Tales From Transylvania

By Bret James Stewart

A person is not readily-definable by one descriptor or limited to a false label based upon his preferences. Neither is this collection. Magical realism, supernatural, horror, psychological terror, dark fantasy, high fantasy, religious, social commentary, literary realism, and humour can all be used to describe the works in this compilation, but one such label will always fall short of the essence of existence these stories represent. The entirety of life with all its glory and vagaries is the goal of these tales, welded together in a mosaic of life and death that defines what it means to be human.
At some point in their lives, most people have brushed against the odd, the macabre, or the unexplained. These experiences leave those involved grateful to be alive, morbidly curious, shattered emotionally, or dead—but it never leaves them unchanged. Most of the stories contained in Tales from Transylvania depict such occurrences.
In dreamscape versions of familiar settings, good and evil vampires, deadly wizards, brooding faeries, ghosts, , other horrors, and the boundless recesses of the human mind all demonstrate that, more often than not, things are not what they seem. These illusions often crumble with devastating consequences for those involved. These tales, set in recognizable settings, seem even stranger than they would in an unknown setting.
Terror and despair, though, are not the whole of life, and they are not the sum of this collection. Relationships, time, and the divine are inseparable from the human condition, so they have a place herein. Humour is also present because it is a vital part of existence. Tales from Transylvania touches on a number of themes and genres, and should appeal to a wide variety of readers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bret James Stewart
• Release date: Jan 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463144800

Bret James Stewart

I love to read and write. When I was a child and envisioned my future, I saw myself smoking a pipe in a study, happily studying. My dreams have come true! I praise the Lord, who has given me the ability to pursue my dream. I have many varied interests, and this has resulted in me writing in many different genres and styles. I greatly enjoy hiking, playing games, and learning. I fill my professional and hobby time with these endeavours. I live in the beautiful mountains of Western North Carolina surrounded by National Forests and State Parks. This definitely helps with the hiking trail reviews I write--see www.blueridgehiker.com. I love music in virtually all genres and almost always have something playing. I am also a lifelong learner. I am currently attending school. In addition to official/professional studies, I always have a book going that contributes to my knowledge in some fashion. I have been called into ministry and am a Christian Druid focusing upon proper Christian stewardship of the environment. I am also a member of the inter-faith druidic organization of the Ancient Order of Druids in America (AODA) www.aoda.org. My goal is to have a specifically Christian Druidry website up soon providing Christians and others with resources to fulfill this often-neglected area of God-given responsibility. Writing is an art for me. I have no interest in catering to fashion or whim in order to strive for a runaway best seller. I craft each book with love and create what I feel to be the highest quality book possible. Of course, some books are more artistic than others. With some of the non-fiction, for example, "highest quality" can simply mean accuracy. Other areas, such as poetry, are exclusively artistic, so "highest quality" means I do it to the best of my ability. If I can touch someone's life in a meaningful way, then I consider my book a success. I am lucky enough to have grown up in the small town of Brevard, North Carolina. Much of my family still lives in the area. I have two grown sons who have left home, leaving me with my feline buddy, Petit-Leon, le Chronicleer du Fay.

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Tales from Transylvania

Bret James Stewart

Tales from Transylvania

By Bret James Stewart

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2018 Bret James Stewart

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ISBN: 9780463144800

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue

A Dragon like No Other

The Death of Shadowbender: Not All Illusions are What They Seem

The Rock of Ages

D’Artolo’s Piano

Madness

Jack Flaherty and the Leanhaun Shee

The Armour of God

Johnson’s Escape

The Gold Pocket Watch

The Place You Can’t See

The Phantom’s Reply

The Illustrious Society Tomato Lovers International and My Adventures Therewith, by E.G. Rumpuddle III., Esq.

Electric Chair

A Right Bad Winter for Wolves

Barlow’s Last Pilgrimage

In the Hall of the Sylvan King

The Slayer of the Sun

Shelter from the Storm

Laura Pope’s Ghost

Knight of the Fly

About the Author

Prologue

I wrote these tales over a twenty-year period. They represent a wide variety of genres and styles. Horror and fantasy are my favourite types of stories, so the majority falls into, though is not limited to, these categories.

