The Rusalka Ritual & Other Stories: Dragonscale Dimensions, #1

By Freya Pickard

Quirky, undefinable and un-put-downable.

 

"A collection of short tales where we meet a range of enjoyable characters. Fantasy writing with a twist, very enjoyable." Book Bug

 

Dracomagan (from Dragonscale Leggings) makes an appearance in each of these five tales from the Otherworld.

 

Whether it's ruining an emotional atmosphere, upsetting golfers and little children at Knole Park or simply doing what she does best – fighting – Dracomagan is sure to entertain you.

 

If you've never met Dracomagan before, these tales are ideal for getting to know her, and, if you can't get enough of her, these stories will pique your curiousity further.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Freya Pickard
• Release date: Nov 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540149602

Freya Pickard

Pushcart Prize nominee, Freya Pickard, is the quirky, unusual author of The Kaerling series, an epic fantasy set in the strange and wonderful world of Nirunen. A cancer survivor, she writes mainly dark fantasy tales and creates expressive poetry in order to leach the darkness from her soul. Her aim in life is to enchant, entertain and engage with readers through her writing. She finds her inspiration in the ocean, the moors, beautifully written books and vinyl music (particularly heavy metal and rock). She enjoys Hatha Yoga, Bhangra and Yogalates and in her spare time creates water colours and pastel drawings of the worlds in her head.

Book preview

for David & Julie

Echo Peak

The shadows were long and blue in the biscuit-coloured dust when we left. We didn’t wake Uncle. I knew he wouldn’t let me go on this particular journey. Dracomagan gave me the choice, but really, there was no choice; to meet the man who killed my parents, to look into his eyes and see, maybe remorse, or at least sorrow at leaving me an orphan.

Silence hung over the barren land as oppressive as a winter storm. The sky was clear; pearl blue trimmed with gold and red on the eastern horizon. Twisted cacti stood like grey sentinels, waiting for the sun to rise and give them colour. A sullen breeze stirred once and failed. We walked towards the rising sun, heading for Echo Canyon. I felt a stir of fear inside me as the rock wall grew steadily nearer.

We stopped at the mouth to Echo Canyon, sinking down into the soft dust. Dracomagan offered me a drink of tepid water from her flask and I drank gratefully, but sparingly. I looked back across the dusty plains noticing that the cacti were not as grey as they had been. A lazy breeze shuffled through the dust, sifting pale grains into the hollows of our boot prints. There would be no trail for Uncle to follow.

Dracomagan rose to her feet, leather boots creaking. She held out a hand to help me up. Tell me, when you need another rest.

I followed her into the Canyon, my heart beating a little faster than normal. I kept my eyes low, feeling some terrible Thing looming above me. Peering up to either side I saw beige walls of rock seamed with red-stained cracks. A dry stream bed filled with white dust meandered motionless along the canyon floor. The air smelt heavier than the silent plains beyond and silence pressed against me with hard, unyielding hands. No one had ever come back from Echo Canyon, except the Bandit. My heart beat faster. The Bandit; killer of my parents. I tugged at Dracomagan’s sleeve, feeling the rough weave of green cotton beneath my fingers.

Where is he? I heard my voice whisper back several times.

She stopped and pointed straight ahead. The sky above us was pale blue and the red seamed horizon had brightened to solid gold above the canyon walls. My eyes followed Dracomagan’s pointing finger. I raised my head and saw Echo Peak. The rising sun made the thin-pointed peak a flat, black mass. Golden light shimmered around its edges, making my eyes water. The feeling of dread trickled away. I opened my mouth to speak louder, to hear the echoes reply, but Dracomagan placed one calloused finger against my lips. She shook her head, bending down to breathe into my ear.

Say nothing, we don’t want to warn him of our approach.

But how do you know he’s here? I mouthed at her.

I was here yesterday. She mouthed back, grinned at my astonishment and turned on her heel.

I slipped in the dust as I ran to keep up with her. No one had returned from Echo Canyon, except the Bandit. I knew Dracomagan was special; her withering looks stopped men in their tracks and made women lose their voices... But to emulate the Bandit... I glanced up at her impassive face. Her pale blue eyes constantly scanned the horizon and the rock walls.

We stopped for another drink in the shadow of Echo Peak and Dracomagan indicated that we would climb the infamous stairs.

Try to be quiet. She mouthed. We don’t want to wake him before we reach the cave.

My mind teemed with visions of gold and silver, ale jugs and roasted joints. I shook my head; I had listened to too many of Uncle’s wild stories. I followed Dracomagan up the carved steps, the sandy-coloured stone blushing pink at the edges. Taking care not to look down, I fixed my eyes on Dracomagan’s long boots and the backs of her odd-looking trousers. She didn’t call them trousers; she said they were dragonscale leggings. Grey and purple with leaf-like patterns, the leggings clasped her long legs closely, flexing and contracting with every step.

As we climbed, the heat increased. On our left, Echo Peak rose tall and black against the brightening sky. All went well until the last few steps. I grew tired and careless, slipped and grazed my knee. My ragged cry echoed several times softly and then the echoes rebounded louder and louder. I stuck my fingers in my ears, glancing up at Dracomagan. She turned towards me, a slight frown creasing the skin between her eyes. The only sign of her discomfort was a momentary tightening of her eyes, then, before the echoes faded, she held out