The Legendary Tales of the Wizards 3: Born of the Fire Belly

By Mark Irlanda

ABOUT THE BOOK 1

Unknown worlds of mystical enchantment, magical beings and mythical creatures bring from fantasy to enlighten the distraught heart and confused mind of a timid ten year old boy, Burris Samson Debowski whose dreams have perpetually haunted him since the time of his father's disappearance, haunting immensely more with the passing of his loving mother. Dreams of which become reality as he becomes something more than ever dreamed in a world parallel to his. A world of dark spells, cold wars between wizards, dragons and kings. Wars that only he can put to an end as the hero... As the savior.

Burris... though through hardships and emotional loss, has always persevered with everything he does as tragedy replays itself over and over in his life. He gets good grades, has a loving grandmother and a loyal best friend. Why and how can this be..? are the constant questions burning, forever wondering if these tragedies are his life at all, always feeling a beckoning, a new life awaiting, an old life returning in flashes and dreams or a parallel life presently happening. A new life, has always been Burris' wish and he got what he wished for. A life of new friends and wondrous magic on a world where he is a legend...

***

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781467061070

Mark Irlanda

The name Mark derives from the planet Mars, the God of Blood and War. A strong, protective, materialistic being who stands with a clenched fist and iron will, ready to accept any and all challenges, are the traits of Mars, so too are the traits of Mark Irlanda in his daily life as a father, author, mentor and coach. All Mark's life has he waited for an opportunity to reveal his inner thoughts and hidden talents. An excellent teacher, intuitive of life, creative and wise for being so young, is the best and only way to describe this life wise boy at heart. *** Best Wizards 3 yet... What originality. If you liked book one, WIZARDS 3- Born of the Fire Belly and book two, Race for the Stone Army then book three, When Castles Collide is a must read. Mr. Mark is definitely a writer for the wild imaginations of today's young reader. If these books ever become movies, I will be first in line to see them. J.N.P.

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© 2003, 2011, 2013 by Mark Irlanda. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 06/20/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4670-6108-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-6107-0 (e)

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Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One - A Time Of Confusion

Chapter Two - The Love In Memories

Chapter Three - The New World Flight

Chapter Four - Born Of The Fire Belly

Chapter Five - The Apprentice

Chapter Six - The Magician And The Legend’s True Tales Told

Chapter Seven - The Wizards Three

Chapter Eight - A Tale Of Loss

Chapter Nine - The Skunkeys Of Shaedowood

Chapter Ten - The Savage Fray And Dragon Play

Chapter Eleven - The Winged Wonder And The River Of Rising Hands

Chapter Twelve - Enter The Gnome

Chapter Thirteen - The Skulker’s Eye

Chapter Fourteen - The Dead Bridge Of Gasteron

Chapter Fifteen - Dead Fall

Attack At Dawn

About The Book 1

About The Author

Look for more books from the

WIZARDS 3 series by Mark Irlanda

The Legendary Tales of the Wizards 3

Book I: Born Of The Fire Belly

Book II: Race For The Stone Army

Book III: When Castles Collide

Book IV: The End’s Beginning

Book V: The Final Wars

DEDICATION 1

The Legendary Tales of the WIZARDS 3: Born of the Fire Belly, the first book of the WIZARDS 3 series is dedicated to my inline hockey teams the Sovereign Knights, Sovereign Kings, Sovereign Lords, the Colorado MarXmen, and the Pomona Panthers with special mention going to Chris Rea, Brett Marcovich, Jesse Phillips, Nathan Roth, Robert Bolte, Steven Shaffroth, Casey Judish, Sean Le, Mike Davidson, Matt Ross, Will O’Keefe, Dailong Nguyen, Michael Berry, Mark taddicken, Collin Kuhn, and Mitch Beamer.

And as the writer and creator, I especially dedicate the entire WIZARDS 3 series: Born of the Fire Belly, Race for the Stone Army, When Castles Collide, The Ends Beginning, and the Final Wars to… My daughter Jacenta for her determined spirit, strong hugs, tenaciousness, perseverance and heartfelt encouragement. AND TO…

My son, Kalond, for his non-stop wit, fun humor, and for his inspirational talents.

Because of these special people I learned to act upon my dreams and encourage my determination to overcome adversity and doubt with purely my will and wild imagination.

Thank you for your love and loyalty and unwavered friendship.

Prologue

SO THE STORY CAN BE TOLD…

For the delicate child… The mirror was in his hazel eyes, beyond the intriguing interweave of its fine strands in the golden iris where it can be seen what’s in his fragile mind, his timid heart, and soulful spirit. We only need to look to see, the LEGEND yet to be…

*     *     *

Among the burning huts of mud, grass, and wood, and terrorized screams of surrounding villagers fleeing for their lives, a toddling infant runs toward the anguished cries of his mother. His heart is sobbing for her horrid pain as she collapses out in the road, smoldering in flame.

