Fifth Dragon: Rider Magic

By D Kane

White Raven’s return to Cumulos is fraught with danger even though her control of magic has improved. If she’s in a panic, of course, it’s still a crap-shoot as to whether she can remember any of the spells she needs.
She visits a world where songbirds are shoulder-height and flowers are the size of cars – along with colossal, magic-sucking spyders, of course. An abduction by military pig men lands her in a dungeon where she decides the creatures would be less offensive if they’d brush their teeth – and trade military tunics for pants.
Enter Cyril, an educated, condescending rat the size of a house dog who insists on being her familiar; but Raven finds it problematic to warm up to a bald, wrinkled rodent foolish enough to trade fur for magical tattoos.
Meanwhile, Dorian, now king of Altaria, is showing a new interest in her, something which would’ve given her palpitations before she met Valgren, Rider of Gaia, who exudes the cool scent of forests, rich earth, and the aroma of wild flowers. A master of magic, he guides Raven through mind-boggling enchantments.
An entertaining break from our stress-filled lives, this book is for grown-ups who still enjoy a delightful frolic through the realm of fantasy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D Kane
• Release date: Jun 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781773027821

Book preview

By D Kane

Fifth Dragon

Book One: Cumulos Capers

Book Two: Rider Magic

Chapter 1

There it was again – a sneaky scuffle. The creature from hell was back.

I stomped to the door, jerked it open, and a red-headed ten-year-old tumbled in. Greyish owl eyes stared up at me. A rotund body stuck on two skinny legs and a red-and-white striped tee shirt made him a living Humpty Dumpty.

As he rolled from side to side in an effort to right himself, I growled, What do you want now, Reg?

Reg was the festering sore in my perfect life in my tenth-floor apartment with the perfect view of the Rocky Mountains in Denver, Colorado. An annoying child, he lived in the apartment below, was convinced I could fly on a broom, and that I was a ghost … a witch … or both.

A perceptive little monster. The ghost thing happened the night a magical stranger saved me from a ten-storey fall – an experiment gone terribly wrong. Reg, playing with model trains on his balcony, had witnessed me plunge past wearing a white nightgown. Ergo – the ghost.

You made me drop my camera! He scrambled on hands and knees to retrieve a cheap digital that rolled onto the living room carpet.

I narrowed my eyes. What were you planning to take pictures of?

Umm … nothing.

A deep chuckle came from my other visitor who perched on a stool at the kitchen counter. Hello, Reg! he said. Still looking for that photo?

Reg stepped further into the room. I’m going to get it too! I’ll sell it to a newspaper for millions and then I’ll be rich!

Good to see initiative in young folks.

If I kept rolling my eyes, I was going to get a headache. Don’t encourage him, Dorian! He’s crazy enough already!

Hey! Reg pulled himself erect with the help of an armchair. I’m not crazy! You guys are magic and I’m gonna prove it!

And then what? I asked.

Well … then I’ll be rich!

Yea. So?

Well … everybody will know about you!

And then?

What do you mean?

What do you think would happen to us?

People from the gov’ment would come and get you.

Probably. Then what?

They’d cut you up to find out why you can do stuff.

Again … probably. I stared into eyes enlarged by thick lenses. Is that your plan? Get your neighbours tortured?

He flicked his tongue over protruding teeth. Only bad guys.

And that would be us?

My mom says …

I jerked the door wide. Goodnight, Reg!

I slammed the door on his chubby behind and growled about children being hatched somewhere distant. I turned to Dorian and shrugged off my irritation. Where were we?

Dorian dug into a shirt pocket. I have a message from Angus.

My fingers developed a tremble as I took the four-inch disk. Angus was a mage from the cloud castle of Cumulos – an enchanted realm to which I hoped to return. The inscribed writing was fine, loopy, and throbbed with magic. I read it twice.

Raven, you need to breathe.

The action of sucking air got my tongue working. Good lord, Dorian! What does your inheritance have to do with Cumulos? How do they even know you’re a prince? And why does Angus want to talk about your ascension to the throne?

One question at a time. He gave me a crooked smile.

Let’s start with how Angus knows. I thought your claim to the throne of Altaria was a secret.

"Well, someone did murder my mother."

I bit my lip. Of course. A dry wafer stuck to the roof of my mouth and I swallowed tea to wash it down. Throat-clearing changed to awful choking.

Dorian paused in the action of snapping a pocket closed over the disk. Do you need help? He seemed more amused than concerned.

My tongue scalded as I gulped more tea and sucked in a shaky breath. I walked in circles in an effort to get my wind back. Why did I so often look like a fool in front of Dorian?

