Return of the Dragons (Omnibus): Return of the Dragons

By Teddy Jacobs

TWO NOVELS IN ONE VOLUME

All the epic fantasy adventures of Anders Tomason: SWORD BEARER and WIND RIDER, two full-length novels collected here in one omnibus book for a combined lower price.

MAGIC SWORDS, AN EVIL UNCLE, UNTAMED DRAGONS, EPIC BATTLES

You swing a staff until you're ready to swing a sword. Then you go on all kinds of adventures -- fighting monsters, casting spells and saving damsels in distress. At least that's how it's supposed to work, but Anders doesn't believe a word of it.

FANTASY ADVENTURE FOR DRAGON FANS OF ALL AGES

Two forms of power -- natural and chemical -- divide the world. Dragons, who keep the chemical power in check, have long retreated from human sight; few still believe in them. Inside a castle surrounded by Tuscan hills more and more threatened by chemical forces, sixteen-year-old Anders lives a sheltered life. But much as his parents try, Anders can't avoid the forces that threaten...

REVISED SECOND EDITION (AUGUST 2014)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wicked Evil Press
• Release date: Aug 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781502202307

Book preview

Chapter I

You swung a staff until you were ready to swing a sword. Then you went on all kinds of adventures — fighting monsters, casting spells, and saving damsels in distress. At least that was how it was supposed to work, but I didn’t believe a word of it.

Maybe it really was like that a long time ago. But I didn’t remember my father ever saving a damsel, fighting a monster, or even swinging a sword. He didn’t even carry a sword, although he did help me swing a cane when I was younger.

So I swung my staff because I was supposed to, though I knew one day I’d become a diplomat like my father, using my voice and my mind instead of my muscles and my magic.

But I swung the staff for other reasons, too. It helped me forget how people looked at me funny in the corridors of the castle, forget how lonely I was sometimes locked up in the study. It gave me a reason to wake up early every morning, even when I had nothing else to look forward to.

Today was different, though.

Today Giancarlo was going to let me swing a sword, even if it was only a wooden blade.

Maybe it was because I was finally sixteen. Maybe he thought I was ready to fight some of those monsters that I’d never seen and didn’t even believe in. I never got a chance to ask him.

Giancarlo helped me put on the hardened leather breastplate, codpiece, and leggings. It is a little embarrassing to have someone help you dress. But if everything isn’t properly adjusted, you risk getting pinched somewhere tender when you’re swinging a staff. I’d learned that the hard way.

Follow me, Anders, Giancarlo said, finally satisfied. We’ll spar down by the river, on the practice field.

Giancarlo sped along, and I hurried after him. If it weren’t for the bobbing light of the lantern, I would have lost him several times. The armor slowed me a little. But that wasn’t the only reason. There were other problems with my body besides pimples and out-of-control black, curly hair. Even though I had strong arms from morning practice, I was still out of shape. I had been thin and fast once, when I was younger. But that was before the magic, before I was cooped up in the castle.

So I jogged awkwardly, short of breath, feeling the armor pinch me a little, for all of Giancarlo’s fussing.

You could hear my sigh of relief as we arrived. I couldn’t help being jealous of Giancarlo. He was fast and thin, and seemed to glide effortlessly across the grass.

There were torches lit around the practice field. Seven torches, in a circle. The sky was still dark, although dawn was rapidly approaching.

I tried to catch my breath.

The river flowed by quietly. Insects were singing.

Everything else was asleep, or maybe just scared off by my noisy breathing.

Giancarlo put down his torch, and a long bag that hung from his shoulder. He opened the bag and pulled out five blades of different lengths and design.

Pick them all up and see which one feels right, he said. You’ll need to learn to fight with whatever is handy. But it’s better to be armed with something that fits you. Look at them first, maybe, and see if one speaks to you. They don’t talk to me, mind you, but I’m no sorcerer.

I looked at the swords lying there in the dirt. On the dark, packed earth their wooden fire-hardened blades were barely visible. I couldn’t see anything special, but I was excited to swing something besides a quarterstaff or a cane.

I squinted at them, wanting to see something, or hear something, anything at all. One of the blades in the center seemed to glint a little, a sparkle of green around its silver pommel and wooden blade.

I bent over and grabbed the pommel.

Just like that, I heard this sweet girl’s voice in my head: Gruss dich.

