietly left the merchant's home.

  A warm, dry wind blew through the dusty streets of Bristork as the sun began its ascent. The inhabitants slowly left their homes and began to fill the streets. Smoke started to billow out of shoots where the iron smiths forged their wares. The merchants piled their carts high with their merchandise and headed toward the market, all save one, who was frantically packing his belongings. The fear of death hung around him like a shroud. He struggled to breathe as he worked. The treasure had been stolen.

  Further north, near the Bristork wall, a group of peasants worked hard for meager meals. At a crossroads near the peasant's houses, there stood a large, old building. A wooden sign hung above the door proclaiming the building to be the Lotus Inn and Tavern. Although the building was old and outdated, it had been a marvel of modern technology and craftsmanship when first built over a hundred years before. The glory of yester year long gone, it now stood as a gateway to the poorer part of Bristork.

  The front door of the Lotus opened and a young man entered. He shook the dirt off his cloak before pulling the hood back, as those before him had done. He walked briskly, the cloak flapping open, exposing a worn leather vest. The buckles he wore down the length of his chest were tarnished and stained. He approached an older man who was wiping down the bar.

  "Ye havin' a beer," the old man asked. His voice was rough.

  "It's too early for that, Helmeck," the young man said as he stood by the bar. "I'm here to see Jaques."

  Helmeck smiled and dropped the brown towel on the counter. "'nother successful night, 'ay"

  "For some people," the leather clad man said as he surveyed the nigh empty tavern.

  Helmeck put his head through the door to a back room and called for Jaques. A moment later he came back, poured a glass of wheat liquor and slid it to the young man.

  "Complements of Jaques."

  The guest removed his gloves and picked up the glass. He took a sip, his face grimacing at the sharp burn of the alcohol. Helmeck smiled. He walked over to the stone fire pit and poked at the coals. As the younger man took another sip of the strong drink, Jaques emerged from the back room.

  "Turpin, how 'as your night?" He asked wearily.

  "Quiet," Turpin replied his voice rasping from the effects of the liquor. He cleared his throat. "You didn't tell me there was goin' to be a Dwarven trap there."

  "Aye. I didn't know for certain. I guess that means you got it?"

  "I did," Turpin said as he reached under his cloak and handed a folded piece of cloth to the skeleton of a man.

  Jaques took the cloth and gently opened it out, his hands shaking. Laying on the cloth in his hands was a heavy ornate necklace, a large purple stone gleaming in the center of it.

  "Now, that's a thing of beau'y," Jaques said. He smiled, showing his
teeth, rotten and yellowed from years of smoking the narcotic Oprianal. "My client will be pleased."

  "And me?" Turpin asked as he finished his drink.

  "You'll be taken care of as always." Jaques pulled a small coin bag from his belt and put it on the counter for Turpin to examine. It was all accounted for. At that moment another guest entered the room. His boots were scuffed from years of wear. The rest of his appearance matched. He had stayed the night. The newcomer approached Helmeck and ordered ale and some food. Jaques and Turpin silently put their newly acquired items away. The thief watched the stranger; the sword that hung from his hip was stained from battle and travel, much like the ornate bow that rested on his chest.

  "Is there something I can help you with," the man asked Turpin.

  "No, I'm just wondering what brings you here. Don't see many rangers here," Turpin said.

  "I came through the North Gate, and this was the first inn I came across," the man said. He eyed Turpin from under his hood. "I am looking for work."

  "Well, looks like you just missed a job," Turpin said with a smirk, trying to bolster his image. The man studied Turpin.

  "Doubtful," he finally said. "You are not capable of the work I am in the business of."

  Helmeck moved towards Turpin. "Careful Turpin," he whispered. "He's a Wilder, deadly and cold. He'd pro'ably kill 'is own son if the price was right."

  The ranger bit into a small tomato. Red juice shot across the bar. He glared at Helmeck.

  "Come back later in the night, Turpin," Jaques said. "'Ere might be more work for you."

  Turpin nodded and headed for the door. Before he stepped outside he overheard Jaques tell the ranger to wait where he was for a moment.

  Later that night, when the red sun was low on the eastern horizon, Turpin returned to the Lotus Inn. The tavern was now busy with patrons whose conversations grew louder the more they drank. A bard stood in a corner, left of the entrance, next to two chairs on either side of a barrel. Two middle aged men sat in the chairs playing backgammon as the bard sang about his adventures in the Eastern Isles.

  Turpin gently pushed his way through the crowd and up to Helmeck, who was brandishing a wicked looking knife as he carved huge slices of ham from a hog.

  "Helmeck," he yelled over the noise.

  The long grey-bearded man glanced at the boy and nodded quickly for him to wait a moment. He placed a slice of ham on each of the two plates a red-haired bar maiden was holding. She turned and walked past Turpin, smiling at him. Her breasts, barely covered by her blouse, brushed softly against him.

  His eyes followed her as she crossed the crowded room to a table where two smiths sat. One of them was older and bald, obviously the master.

  "'Ere to see Jaques?" Helmeck asked as Turpin watched the red head.

  "He said he had a job for me."

  "He's out back, takin' care of some dead weight."

  "Is she new," Turpin asked. He gestured towards the red head.

  "Aye," Helmeck said, smiling as he hiked his pants up.

  The wooden door behind the bar opened. Fresh air spilled into the room, mixing and swirling with the smoke filled musk of the tavern. Jaques entered, wiping blood off his knuckles with a brown towel. His eyes were wild and bloodshot, movements quick. He was not shaking like he did earlier that day.

  "Turpin," Jaques said, "I'll be right with you." He went up to Helmeck and whispered something in his ear. A second later he went into the back room and came back out with a shovel. He handed it to a young boy who was helping out. Jaques pointed to the back door and the boy left.