He took a controlled sip and a small bite of wafer as he waited for me to recover. Why didn’t it crumble when he bit it? Are you going to make it? he asked with what I perceived as a lack of sensitivity. Your face is scarlet.

When I could breathe, I sent him a dark look. Of course, I’m going to make it! And I’m fair-skinned!

I managed a ragged sigh. Sometimes I wondered how I stayed alive at all. Although my bad luck was balanced by good, I’d have been much happier to have the same luck as everyone else. I did however provide Dorian with entertainment on a regular basis. He insisted I was the only person in the world with both the bad luck to be blasted out of a mountain on a waterfall and the good luck to be caught by a passing dragon. Said dragon had been looking for me but all the same …

I managed a deep breath, felt my face return to normal, broke a wafer with more force than necessary, and shoved a portion into my mouth. I’ve been told I can be a tad stubborn – well, a lot stubborn if I’m being honest. I chewed with care and washed it down with semi-cooled tea.

As Dorian drained the remainder of his, I noticed a suspicious lack of expression. What?

He glanced to the side. That’s the second message. Chocolate brown eyes met mine. We’ve been invited back.

The words sounded forced and I knew he was thinking of my safety. I’d had a brush with death on our previous trip and I imagine he weighed that possibility against the certainty I’d never speak to him again if he went without me. And it wasn’t as if I could go on my own. A visit to the magical realm of Cumulos was strictly by invitation.

My thoughts shot to Valgren, Rider of Gaia, who could make my palms sweat with a glance. I leaped off the stool. I can be ready in five minutes!

He raised a hand. Relax! I need to open my time capsule first.

We shared a deep look, both aware that opening the sealed package would change Dorian’s life forever.

Want to go fly just for fun? It was an obvious effort to lighten the mood. He flicked a look at my baggy tee and sweat pants. After you … change, of course.

I shot him a glare and flounced from the room but it was hard to argue when he was right. I returned wearing jeans, an old sweater, and a rumpled, lined jacket.

He glanced at my attire. Perhaps I should help you next time.

I collected my broom from a corner of the kitchen. The leaves have turned, the air is nippy, and I hate being cold.

Create a heat sphere. Or buy a new coat? I know for a fact you have plenty of money, and there are homeless people who could be convinced to wear that one if you paid them.

I glanced at my aging, comfortable jacket. I like it! And a heat sphere makes me feel like I’m indoors. If I wanted that, I’d stay here. I stepped onto the balcony and Dorian, with raised brow, refrained from further comment as he retrieved his broom. Most likely he agreed but didn’t want to admit it. Men have fragile egos.

I noticed he avoided looking at my broom as he straddled his own. Don’t be so judgmental! I snapped. The stirrups help me balance!

They look goofy, he said, and lifted into the gathering evening before I could reply.

Perhaps Dorian’s ranch background made him sensitive to my stripping a saddle for spare parts. Or perhaps he didn’t take change well. I slipped my feet into thick stirrups and lifted off, put on a burst of speed and caught up. So … where to?

A pained expression crossed his face as he glanced at my modified vehicle. The moon’s rising. Let’s go above the clouds. He shot straight up.

I extended my senses to feel for aircraft as we lifted through greyness to emerge above a powder-puff blanket. The silvery light of a full moon added depth to our private view of tumbled cotton. Dorian moved to my side and looked up.

Bet we could go there, he said.

Go where?

He pointed to a full moon.

I try to be open minded. There’s no air on the moon.

True. His brow furrowed. We might be able to work around that though.

Let me know how that works for you.

You’re such a pessimist, Raven! As he canted his eyes towards me, the corners of perfect lips quirked.

I don’t know where he gets that idea. I pride myself on being a positive person. The fact that I perceive a problem with flying through empty space to a moon without air doesn’t make me a pessimist; it makes me a realist.

All pessimists say that.

Magic might have limits.

But we don’t know what they are.

Dying of asphyxiation is not the way I want to find out.

The growl of a plane laboring for altitude interrupted our discussion. It would emerge from the clouds in seconds. Time to go.

Too late.

Clouds stirred as a commercial aircraft popped through close enough to enable a glimpse of a boy’s face plastered to the window, eyes wide. I foresaw psychiatrists in the kid’s future.

Dorian and I dove through the clouds until we hovered above the lights of Denver which spread like a glowing necklace along the edge of the Rockies. We sketched a circle with our wands and murmured invisibility incantations, eager to partake in one of our favourite pastimes.

As we levelled out above the traffic and darted along illuminated canyons, it occurred to me that our invisibility spell may not be as foolproof as we’d thought. I caught flashes of our reflections in high-rises.