Whoa. Was that some kind of greeting?

I squeezed the pommel in return. This weird buzzing sensation ran up through the grip to my arm, shoulder, chest, and then all through my body.

This was definitely a change. Things were looking up. I think maybe I even smiled a little.

The blade felt like a real sword in my hands. I swung it around some, feeling the balance. Could it really be just wood? The silver pommel tingled in my fingers. The wood remained hard and dark.

I ran my finger along the edge, stopped suddenly. Ouch.

I sucked the finger, tasted blood. Is there magic in this wood?

Giancarlo shrugged. Magic interests me little and I know less of it. There may be a bit of magic in these blades; they were made for sorcerers, and they almost never break. And they’re sharp, as you seem to have noticed.

The silver pommel warmed in my hand, and I felt a throbbing pulse.

This pommel, though, I said. There’s magic here.

Giancarlo cleared his throat. That was your father’s. He refused to carry it, and your uncle wanted it, but now it’s yours.

My uncle was a taboo subject in my family. No one talked about him. It was like he had just disappeared from everyone’s memory back when I was little, just before we moved to Tuscany.

What do you mean, my uncle wanted it? Did you know my uncle?

I thought I knew him, Giancarlo said, frowning. But I was mistaken. I trained him a little, when he was young, but I don’t think I ever knew who he really was. Giancarlo shook his head. Before you, it was your grandfather’s, and your great grandfather’s pommel, that you have in your hand.

Later I would wish I’d asked him more questions about my uncle. But Giancarlo didn’t seem to want to talk about him, and I never liked to upset my blademaster. He could get really moody.

This same pommel? I asked instead. But didn’t they have a real sword?

Your grandfather explained it to me. The silver pommel passes down each generation. When the bearer grows too old to bear it, the blade breaks. A hardened blade of wood serves the next bearer until adulthood, to be then replaced with steel. The pommel, though, remains the same. I know little of magic — my wife’s the witch in the family — but it must be a good sign that you picked it out on the first try, without having to touch the others. I take it the swords speak to you after all.

I nodded, excited to get on with this now. The blade felt eager in my hand.

Old blades have many secrets, he continued. We trust them with our lives, as others have trusted them. Come now, Anders, let’s spar. We’ll see if there’s any hidden strength in you.

You wouldn’t be so strong if you were locked up in a room, I said defensively. I guess it was that hidden strength comment that got to me. Or maybe it was the lack of my morning tea. In any case, I was cranky.

But he just shrugged. So your mother keeps you inside too much. You eat a little too much to compensate for your lack of excitement. We all have excuses, son. But if someone attacks you, you’d better be ready to fight.

Giancarlo bent over and picked up one of the other blades.

Who is going to attack me if I’m locked up in my room all day? I asked.

Life is full of surprises, not all of them pleasant, Giancarlo said. Now give me your best. We spar until first blood. If your blade has anything new to teach you, maybe I will learn something too.

He bowed, and I bowed to him.

I spoke the same words I’d said every morning for over a year now.

May our blades be sharp, and our blade work true.

This was the first time they really meant something. We were sparring not with wooden poles but with blades.

Until first blood.

Giancarlo nodded. Let the wisdom of the blade teach us our daily lesson.

He brought up his sword, and I did the same. Behind my back, the sun began to rise. I could feel its warm light on the back of my neck as I swung my sword and the sweat began to flow, stinging my face.

But I felt stronger, more coordinated, even with the armor. Like the blade was an extension of my arm; I felt like I could just reach over and touch Giancarlo.

But I couldn’t. Giancarlo was too quick, and I spent most of the time knocking back his attacks. Several of them went past my guard. Soon I was feeling bruised, slow, and stupid.

Then, suddenly, came a crashing blow, the side of Giancarlo’s sword slamming into my ribs, and I fell to the ground on my bottom. Talk about embarrassing. I felt my face turn even hotter, and tried to get up as quickly as possible.

But a shooting pain in my side made me sit right back down on the ground.

Giancarlo stopped suddenly.

You graceless, self-absorbed boy. You worry more about the pimples on your face than the sword in your hand. You let shame and pain and anger distract you. In battle, you won’t be ashamed or embarrassed. You won’t be wincing in pain. You’ll be dead, or seriously wounded.

All right, then kill me, put me out of my misery, I said.