  "Come with me." Jaques said tapping Turpin on his arm. He turned and walked into the back storage room. Jaques' knuckles were white and swollen. The right hand more so, and Turpin knew he had broken many bones in his hand, yet paid no heed to it at all.

  The walls of the room were covered with shelves stacked with different spices. In the middle of the room stood a table and chairs, devoid of anything save a small candelabra. Jaques gestured to one of the chairs with a rough, dry hand, inviting Turpin to sit.

  "How long have we known each other?" Jaques asked as he sat down heavily.

  "Too long," Turpin said. "You said you had a job?"

  "I do, and an opportunity."

  Turpin looked at Jaques curiously.

  "The job first." Jaques barely got the words out before coughing harshly. He tapped the ashes from his pipe into the palm of his hand and then emptied it on to the floor. "You know the big house on Agste?"

  Turpin smiled uneasily. "Yes, I know it."

  "The woman there has a ring my client wants. It's of the same set as the previous item."

  "So I should expect the same Dwarven trap?" Turpin asked.

  "Worse." Jaques blew hard on his pipe. The remaining ashes made a cloud around Jaques' head before snowing on the floor. "She actually is wealthy. Expect the chest to have its own protection of some kind."

  Turpin quickly thumbed through the different possibilities in his mind. Could there be an elvish spell sealing it? Or some more devious trap, worse than mere spikes through your feet?

  "You think you're ready for this?" Jaques asked slyly.

  "Of course I am," Turpin replied, his voice sharp.

  "Good. You have gotten the attention of some well known people." Jaques paused to search himself for an item. Once the pouch was found, Jaques opened it and wrinkled his face with disgust.

  "The Shadow Claw."

  "Yes, you still want to join them?" Jaques retrieved a small chest from a shelf on the wall and put it on the table.

  Turpin nodded.

  Jaques narrowed his eyes. "I accepted this assignment for you."

  "They were here?" Turpin sat forward in fear of how close they were, and in awe at the fact they were looking for him. He nervously rubbed the scar on his right hand and middle finger.

  "Aye, that ranger who was here this morn, he was looking for them as well." Jaques took out one of the dried purple flowers from the chest and began to break it into smaller pieces.

  "They want me to steal this ring for them?"

  "Somethin' like that. They’re very strict as to who they let in."

  "What's the ranger have to do with them? He's not from Bristork." Turpin asked.

  "I don't know, perhaps he is the one looking for the necklace and ring. Or maybe it's pure chance." Jaques put the shredded plant into his pipe, lit a small stick from the candelabra and puffed on his pipe until it was well lit. The bitter smell from the pipe made Turpin slightly dizzy.

  "Only one way to find out," Turpin said.

  "There are actually two, but the one might not end well." Jaques smiled, his barely opened eyes shone slightly red. "It looks like you finally have your chance to move up."

  "It's been a long time," Turpin reminisced." Five years?"

  "Four and a half." Jaques said. He coughed harshly again, this time clutching his chest.

  "Maybe you shouldn't smoke anymore."

  "Curse you," Jaques said, spluttering through the last of his coughing spell. "I've been smoking Oprianal since before you were born. It helps me think."

  "And gives you a temper," Turpin added.

  "Shaz'tet! Either way, careful tonight."

  "What about the ranger, he said he passed through the north gate."

  "Aye, from the mountains, but he came from further than that. He is one of the filthy Elves."

  "Here?" Turpin was shocked. "Why has he traveled this far south?"

  "That’s what worries us. Elves can't be trusted."

  "Have any been in Bristork since the war?"

  "Rarely, the only ones that do venture over the mountains always cause trouble." Jaques drew deeply on his pipe again, wrinkling his face as he did.

  "Alright, I'll go and get ready."

  "Remember what I told you."

  "Always do."

  "You're better than you were five years ago, but you’re still young," Jaques said. His face wore a small, mean smile.
/>   Turpin went back to the bar area and almost ran into the buxom red head. She was carrying two more plates of roasted boar. Apologies were exchanged and she went about her business. Turpin watched as she bent over, showing off her assets to the men at the table.

  "I see she caught ye'r eye," Helmeck said.

  "That she has," Turpin replied without turning to look at him. "Where is she from? Don't see many Daughter's of Agste here."

  "She is from the west, somewhere a'ong the coast."

  "Why come here," Turpin asked.

  "She said somethin' 'bout movin' out on her own. See the world or somethin' like that. Gettin' a little too ol' for that, says I."

  "Maybe. I have things to prepare for," Turpin said as the young woman walked past them. "I'm working on Agste street t'night."

  "I'll see ye in the morn."

  Turpin left the inn and headed for his home.

  His home, in fact, was little more than a hut the size of a rich man's shed. It was just one room that contained a mat for his bed near a small water bowl. He crossed the shabby room to a small, broken table that was crudely nailed to the wall, and placed a chest on it. The chest held a series of drawers that ran down each side. Inside one of the drawers he kept many different types of small tools. He grabbed them all, and arranged them in a large pouch.

  On the other side of the chest, in another drawer, were some bottles containing liquids of different colors. Turpin lifted them all from the drawer and tucked them away with the tools. After folding the flaps down on the pouch, he rolled it up and tied it together.

  "The biggest job yet," he thought as he looked at the scar running up his hand and arm. His finger tip looked rough and uneven, as did the scar rising up his arm to his elbow. He could still remember the pain when he had been caught in the trap.

  "I can't mess this up; I should get an idea of the surroundings." With that thought he left his home and headed southwest, towards the temple of Agste.