After a half-hour of playing tag, Dorian pulled up next to a tall apartment building where we hovered to enjoy the view. The slanted green orbs of a sleek calico cat watched us from a balcony table. When a woman emerged to retrieve the animal, she peered into the night, trying to see what it was staring at. Finally, she shook her head and carried it into the apartment.

I heard a growl but it wasn’t the cat. It was my stomach. Dorian had arrived before supper. Want to get pizza? I asked.

Dorian’s gaze scanned me. I couldn’t be seen with someone dressed like that.

I was about to argue when I realized he was right. I could spruce up a little.

One of the most fantastic things about flying is the absence of obstacles. I picked a wide street and, in less than five minutes, we were on my balcony.

After a dash to the bathroom and a glance in the mirror, I was horrified to discover the rat’s nest my hair had become. No wonder Dorian never looked at me in that way. I too often looked like road kill. In fact, most men admired my blue eyes and slim form but they saw me when I was dressed to the nines, makeup on, perfumed, hair styled. Not this pathetic waif who stared back at me.

I untied the messy braid of my hip-length black hair and checked in the mirror for emerald roots at the front – one of the magical traits I’d inherited from a mysterious father whom I’d yet to meet.

I glanced at my watch. I had time. I stripped, leaped into a scalding shower, scrubbed shampoo into my raven locks, and washed off what little remained of my makeup.

My skin rosily aglow, I wrapped in a towel and opened my makeup case. Tonight was going to be different. He’d faint when I was done! Perhaps at this point I wasn’t thinking far enough ahead. After all, there was Valgren, Rider of Gaia …

I applied makeup with a heavier hand than usual. Lashes darkened with mascara and eyeliner made my eyes sparkle. Rose lipstick covered in gloss gave me what I hoped were kissable lips.

I slipped on gossamer underwear and a body-hugging, short-on-both-ends pale blue dress and spike-heeled shoes. I coaxed my flowing locks into a French Roll then winced as earrings jammed through pierced holes almost grown closed.

This was more like it! I slipped on a pair of high heels, rotated before a full-length mirror, and decided I looked elegant. I added a spritz of a light scent and took a deep breath.

Oh, oh! I tugged the top of the dress up which made the bottom even shorter. My figure could be described as tallish and slender with attributes that catch male attention, but I didn’t want to attract that much or that kind. I was about to change when Dorian knocked.

A person could starve to death out here! What’s the holdup?

Panic clutched at me. Don’t come in! I’m not ready!

The door opened, his head popped in, and he froze.

"What is wrong with you?! I screeched. I said, don’t come in! I’m not ready!" With nowhere to hide, I endured his appraisal with brazen determination.

After a few agonizing seconds that seemed longer, he changed some internal gear, and a wide smile lit his face (though I thought it seemed forced).

I thought you said to come in because you were ready. His eyes widened in fake surprise. It’s truly miraculous what a change of clothes and makeup can do!

I looked for something to throw. How could I’ve been stupid enough to want to look good for such a cretin?! Dorian surmised my intention and slammed the door as I hurled a vase. Choice expletives followed the sounds of smashing glass.

Coward! Come back here! I charged through the living room in time to see the end of his broom lift off, deep laughter trailing behind. Heels caught on the carpet and I stumbled onto the balcony to hurl creative adjectives into the night.

… There was a flash of light and an evil laugh from below.

Crap! I grabbed my wand from its place in the umbrella stand, inscribed a magical symbol, and mumbled an incantation. Seconds later, I heard the sound of a dropped camera and Reg blowing on his fingers.

You’re not gonna stop me! his child-voice floated from below. Sooner or later I’ll get a pitchur!

Probably. The kid had the instincts of a bloodhound.

Chapter 2

It was a week before Dorian’s shadow crossed the glass doors of my balcony. Life had been stale without him and holding a grudge was too much work. It’s open!

The glass knob turned and Dorian, wavy black hair perfect, stepped into the room. He leaned his broom against a convenient corner, sweep end up, slipped off his shoes, and padded to my tea cupboard.

I’d been deep in a book which had taken weeks to find. My money was on the gardener, not the butler. I inserted a cat-shaped bookmark and lurched from my comfortable leather couch.

Dorian pawed through boxes. Did you get more Earl Grey?

It’s there. Help yourself.

I ran fingers through glossy waves of freshly-brushed hair. At least I looked presentable. I couldn’t help but notice that, as usual, my friend looked fabulous. His thirtieth birthday was next week. Thirty is a milestone for most people but, for Dorian, it was momentous – he could open his time capsule.