Armored steeds with armored riders trample the grounds are seen to the infant while he sits in the mucus of sobs, watching his mother as she cooks to black crust right in front of his impressionable eyes. Unconsoled, the infant reaches out to his mother but pulls back. Even at his newborn age he has the instinct to know that fire was pain; fire was hot; fire had taken his mother away.

Terror was the village round with horsemen riding with the swing of blade, chopping and swiping at the heads of flee-goers pleading their last in the silences of their heads being removed from their falling bodies.

The infant watches in tears as a fleshy skull without its body rolls his way only to stop at the soles of his tiny, naked feet to stare at him with its vacant eyes and mouth held wide, still in the midst of its scream before his body was lost under the swipe of a captain’s blade.

The infant cried even more. Next to mother was now the head of father, scolding him even in death for him to get up and run so that his fragile life be spared, but the infant remained. He did not understand his father’s pleading eyes, frozen within the severed head, propped at the neck, telling him not to cry. A head of no arms to pick him up in an embrace for his distressing little heart, or protect him as father’s arms would had he any from the bad soldiers on foot and horse slaughtering all neighbors and kin.

So the infant cried. Not having the maturity of mind or word he could not ask his father’s head, why their people were made to run in fear. Why men would come to kill them? Why they would come to burn their homes? Why momma had turned to black and smoke? Or where the rest of him was which was only ten feet away. In tears all his little mind and heart could grasp was that he was afraid, and even with them at his side, that he was now all alone.

*     *     *

Through the smolders of skeletoned huts reduced to rubble and ash, the magician headed the village road of dead bodies and severed heads with armored riders at his command, while out in the midway, missed by every trampling hoof in the thick of smoke that blinded all eyes to the crossing, was the child, sitting next to a charred body of cinder, spewing white smoke. The magician shadows over the infant, embracing in his tiny lap a severed head, weeping as if he knew the head once when it had a body attached. Poor child. His sorrowed eyes looked up at the magician as he was lifted up into his cloak, wrapped tight to shroud his wee nakedness within. In his arms, under the cast of smoke and risen dust, the magician takes the child under cover as they become the smoke itself and vanish into thin air.

Chapter One

A TIME of CONFUSION

Narration:

A TIME OF TALES AND LEGENDS FOREVER TOLD WE HAVE HOPES AND DREAMS. DREAMS OF LIGHT CONQUERING THE DARKNESS ALWAYS BRIGHTENING OUR PATH TO THE PROMISE OF A BETTER LIFE THAN THE ONE OF WHICH WE ARE BORN INTO.

AS A WORLD WE ARE STRICKEN WITH EVIL, MANY KINDS OF EVIL. TOO MANY WARS FORESAKE THIS PLANET WITH TOO MANY LEADERS WISHING TO RULE IT. WIZARDS, DRAGONS AND KINGS CONSTANTLY RAGE WAR FOR THEIR OWN SELFISH CAUSES NOT CARING OF THE INNOCENCE THEY MAY END UP DESTROYING. POWER IS ALL THEY EVER SEEK. POWER AND CONTROL. SLAVES.

SLAVES, WHETHER MAN, OR BEAST TO BUILD THEIR EMPIRES BIGGER AND STRONGER SO THAT THEY MAY EASILY WITH MINIMUM OF EFFORT, CRUSH THE WEAK. BUT… IT SHALL ALL END SOON, FOR FIVE HUNDRED FIFTY THOUSAND DAYS IS UPON US.

OVER FIFTEEN HUNDRED YEARS OUR WORLD HAS WAITED IN DESPAIR. WAITING FOR THE PROPHECY’S TALE TO COME TRUE.

*     *     *

2:30pm

Each day the world brings news and it comes in all forms, either bad or good. News of fortune or misfortune. News of good deeds or of crime. News of a new disease and sometimes a cure. News of a newborn life. But today, for Burris Samson Debowski, news of the worst kind.

*     *     *

At a white, cold, and eerie Saint Marks hospital. Its white-gowned doctors and green paper dressed nurses, as in routine pace, across, back and forth, up and down the halls with their carts of medicine and charts of symptoms, readying themselves at any given moment to deliver news, whether bad or good, to its patients and their families.

Folks of ill loved ones patiently stand or sit around reading six month old magazines, content with no worries and folks who impatiently wander around, head in hands worrying. Friends and family stand arm in arm, hand in hand, either weeping upset or giddy with their own personal news.

*     *     *

In room 211, attached to blue wires and plastic tubes, alone with not a loved one or concerned person by her cold steel bedside is the beautiful Ellen Debowski lying motionless, lifeless upon her hospital bed, brain consciously waiting as her final moment draws nearer. It has been two days since Dr. Davidson has been by, not even nurse Audrey, usually faithful by her routine checking on Ellen once every ninety minutes or so, has yet made an appearance in the last three hours and fifteen minutes. Most likely nurse Audrey was called away on an urgent matter or is probably taking an extended break. She would never neglect her dedicated duties unless she had a very good reason to. Maybe nurse Audrey has not been by because she has come to find out Ellen’s final prognosis from the illness that has kept her at St. Marks since last December. That makes almost eleven full months since Ellen’s first arrival till today, this thirteenth of November that this frigid white room and cold steel bed has been her home.