The title refers to the county in which I live, Transylvania County, North Carolina, rather than the better-known defunct European nation associated with a certain vampire. Some of the stories are set in my home area, though many are more generally placed in Appalachia. Most have no explicit setting, which is as it should be since the tales are, in effect, universal. The very best works appeal to people across the borders of time and space, and it is my hope this collection will do the same. I truly hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them. On, then, to the stories!

A Dragon like No Other

I arranged my ceremonial robes, cleared my throat quietly, pulled aside the curtain, and stepped into the hall of waiting. Five pairs of eyes watched me. The visitors were alert, but, then, they should have been.

I am Olnard, the king's advisor, I announced. All five nodded shallowly as etiquette demanded. I appreciate your answering the summons. I understand you are all busy people, so I shall get right to the point...

Sir, one of them, a woman, interjected smoothly, the road has been long...

Of course. Forgive me, my manners have quite failed me. I summoned one of the servants and ordered wine and bread. Introductions are in order, I said, while we wait for refreshments. You must be Renwyn the Harper, I continued, looking upon the woman who had spoken. She was youngish and attractive, with an exotic look that couldn't quite be placed. Elvish blood, perhaps.

My harp must have given it away, she smiled, fondly patting the instrument strapped across her shoulder.

Your reputation has preceded you, lady, I smiled. The harper was clad in finely woven green and brown cloth that highlighted the two forest green stripes gracing her long chestnut hair. She seemed confident and friendly, a consummate performer. She was the finest musician in the North, some said the entire world, and I had summoned only the best.

Is it true you once charmed a siren as the tales proclaim? asked the other woman in the group.

Music is the most powerful magic in the world, Renwyn said softly.

Not quite, murmured the other.

Druscilla du' Mere, I presume, I introduced the speaker, Wizardress of renown, Keeper of the Sacred Fire, and Sister of the Order of Kardona. The woman nodded, her shimmering robe reflecting the flickering torchlight. Mystic symbols lined the hem of her robe and she leant upon the requisite staff wizards always seem to carry. Her long brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail tied with a plain red ribbon. She was middle-aged and rather plain-looking, but I knew looks can be deceiving; an aura of power emanated from her. The others nodded in recognition as I recited her name and titles. They, too, had heard of her, which confirmed I had made the right choice.

Standing behind Renwyn with his back to the fireplace and looking as if he had stepped out of one of the old tales was a tall black-haired and bearded man. He wore antiquated scale armour and held an old-fashioned horseman's helmet at his side. The handle of a short-hafted axe peeked out of his long wool cape. His face was stern his mouth a thin line scratched across his features.

Agravaim the Grim, I stated.

Agravaim son of Rourke, the man nodded, Dragon-Slayer. Some call me the Grim, he affirmed. I knew who he was, I knew all of them, but I didn't respond.

Have you really slain a dragon? Renwyn asked.

Three, Agravaim set his helmet down on the mantle, so far.

He was cursed, I knew. Each son in his line was doomed to slay dragons, though the reason was lost in the mists of time and conjecture. I wasn't concerned with the reason, however, only the result. Agravaim had killed more dragons than most heroes had seen. He was the best. That's why he was here.

Beside Agravaim sat a middle-aged man smoking a pipe. His hair and long moustaches were flecked with grey, though he was still hale and his movements graceful. He was once the finest adventuring man in the realm and, though his physical attributes were on the cusp of decline, he was still stronger than many half his age. This strength, combined with the experience and wisdom of many adventuring years, and a keen mind, made him a given for my little group. I had summoned him first.

Pieter of Rockfast, I said to the others, adventurer extraordinaire and swordsman of renown. The man rose and bowed.

I am encouraged to find myself in such celebrated company, said the last member of the group, a youngish man with long blonde windswept bangs.

