The Gift of the Unicorn and other stories

By Chrys Cymri

Four short stories and the first chapters of two full length novels. An injured knight hunts a unicorn. An English Lord breaks into a museum to steal a piece of mammoth dung. All names disappear from the world. And a dragon learns a terrible truth about his existence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chrys Cymri
• Release date: Sep 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781516380220

Book preview

THE GIFT OF THE UNICORN

and other stories

By Chrys Cymri

Copyright 2015 Chrys Cymri

Cover image by adrenalinapura from Adobe Stock

––––––––

Chrys Cymri asserts the moral right

to be identified as the author of this work

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Gift of the Unicorn

A Mammoth Mistake

UnNaming the Beasts

Dragons Can only Rust (original short story)

First Chapter of The Dragon Throne

First Chapter of Dragons Can Only Rust (published version)

Books by Chrys Cymri

Connect with Chrys Cymri

THE GIFT OF THE UNICORN

––––––––

The man halted at the top of the ridge. He propped his spear against a tree, then tugged a rag from his pocket to wipe his sweaty face. A breeze pulled the right sleeve of his shirt loose from his belt. He swore as it flapped against his side, and awkwardly tucked it away again with his left hand. The rough cloth rubbed against the stump, and he winced. The lacerations around the shoulder had not yet fully healed.

A flicker of silver caught his attention. He grabbed his spear, then crouched, gazing intently down the hill. There, between the trees. The creature trotted into view, the glistening coat refracting sunlight into shimmering rainbows. Four silver hooves barely bent the grass as she crossed the valley to a small stream. She lowered her finely chiselled head, her silver horn breaking the smooth ripple of the water as she drank.

He pushed himself away from the tree and charged wildly down the wide slope. The unicorn lifted her head, water dripping from her short beard. She watched him for a moment, the dark eyes calm. Then as he lifted his spear, preparing for the throw, she suddenly snorted. He threw the spear with all his weight, but knew even as it left his hand that he was still too far away. The unicorn wheeled, tail flicking as she slipped back into the trees.

A tree root caught his foot as he tried to follow, sent him tumbling to his knees. The fall jarred his stump and reopened wounds on his legs. He slammed his hand into the ground, then bent his head, gasping in pain and anger. So close, he’d been so close. A week’s stalking come to nothing. And now the unicorn would be more wary, harder to find, to track, to kill.

He crawled to the stream, noting the small flowers which marked where the silver hooves had stepped. At least that part of the legend still held true. Unicorns left blooms in their tracks. He cupped water from the stream to his mouth, the sweetness of the liquid testifying that a unicorn’s horn had purified the current. Two parts true. He felt the rage build up in him again. Two parts of the legend true. Why not the third?

He splashed some water onto his face, then slowly rose to his feet and searched for his spear. It lay near the stream bank, tip buried in the earth. He pulled it free and glanced up at the sun. Evening was drawing in, as well as clouds promising rain. Not a night for a man to be without shelter. He started down the hill, the hoof-shaped mounds of flowers encouraging him that the unicorn had also gone this way. Tomorrow, he promised her. I will hunt you again tomorrow.

The sudden acrid smell of wood smoke made him lift his head. He turned around, trying to identify the direction of the scent. The forest thinned as he carefully made his way forward, smaller trees appearing in the gaps between the giants towering above his head. Then he was in a small clearing, a cottage of mud-brick and thatch just ahead. Smoke came from the chimney, and he could now smell the warm scent of broth and vegetables. His stomach growled, reminding him of how long it had been since he’d last eaten.

He walked across the grass. A cow lowed at him from a small barn nearby, and several hens fluttered from his path as he came to the wooden door. ‘Good man of this house!’ he shouted gruffly. ‘There is a traveller hungry at your door. What would you ask to feed him?’

The door swung open suddenly. He blinked, finding not some farmer, but an old woman, who stared up at him with dark eyes. ‘What can you offer?’ she demanded.

When he’d been a knight, he had commanded, not asked. Had he known that only an old woman lived in the cottage, he might still have done so. But now, looking into those strangely strong eyes, he found himself saying, ‘I can offer you but little, for little be what an one-armed man can do.’

She snorted. ‘You be not proud, at any rate. Come in, and sup at my table. Doubtless we can find you some work in the morn.’

He started inside, but she suddenly stopped him. ‘Your spear,’ she demanded. ‘I welcome no weapons in this house.’

He glanced at the slender wooden shaft, the mud-flecked point. ‘I once bore the finest of swords,’ he said quietly, ‘and daggers with jewels set in the hilt. Would you deny me what I have left?’

The deep eyes met his. ‘Are you no more than your weapons?’

‘I—’ He halted, not knowing how to answer. With his sword, he had kept part of a king’s army under his command. With the loss of his sword arm, that was never to be his place again. The spear was a poor substitution, but it promised him revenge. It will still be ready for me outside, he argued with himself. The unicorn is hardly likely to step into a cottage. He propped the spear beside the door, then stooped to go inside.

The old woman nodded in satisfaction. She hobbled over the fire set in the left wall. The window shutters were already drawn, and he waited for a few moments, until his eyes had adjusted to the dim light, before moving any further. The cottage was small. This room held a small table, two chairs, and a long cabinet lining the right wall. Two doors ahead promised two further rooms.

He walked to the table and lowered himself into one of the chairs. His half-healed wounds were aching again. He massaged one knee with his hand, watching as the woman tucked her long grey hair behind her ears and peered into the pot hanging over the fire. ‘Be the time of year when I always make for two,’ she said, swinging the pot back over the flames. ‘It be only broth, from one of me chickens and some carrots, but it will fill us both.’

He said, dredging the words up from the distant past, ‘I thank you for your kindness.’

She clucked her tongue. ‘These woods be lonely for an old woman. What be your name, young man?’

He gave her a slight smile at the exaggeration. ‘I am known as Robert.’

‘Robert.’ She cocked her head. ‘I think there be a family name to follow.’

‘There once was.’ He bent his head. ‘There is no more. When the king fell, that name died with him. I am only Robert