Giancarlo seemed to fight off a smile.

Stand up, he said. And focus on two things. My blade and yours. Squint, do your wizardly nonsense, say your words of power, do whatever you need, but fix those two lines in your mind and defend yourself. Our bodies are just extensions of these two blades. Focus on the blades and the bodies will follow.

I got back up. My muscles cried out for mercy under my bruises. Really, it wasn’t just getting hit that was hurting me.

Swinging the wooden sword was making me sore, too.

Tomorrow I was going to be in agony, but I didn’t care. There was no one in the world I wanted to impress more than Giancarlo, not even my father. And here I was, making a fool of myself instead.

It wasn’t fair. I hadn’t chosen to be locked in my room half my life, forced to study instead of exercise.

Here I was getting upset. If I couldn’t control my own feelings, how could I expect to win a sword fight?

I took a deep breath, let it out. Three times. Three—that’s a magic number.

I looked at the blades the way I had earlier, when I had picked mine up.

I had to concentrate really hard. My vision blurred and I almost gave up. I’d always been good at giving up. But I saw Giancarlo watching me, waiting patiently. I squinted some more and everything swam out of focus. Then I saw a glimmer. It was elusive, fading and then brightening. I focused on it, my eyes squinting madly. My eyes burned, and there was a prickling in my forehead. I tried to relax and concentrate at the same time, to forget all the pain in my arms and side.

I closed my eyes, took one last deep breath, let it out nice and slow.

When I opened my eyes again, everything came into focus. And when I say everything, I mean everything. Not only could I see Giancarlo clearly, but our blades, as well. My blade was a shimmering emerald green line that continued up my arm.

Giancarlo’s blade was a pale blue line of fire, but it stopped at his hand.

For the first time I realized I had an advantage, being magical. Even though Giancarlo was three times as old, three times as strong, and three times as experienced as I am.

So I didn’t blink. I didn’t feel bad about my abilities. I just spoke a word: "Kraft," and felt my arms and legs grow stronger. I stood up straight and smiled at Giancarlo and bowed. We began again.

I squinted and concentrated on where the blue and green lines met. My arm moved quicker than before. Thanks to magic, I felt almost as fast as my blademaster.

But the magic didn’t make the bruises hurt any less, and didn’t slow down Giancarlo any, either.

He rained blows down upon me and I parried desperately.

I still needed the sword’s knowledge. But how could I learn from it?

My arms were tiring again. Soon I was slowing down.

I was about ready to throw the sword down and give up. How could I get the silly thing to work its magic?

Maybe that was what did it — me focusing my anger and impatience on the blade.

All I know is one moment I was squeezing the pommel, angry at my sword for not telling me its secrets, and the next moment, the blade spoke.

Not with words, but with blows.

I parried, parried, struck.

The blows were like music, and the sword was teaching me a new song. As I struck and parried I heard real music then; the sword hummed in my hands.

The pommel grew warmer, and the music louder and quicker. I heard words, and at first I couldn’t understand them. Maybe they were some old northern tongue, but they were definitely instructions, instructions my body understood even if my mind didn’t.

Somehow I think the song the sword was singing was the song of my blood. My body moved with the song. My sword arm danced. It felt like I was swept up in something much bigger than myself, like I was just an instrument in a huge orchestra playing a symphony of movement.

Suddenly I stopped.

My blade had cut the blademaster’s forehead, above his right eyebrow. Blood was pouring into Giancarlo’s eyes, down his face. I felt sick to my stomach, felt my sword arm start trembling. I wanted to turn away, but Giancarlo was smiling. Smiling at me, Anders Tomason. And holding out his hand.

We shook, and I felt my trembling hand calm as he squeezed it with his vise-like grip.

So you heard it, did you? Giancarlo said. I remember your father doing the same crazy dance. How I would love to hear such strange music, make such wondrous steps and fanciful blade work.

I shook my head. It was the magic, Giancarlo. I’ll never be halfway as good as you.

Giancarlo put his arm against his forehead to slow the blood. The music came quickly to you, he said. If I remember right, it took your father several weeks, and he had clear instructions on how to go about it from your grandfather.

He let his arm down from his forehead and blood flowed again down his face.

I’m a right mess, he said, moving his arm up again. I better get this blood cleaned up and have Ana stitch me up. She has a witch’s gift for healing and knows a few spells, although her parents could never afford to get her tutored.