Richard Whitemantle, I introduced him. Richard was poised to be another Pieter of Rockfast if Fate smiled upon him. The man was considered the finest swordsman in the realm, with the possible exception of Pieter. Despite his name, Richard wore a bright blue cape. His ice-blue eyes twinkled merrily in the torchlight.

Here was my group. The most talented musician and wizardress in the realm. A dragon-slayer, the only one in existence of whom I'd heard. The two best swordsmen in the kingdom. They were all experienced, professional, and willing to hear my offer.

The servant arrived with food and drink. Once the wine was doled out, all eyes were on me.

You all wonder, I said, why you were summoned. Word has reached the king that a dragon prowls the land. Our sources confirm this.

It must be a powerful dragon, said Druscilla, if the king summons us rather than allowing his own men or local adventurers to deal with it.

You are correct, lady, I responded, the dragon is old and powerful. Furthermore, the dragon is not like any other run-of-the-mill beast. He travels in human form, a bard to be precise, mingling with humans. He is very dangerous.

The most dangerous monsters take human form, intoned Pieter.

Yes, I continued, this dragon, as a human, is known as Cedric the Green. He is a harper. Renwyn's ears perked up.

Why does he go in human form? she asked.

Who knows? I shrugged, perhaps he seeks companionship or new knowledge. This is not important. The important thing is this dragon is away from his lair. He is at his weakest and most vulnerable when he is in human form. Now is the time to strike.

Dragons are deadly regardless of form, Agravaim said.

Yes, I agreed, but a group as powerful as yourselves can handle the beast. The king will pay each of you five hundred gold crowns to slay the dragon as well as allowing you to keep whatever treasure it has on its person and in its lair. Tax free, I might add.

Richard twitched at that. The man had recently gotten himself into quite a bit of debt. The gold alone would probably make the venture worth his while.

Among the dragon's treasure, I continued, so it is said, is a collection of tomes containing several lost works of the famed bard, Leonric of Redstone, which should interest you, Renwyn, and one of the wands of Alandria Thal'Kar, the founder of your order, Druscilla. Both women's eyes were gleaming.

What dragon is this? Agravaim asked.

Cartonius, I intoned, laired somewhere in the Velton Peaks to the north. He is, as the alias implies, a green.

A green, Agravaim murmured, I've not yet slain a green.

I have, Pieter stated, a young one in the Shimmering Vale nigh on twenty years ago. By the gods, he shook his head, the greens aren't the most powerful in outright combat, but they're cunning as seven devils and thrive on elaborate traps.

Another reason to assault him away from his lair, I said.

What's to keep him, Druscilla asked, from simply transforming into his natural form, flying into the air, and toasting us all? It was a good question.

I have acquired some magical talismans that protect one from dragon's breath. As for the flying, we'll just have to hit him hard before he can fly or rely on your sundry abilities to prevent it. It is possible to slay a dragon, as you all know. I wouldn't have asked you here, otherwise. The slaying of Cartonius will be legendary, worthy of song, a memorial to yourselves to be recorded in the annals of the bards. And, in a more practical sense, there is all that gold to be considered.

I knew they'd accept. Pieter yearned to leave a memorial. Richard faced imprisonment if he didn't come up with a substantial amount of coin fast. Agravaim needed to slay a green. Renwyn's curiosity was sufficient. Druscilla was an ambitious social climber and the renown of the slaying and the acquirement of the wand would earn her the prestige she craved within her order. I had devoted much time to learning about each of them and his motivations, and I knew they would accept. In the end, they negotiated for six hundred gold crowns apiece. I considered it an investment.

We set out the next dawn, travelling through the Broken Hills astride strong mountain-bred ponies toward the ambush site. We made good time, even considering the regular delays caused when Agravaim's ridiculously long dragon spear got tangled in the thick brush and had to be extricated. We camped wherever we wished, typically along a watercourse. These were merry nights. Agravaim was nearly silent, preferring to sit in the shadows, but Pieter and Richard told tales, Druscilla cast minor spells of illusory dancing mice and so forth, but the highlight of the evenings was Renwyn. Her music was nothing short of phenomenal.

