In Dreams

By C. L. Norman

In this collection of five short stories, dragons attack the Pacific Northwest, a nightmare from the sea ravages a small coastal town, and a lost boy is rescued by someone who is not all that he seems.

Included are "Dragonslayers Anonymous", "Empty", Wolves In The Mist", "Survive To Eat", and "Off The Path". From modern fantasy to traditional, this collection is sure to entertain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. L. Norman
• Release date: Dec 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301503926

C. L. Norman

I grew up in the shadow of a nuclear power plant. I cannot begin to number how many times I was asked, “Do you glow in the dark?” (The answer is only with the lights on.) A person cannot grow up in a place like that during the tail end of the Cold War and not wonder about invasions, aliens, or apocalypses (apocalypsi?). I carried it further and imagined fairies laughing among the crops of the field, unicorns frolicking on the playground, and swordsmen lurking in the dark of the dunes. This is when I started writing.I have a Bachelor’s degree in Social Sciences and I am currently working on a Masters in Teaching English degree. For most of my professional life, I’ve been a bookseller. Recently, I’ve become a substitute teacher. Both of these jobs provide many opportunities to people watch and a rich source of ideas for stories.I write all shades of fantasy from traditional to urban to space fantasy. Wolves in the Mists is my most read story.My brother once told me that I read so many books I ought to know how to write a good one. It's been my mission to prove him right ever since.

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In Dreams

By C. L. Norman

Copyright by C. L. Norman 2012

Published by Kandake Publications at Smashwords

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Table of Contents

Wolves In The Mist

Dragonslayers Anonymous

Empty

Survive To Eat

Off The Path

About The Author

Wolves In The Mist

A mariner's bell tolled through the fog that stretched long fingers through the worn fishing village huddled in the shelter of the cliffs. In one tiny cottage, Nisbeth tucked a thick patchwork quilt around her two small children. She moved to the shuttered window to peer out between the cracks in the weathered wood. Overhead the nimbus of the moon glowed through the mist.

A long howl echoed against the cliffs, rising over the sound of waves crashing against the rocky beach. As she watched, the mist receded, fingers drawing closed in a fist that grasped the end of the slick wood of the docks. The road that ran past her door stood empty of all life.

Great Mother, protect us this night from the evil that walks and please keep Westos in your sight.

She drifted to the chair by the fireplace, stirred up some coals, and started water for tea. A warm drink on this cold night would be welcome.

Momma? A sleepy voice spoke from the nest of blankets on the bed in the corner. Where's Uncle?

Go to sleep, Tolan. Uncle Westos will be back in the morning. He had important work to do. She smoothed the blanket under her son's small chin before returning to the fire.

She sat and sipped her tea, body hunched inside another blanket, and watched the flames dance. Her thoughts were on her husband, dead five years ago tonight. He hadn't even known she expected his children. Little Tolan and Torinda knew only Uncle Westos. He was both uncle and father to the children. If he was lost, she didn't know what she would do.

A sharp noise at the door jerked her head around. She set her cup down on the small table next to her chair and stood. She strained to hear if the noise would repeat itself. No one should be out on this night.

She slid one foot in front of the other towards the door. Knuckles white, she gripped a fire poker kept hidden with the cloth of her nightgown. Her eyes shifted from side to side. Her ears strained to hear anything over the rasping of her breath.

Is someone there? She pulled the door open the smallest of cracks and peered through the opening.

Widow Nisbeth. Sorry to alarm you. Came to check on you. With your Westos out tonight of all nights, I knew you'd be worried. The familiar face of her neighbor, Master Gellarn, came into view. His wide smile in his shriveled apple of a face seemed out of place, but welcome all the same.

Master Gellarn. Thank you but you shouldn't be out in the cold and fog. We'll be fine. I'm having a cup of tea to calm my nerves. I'll be back in my warm bed in no time. He will be back in the morning. I have no worries on that score. She nodded, hoping she looked as confident as she sounded.

Fine, fine. I'll take me one more look about and then back to home. The wife will be a'nagging if I don't get back inside. Gellarn patted her hand where it clutched the door jam and turned, lantern held high, and moved down the street.

Nisbeth closed the door, latched it, and went back to her high-backed wooden chair. The tea had cooled but the remaining warmth was still welcome in the bowl of her hands. She brought the cup to her lips when a knock at the door interrupted her.

Master Gellarn, your wife is not going to be happy with-- She opened her door to an empty street. In front of her house a smear of dark fluid, marred by a single bare footprint, painted the packed earth surface.

Master Gellarn? Are you all right? Nisbeth stepped out of the house and peered up and down the road. The fog's fist had loosened its grip on the docks and again spread its fingers, clutching at buildings, prying at windows and doors. Nisbeth retreated into the doorway. A knot of dread roiled in her gut.

A piercing scream broke through the night. It ended, leaving behind an echoing silence as ponderous as the mist. Nisbeth slammed the door. She braced shaking legs with her back against the hard surface. Her breath scraped in and out of her lungs.

The sharp sound of a wood being scratched startled her away from the door. She stumbled across the room for her poker, gripped it in both fists, eyes on the door.

A long screech as something scraped the outside of her house filled the air. The sound stopped.

***

A league up the mist shrouded beach, an ashen stone building kept solitary watch from its roost atop the craggy rocks. Its walls were scabbed with lichen and pitted after centuries of exposure to storms that swept in from the sea. Obscured behind a thin layer of fog, the full moon illuminated a path that slithered its way up the cliffs to the narrow wooden door, strapped in bleeding iron.

The door creaked open and several figures emerged. The first four were clad in crimson robes, hoods drawn over their heads. The robed men chanted in unison. Their voices rose and fell in time with the crashing