He picked up the rest of the swords and put them in the bag, slung the bag across his shoulder, and started to walk off.

What about this sword? I called out after him, holding up the blade, missing him already. I had a strange feeling about what would happen in the days that followed.

Happy birthday, Anders, Giancarlo called back, stopping for a moment. The sword is yours now.

I felt a surge of joy that overpowered everything else.

My own sword.

What could be a better birthday gift?

I buckled on the scabbard, sheathed the sword. When I looked up, Giancarlo was still standing there, looking like he was trying to remember something as he staunched his blood in the early light.

Suddenly his face brightened.

Oh, and by the way, your father wants to see you.

I groaned.

Chapter II

For a while now my father and I had avoided each other. That way, he didn’t have to make excuses about why he never found time to do anything with me, to take me anywhere or teach me anything, and I didn’t have to hear about what a disappointment I was in my studies.

So, when my father asked to see me, my first reaction was curiosity. I mean, it was my birthday, but had he asked to see me on my fifteenth birthday? On my fourteenth?

There was a mirror framed by two small oil lamps in the hall just outside my father’s room. I stared at it for a moment before I walked in. My dark hair was all over the place. I ran my hand through it idly, trying to put it in order, push it back away from my forehead. I doubted my father would even look at me, but I didn’t want to be sent to the castle barber.

My green eyes stared back at me. I tried to smile but couldn’t help looking for all the new pimples that I could feel forming under my bumpy skin. Just thinking about it made it worse. But my father was waiting — I could almost feel his impatience floating in the air outside the room.

I walked in.

He was already at work. The light of the candles reflected off of his bald head. Not that his skin was unusually shiny or anything. He had nice, clean, normal skin. Whoever’s skin I had, it wasn’t my father’s. His hair was blond, too, what was left of it. So I didn’t have my father’s hair, either. Sometimes I thought the only thing I had from my father was his impatience.

There were papers and maps spread out all over his desk. Ever since we had moved to a new castle after my grandfather’s death — leaving King Lowen in the far North so my father could be a diplomatic liaison in Tuscany — my father had been pushing paper around. As liaison he was always busy, but never seemed to be doing anything, at least nothing like what I read about in books. Instead he was writing letters or talking to people on some diplomatic mission most of the time. When I was younger, a little after we had moved south, I had imagined he was a spy. Now I had no more illusions.

What’s all this? I asked.

My father looked up. I take it things went well this morning?

I fingered the sword pommel self-consciously. I didn’t mean to, Father, but somehow I cut him.

My father looked me straight in the eyes. Sometimes people have to get cut. You’re all right, though?

I nodded slowly.

Use it well, and be careful, he said softly, his eyes flitting down to the blade at my side.

Father, I said, why didn’t you take the sword?

That’s a long story. He paused. He looked down at his desk. I got the feeling he wanted to tell me more, but if so, he never got a chance.

When he looked back at me, his face looked stressed. I’m sorry, son. We’re going to have to lock you in. I’m going to be very busy tonight. We won’t return until late.

A lockdown? I asked, feeling angry for not the first time today. "I’m sixteen."

My father shrugged. Tomorrow you will have a banquet if your work is done tonight.

"I don’t even want a banquet, I said. I was tired of all this mystery about where he went and why, but mostly I was tired of being locked in. I turned to leave the room but my father spoke softly, just a single word: Warte."

How could he freeze me there just by saying a word? I’d always thought my father was weak in magic, a powerless diplomat, someone who’d chosen to live his life through reason instead of actions. But he stopped me without raising a finger, without even raising his voice. I tried to move but the word held me. Waiting. Staring at the door I had been about to walk through and slam.

Your mother wants you to have clear skin tomorrow, my father said from behind me. You can visit the herbalist, or we can cover you with makeup.

I’m not a girl, I said, feeling silly talking to the door, but relieved that at least the magic had not frozen my tongue. I won’t wear makeup. Can’t you just put a glamour on me?

I felt his magic loosen as I turned around.

My father frowned. That’s a subtle spell, if it’s to last, and we have no time. If you don’t want to cover those bumps with makeup, go find some witch to hide them for you. Or see the herbalist and see what she can do.

My father looked back at his papers. Our conversation was over.

Father? I said.