Where do we meet the dragon? Agravaim asked during a lull in the entertainment.

Cedric travels to the western town of Ryefield. We will ambush him along the Duke's Highway, in the shadows of the Greyfist Mountains as he cannot help but pass there.

If we arrive in time, said Agravaim. The next day, we picked up our pace.

Most of the talk centred on the dragon and how to kill it. Agravaim and Pieter had both fought dragons and the bulk of the planning lay with them. The others were experienced adventurers, however, and made important contributions. Listening to their scheming, I was encouraged. Their plans were both attainable and sound. I was also glad I wasn't Cartonius, who was soon to be the target of a coordinated attack of accomplished heroes.

Cartonius, though, wasn't the only target in the area. Hobgoblins ambushed us five days out in a wide boulder-strewn field near the base of the Greyfist Range. Agravaim, who was on point, gave us ample warning, and all were prepared when the hobgoblins scrambled out of the rubble, yelling wildly and brandishing their wickedly spiked clubs, rust-coloured fur matted and littered with debris, and stinking like stied pigs.

The battle was soon over. I watched in admiration as Renwyn, playing a soothing tune and chanting softly, quieted the horses. Pieter and Richard stood side by side, swords whirling, and cutting swathes through the swarming hobgoblins like scythers harvesting grain. Agravaim, dropping his unwieldy great spear, fought with his stabbing spear in one hand and axe in the other with an almost detached exquisiteness, piling the bodies of his foes around him. Druscilla slew the hobgoblin war leader with a crackling bolt of energy that encircled the writhing creature and left him a pile of ash amongst his followers. The survivors fled. Oh, I had my part, too. I slew a dark skulking fellow as he crept toward Renwyn in the confusion.

It was a pretext, of course; I had hired the hobgoblins. It would not do to have a group approach Cartonius untested as to their ability to fight as a coordinated unit. I must say the group passed the test with flying colours. Indeed, I congratulated them profusely. They were ready to face the dragon.

We arrived at the Duke's Highway within hours. Druscilla had the foresight to select an ambush site in the thickest part of the forest, so thick that a dragon, in its natural form, would find it impossible to fly. I applaud such cunning.

The next couple of days were spent in preparation. The road and surrounding terrain were scouted in both directions, hiding places selected, and strategy planned. Druscilla knew a spell that made one invisible. She would cast the spell on all of us except Renwyn, who was serving as bait, poor girl. The spell would be negated once one made an attack but would allow each of us to make that first attack count.

Why are you risking your life in the sortie, Olnard? Richard asked when I told them I would fight with them.

Cartonius killed my mother. They were silent then. And he will pay, I thought. The treasure would be nice, too, a remote mountain lair crammed full of centuries worth of plunder. Yes, the day of Cartonius' death would be a good day. And it wouldn't be long in coming.

We kept a constant guard on the road. For such a well-kept thoroughfare, the road was relatively little travelled. A few waggons and a group of the Duke's knights--a patrol, undoubtedly—were all we saw before our prey was sighted by the ever-watchful Agravaim. The horses were hidden a quarter mile away, so we only had to worry about hiding ourselves. I handed out the medallions protecting the wearer from dragon magic and breath. Druscilla cast her spells and, one by one, we disappeared—again, except for Renwyn, who, according to the plan, seated herself on the verge alongside the road. She began to play her harp, both to serve as a lure and to mask the sounds of our movement as we moved into (and, more importantly, out of) our positions. I wished I could see the others, but, of course, being unseen was the point. The dragon appeared in the distance and I felt conspicuously visible.

In his human form, Cartonius was a powerfully built man with red hair. He wore a parti-coloured suit of eastern make complete with the floppy hat so popular with the young nobles. An intricately carved harp was slung over his shoulder. For weapons, two daggers on his belt and a stout cudgel were visible, typical weapons of a travelling bard. The harp was magical, I knew, created to store any song played in its vicinity and impart the songs to the harper upon command. I didn't think the weapons were magical, though I couldn't be sure—who knew what sort of knick-knacks the dragon might