While still a child, his mother had explained the origin of his magical abilities. After the assassination of King Orrin by his brother, Gargeran, Queen Helena had escaped with baby Dorian to the land of mortals where it would be thirty years before they could attempt to reclaim the throne of Altaria.

On his twelfth birthday, Helena had pressed a packet of oiled paper sealed with red wax into his hands, told him it contained a key to a hidden treasure, and given him detailed instructions for accessing its secrets. If he tried to open the box before his thirtieth birthday, the knowledge and tools he’d need to reclaim his kingdom would be compromised.

She’d drilled him about what to expect as his powers emerged almost as if she knew their time together would be short. Each night as she told him stories of Altaria, she’d stroke his hair. The natural white streaks at the front identified him as a member of the royal family – streaks she dyed black to match the rest of his raven locks as I did to the green in mine.

The night their enemies came, he’d bolted for a tiny cupboard beneath the floor where he’d trembled for hours. When police arrived the next morning, he’d emerged long enough to learn his mother had been the victim of a brutal and mysterious murder.

Although a solicitous social worker had promised to take him someplace safe, he knew mortals could never protect him. On the pretext of gathering his things, he’d gone to his room, retrieved the packet from its place beneath a loose floor board along with a bag of gold coins, stuffed them into a backpack, climbed down the fire escape, and never looked back. In compliance with his mother’s warnings, he’d used magic sparingly and, as new abilities caught him by surprise, he’d slaved to master them.

Being a child though, he wasn’t perfect. One day, after evading a gang of teenagers bent on revenge for something he’d done that involved hanging one of them upside down while attached to nothing, he’d decided it was time to leave Denver. He’d hitchhiked to the rolling countryside and talked his way into a job on a ranch. The rancher had taken a liking to the quiet, withdrawn boy and, on condition he attended school, had ensured there was always work for him. Days spent on horseback and working with his hands had shaped the man he became – strong and confident though solitary.

Dorian and I met the night he rescued me from becoming a splat on the sidewalk (I’d rather not talk about that embarrassing episode. If you must know, it’s in my first chronicle.) and sometimes it felt like our ensuing friendship could be more, but we’d never crossed that line. Our companionship was too valuable to both of us.

My history also has its mysteries. My mother had spilled the beans after she got tipsy one night when I was seventeen. My real father had been a magical youth who, after taking advantage of her (something she swore she didn’t remember), had promptly disappeared. Her disappointed parents had made quiet wedding arrangements with the family next door to provide me with a father. Bill had been an adequate if unimaginative and unenthusiastic parent, a heavy-set, quiet man who put food on the table by working at a local garage. When I’d learned he wasn’t my father, I’d been privately relieved.

On my eighteenth birthday, my mother had received a note that indicated she and I would inherit two million dollars from my mysterious father on condition I moved from the wilds of Vanderhoof, British Columbia to a larger urban area where, strangely enough, I’d have more privacy. Towns and villages are gossip mills. She could have her freedom from Bill who was not to know of the inheritance. If he offered no resistance to her leaving and didn’t ask questions, he’d receive $100,000 in cash. Sadly, I knew he’d never hesitated to trade his family for money.

My mother had been pale but quiet as she showed me the note and banking information. I suspected she was still in love with the mysterious young man but, at the time, I had no idea how to comfort her so, like most families, we avoided talking about it.

A couple of months later, I decided Denver, Colorado would be a good place to live. The mountains were next door and the city large enough to provide all the amenities I could want. I was comfortable but, after nearly ten years, still had no idea why my father had made the stipulation other than it was easy to remain anonymous in a city.

Dorian set the kettle on the stove and leaned against the counter, arms and legs crossed in a comfortable stance. Although he wasn’t dressed as a cowboy tonight, he always moved like one. As I joined him in the kitchen, his dark eyes skimmed baggy tee shirt over black tights.

Cute.

It wasn’t a compliment. I shot him a fake scowl and scooped tea leaves into a strainer. I wasn’t expecting company and was snuggled down for a good read.

Should I leave?

Of course not. If it wasn’t for you, I’d go into a permanent state of hibernation.

Glad to be of help. His lips curled into a smile but his eyes carried sadness.

Oh, oh! I leaned a hip against the counter. You and Andrea broke up.

You know how these things go.

I did. I’m sorry.

He lifted a shoulder. She wanted intimacy and could tell I was holding back. Can’t blame her, but I don’t have that luxury. At the kettle’s whistle, he poured steaming water into a chipped tea pot and the aroma of bergamot filled the air. I dug out a container of cream for Dorian, added