Instead of answering, he held up his hand. There was power again, there. Again he stopped me with just a gesture, without even saying a word.

Your tutor is waiting for you, he said without looking up.

Have a nice trip, I said, finally, when he released me, holding it all in, my fingers forming into fists. It was pointless to even ask where he was going. He never told me anything.

Thanks, Son, my father said, standing up now. Happy Birthday.

For a moment I thought he was going to hug me. He took a step toward me, even reached out his arms. His face changed — he looked loving, warm, like he had when I was little, before the magic, before the big move.

Was I still angry or just surprised?

It had been so long since my father had touched me.

I turned away, and he let his arms drop.

Sorry, Anders, he said then. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.

I found Ana, Giancarlo’s wife, down in the lower depths of the castle. She knew what I needed as soon as she saw my face.

She wrapped me up in her arms and squeezed. I felt all the anger melt then, all the frustration, and blubbered like a baby. Talk about embarrassing, but Ana is like family to me. She took care of me when I was a little boy, even before we moved here, way before I knew her husband, the blademaster.

When I finally pulled myself together, Ana pressed a jar of green clay into my hands. She gave me careful instructions, making me repeat them until I understood everything.

It won’t get rid of your problems, she said, But it will help.

She looked me in the eyes then, and kissed my forehead. I’ll always remember that kiss, and her smell: patchouli and orange.

I am not sure if you will really need this clay, she said. But I’ll tell you one thing, be careful what you wish for.

I wanted to ask her what she meant. Ana could see things that other people couldn’t. She knew about things sometimes, too, even before they happened. But when I opened my lips to ask her, she only pressed my hand down over the jar and shook her head.

I’ve said too much already, she said. Your tutor is waiting. I can feel his impatience.

I could smell Ana’s scent on my clothes as I sat through eight hours of ancient tongues, geography of the lowlands and highlands, military strategy, mathematics, and astrology. Only the ancient tongues and military strategy were interesting.

The rest was a bunch of nonsense. The books said there was once a kingdom of people who lived under the sea. I didn’t believe it, but it was in the books. There were battles in there, too, great struggles for power, people flying around on dragonback and swinging magical swords. It was all a pack of lies. I knew what real life was. Real life was my father. He had to leave from time to time to meet people and talk to them. He had lots of papers to read and lots of letters to send. He was tired a lot of the time. There was nothing else. When I was older, I wouldn’t be a guard in an underwater city; I wouldn’t even be a wizard in King Lowen’s glass castle. I would be a paper-pusher like my father, a poor excuse for a sword fighter, and an even sorrier excuse for a wizard.

My lessons were the same as always, just longer than usual. If I had expected anything different now that I was sixteen, I was disappointed. My tutor waved at me finally from the door. He had left me a huge stack of homework.

Happy Birthday, Anders, he said, and locked me in.

After studying for a few more hours and snacking on some dried fruit, I figured I might as well try the jar. My face hurt and I just wanted to scratch and squeeze. I showed some self-control instead and slathered the green paste all over my face.

The mask was unbearably itchy, but Ana had given me clear instructions. No touching my face if I wanted my skin to relax, release, and smooth out.

Don’t expect miracles, she’d said. Just put it on in the evening, and leave it on until it’s time for bed.

So I kept my hands off my face and sighed.

My parents should have been back hours ago. They had never left me locked in overnight. Someone had always come to check on me. I was tired of being a prisoner. Where were my parents? I fingered the sword at my waist.

At this rate my face would be covered with green gunk until the early morning. My supper would soon be cold and tasteless. My stomach grumbled.

If only I had learned the art of sending. Even though I was mad at my father, I wanted to send a message to him. I had this strange feeling that something was terribly wrong, but it was hard to pin down. What could be wrong? I must have been reading too many books. Really, why was I worried?

Usually the cold didn’t bother me, but this night was colder than usual. Or maybe I felt a chill from whatever was going on. In any case, I shivered. I tried to concentrate on my father, his bald head and big green eyes. Father, where are you?

Nothing. Or maybe just a little something. I concentrated once again. Father?

A blood red flash made my head reel.

Whoa. I knew from my studies that headaches could be a sign that something was wrong. But this was worse than a headache — it was like a red-hot poker to my eyes, and the redness still burned in my vision as the pain faded. What did it all mean?

Maybe nothing. Maybe just that I shouldn’t fool