Beep—beep, sounds the heart monitors hopping blip for the millionth time as if to start some sort of final count down on this thirteenth.

Asleep in bed on her tenth straight day, Ellen’s breaths are short, gasping for every one she takes. Beep—beep. The obnoxious overhead lights, though never changing in almost a year, seem to grow dim all on its own. Beep—beep. Ellen’s eyes open in a haze for the first time since August. Her heart slows as fond memories of her handsome little boy overflow her hearts brim. Memories of the first time she held her perfect baby in her arms. The perfect smell of his new life’s beginning. Her first kiss on his soft little cheek. His first giggle the first time she blew into his teeny tummy. Memories of his first crawl, his first time walking, his first word poopie! Memories of her son making his first ever birthday wish and blowing out his first birthday candle on a cake while she applauded. Memories of them playing their first game of chase in their ever green backyard.

Ellen is over-whelmed with happiness at this very moment with the loving memories she holds dear. It eases her mind and heart. The pain she has suffered for so long has finally dissipated as her fragile heart beats its last. In a short twenty-eight year span of life, Ellen has not yet lived it to the fullest and with a single soft trickling tear Ellen’s eyes shut again but unlike before, this time they shut forever… And the monitor’s hopping blip reveals to those that might be listening, BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!—Technologies sound—of death.

*     *     *

2:58pm

I. R. Landas Private Elementary School; a quiet disciplined place of study of only three-hundred for its school body and inside the students dressed in their required proper’s, prepare as the last minute in class is about to click down and end another school day. All the students eager but silent, wait fidgeting at their desks, staring at the clock above the doorway on the wall. They say ‘A watched clock never ticks’ and it appears to be true as the children all wait for that single minute-hand inside the clock to unfreeze. Tick. Tick. Each second of time, tick—tick, slower than the last. Tick. Tick. One hundred and eight seconds left. Tick. Tick. Will this day every end? All the boys and girls in class remain eager for the minute hand to click to the right and split the twelve; all with the exception of one small, well-dressed, sandy blonde, ten-year-old gent with golden hazel eyes. Tick. Tick.

Burris Samson Debowski… Oblivious to the antsy fidgeting of his classmates around him just sits at his desk like a zoned out zombie, concentrated on something more important to him than the ill-advised attention of time; a dangling, silver chain with a silver dove, centered with a genuine, red ruby heart. Upon the dove’s glints that glittered in his eyes, Burris daydreams freely away a fragmented vision into a puff of cloud with soon to follow a cool rush of wind, forcing dissention into a raging sea as a towering wave comes crashing down upon his body, pulling him down into the depths while the waters burned.

Seventy-five seconds left until the strike of the three o’clock hour. Who was counting? Only everyone in school. All was still quiet, and although the classroom was a warm seventy-nine degrees, a frightening chill suddenly comes over Burris, snapping him out of his daydream. Thousands of goose bumps overwhelm his entire body and he couldn’t understand why the feeling of dread has come over him. He turns and pans the classroom from over his shoulder. Everyone else seems to be unaffected by the sudden chill, entranced by the clock on the wall; everyone except for Tanner and Nicolas, staring his way.

Burris quickly turns back to his desk and closes his eyes with what he knew was about to come next; because not a day could ever go by that Burris didn’t have a wadded ball of paper bounce off the back of his head, and today, as he expected, was no different.

Burris stayed focused forward. He didn’t even have to turn around to know from whence the wad was thrown or by whom it was thrown as the giggles and snorts were quite recognizable. Tanner and Nick. Burris placed the necklace back into his pant pocket. So what if he always had his head in the clouds? It was still no reason for them to pick on him. Better to daydream than to sit and sulk about boring things like that stupid clock.

Tanner Stanley and Nicolas Church were not exactly big enough to be the everyday, typical bullies but were just obnoxious enough to be extremely annoying to anyone unfortunate enough to come into contact with them. In a nut-shell; those two thought they ruled the fifth grade. Not!

Now Nick had cotton hair, practically white that sporadically sprouted out the top of his head, that framed his narrow, freckle-spotted face, while Tanner had medium hair, greased back, that showed off more of his rather enlarged forehead than anyone would’ve liked, with chubby cheeks and a bulbous nose; the kind of nose most anyone would love to punch. A couple of punks whom one day are going to annoy the wrong person and get themselves a well-deserved thrashing, but until that day comes, Burris will just do as he’s always done and just ignore them; not give either of them the satisfaction of knowing that they got to him.

Burris’s mother always said performers won’t perform unless they have an audience to perform in front of, never entertain a bully. So Burris kept his eyes forward; focused on the large, leather-bound in front of him on the desk he had checked out from the library earlier that afternoon. Far better that he thumb through the book to pass the last, few remaining seconds no matter how slow the seconds were in passing, than pay a couple of idiots any mind, giving them even more power over him than they already had.

*     *     *

DING-A-LING-A-LING-A-LING sounds the bell aloud. The anxious silence has finally been broken, breaking the students from their eager