The Stevenson Chronicles: Deltorn

By Shane Madsen

Robert rounded the corner onto the beach. He could literally see his house, and most of all, he could see the blood stating to drip from his arm onto the sand. Robert stopped and stared at the bay. He put his hand on his arm and squeezed it hard. It was just so painful. Robert fell to his knees in frustration and agony. A single tear fell from his cheek onto the wound, which surprisingly made it worse. But from the light of the full moon, he could just faintly see small bubbles boiling up from the scar and the skin on his arm being pulled back into place and healing shut. Before he knew what the heck had just happened, Roberts pain left him, and he was just left with a bloody arm.

He blinked, and then without any second thoughts, he ran over to the edge of the water and submerged his whole hand under its cooling surface. He wiped all the blood clean from his arm, and when he was done, he shook most of the water off. He examined his hand. It was spotless. For all that anyone could tell, he was just fine, but Robert of course knew that something was wrong. Well, maybe not wrong, just weird, different. Did he just heal himself? Was Detreel right? Did he have powers?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Jul 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781490762463

Shane Madsen

Shane Madsen was born in Sheldon, Iowa, in 1997. In the years since, he has written everything from short stories to full-length novels, of which The Solace Trilogy is his newest series. He has since graduated high school in 2015 and plans on continuing to tell his stories that he holds inside of him. He hopes that his readers enjoy his stories and experience them for what they are.

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Copyright 2015 Shane Madsen.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4907-6245-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-6247-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-6246-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015911335

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Trafford rev. 07/15/2015

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CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue

Keep Watching For

The Stevenson Chronicles

Book 2:

Saphire

Robert rounded the corner onto the beach. He could literally see his house, and most of all, he could see the blood stating to drip from his arm onto the sand. Robert stopped and stared at the bay. He put his hand on his arm and squeezed it hard. It was just so painful. Robert fell to his knees in frustration and agony. A single tear fell from his cheek onto the wound, which surprisingly made it worse. But from the light of the full moon, he could just faintly see small bubbles boiling up from the scar, and the skin on his arm being pulled back into place and healing shut. Before he knew what the heck had just happened, Robert’s pain left him and he was just left with a bloody arm.

He blinked and then without any second thoughts he ran over to the edge of the water and submerged his whole hand under its cooling surface. He wiped all of the blood clean from his arm and when he was done he shook most of the water off. He examined his hand. It was, spotless. For all that anyone could tell, he was just fine, but Robert of course knew that something was wrong… well maybe not wrong, just weird, different. Did he just heal himself? Was Detreel right, did he have… powers?

To Shelley, who helped me create the original Deltorn. Without you this book could not have taken…well…flight!

PROLOGUE

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D ragona, the largest of a small group of islands located in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. It stretched for about seventy miles in every direction, and on its shores, jagged cliff sides encompassed the land. To its north were Xxynox, Rajea, and Scytha, the remaining islands. Nothing but volcanoes existed on its crusty surface, spewing liquid rock all over the barren landscape. The acrid smoke from their tantrums had blocked out all signs of the sun and created a thick, poisonous air. Nothing had grown there for millennia. But though the island could have been called a hell on earth, there was a single, beautiful, oak tree that stretched up from the center, and it was here that the first magic was found. It was Yaggdrasil, the tree of wondrous possibilities, and mesmerizing power. From its leaves, grew the most potent abilities that anything could possess. Of course, the first to taste its leaves would not be its last.

There was a reason no one had found Dragona, and never claimed to have. Despite its crude appearance, there was something remarkably special about Dragona. As the name implied, it had been founded by dragons… for dragons. It was to be the last safe haven, one where dragons could go to flourish, live their lives, care for their young, and then finally die peacefully. Dragona was one of the last places left on planet earth that still concealed the species. But there was a problem that dragon kind could not ignore forever… evolution.

For years, the island had been uninhabited until 145 AD. It was in this century that the second species began to inhabit this strange new world, humans, and with them came the seed. It began when the first dragon to arrive on the island tasted the sweet sap of the tree’s leaves, granting it the power of immortality. It was also given the sight. It was a gift not usually given to those of such strength; a gift that enabled the barer to look into the true future, the one that could not be changed. His name was Kīsεrōthe, the leader of the first dragon clan. Over the years, the humans grew into a fearful race, killing dragons on sight and destroying their habitats. The seed, itself, grew into a single blade of grass that continued to spread its offspring on the surrounding land. It was then that all the volcanoes on Dragona ceased their mighty spews, and became dormant once again. No one knows why they stopped their hungry tormenting, but over the years they left from peoples’ minds and never again returned. Soon enough, the island was given a new oxygen supply, making life in Dragona an easy place for humans to survive. As more humans arrived on the island, different varieties of plants and animals accompanied them, bringing forth new life on Dragona.

Dragons died, many were hunted for their skins, but others took their own path to death, some disappearing into the caves of the once mighty volcanoes. Life became difficult for dragons, and soon enough, there were only a few of the great beasts left. The endangered species slowly ran out of options, they realized that survival, now, depended on their passed down abilities and how they wielded them. It was then that dragons began fighting back, which only strengthened human’s greed for their extinction. Wars were waged, and humans began to experiment with what they called science, which they hoped would eventually put an end to dragons forever.

But when all hope seemed lost, a single human child came forth from his clan, and offered himself as a sacrifice to the remaining dragons. He offered to serve them or be destroyed by them, for he hated the world that his kin had brought him into. Kīsεrōthe took sympathy on the boy, but chose to test him first, for he truly couldn’t see this boy’s truth, or his future. The dragon deliberately walked into a human camp, and was captured. The humans knew this dragon very well, he had evaded them many a time, and it was now, that they would mock him, by keeping him alive in chains.

According to legend, if one, possessing magic, was killed on the full moon, the killer was granted that creature’s power, but at the cost of a great death. The boy had grown fond of this dragon, and so when the full moon arose, he stealthily managed to sneak out and free Kīsεrōthe. The dragon, realizing that the boy could have benefited more from killing him, brought the boy to the Yaggdrasil tree. And it was here that the boy was granted his powers, the ability to speak with the dragons, and the ability to bend.

Bending, he soon learned, was an art of controlling the elements around him with his mind and his whole body. He used these new powers to help the dragons defeat the race that had dominated their land. But, there was another who also survived, a girl, not much younger than the boy. Her name, Alanna, which meant beautiful, and she was. She was the boy’s one true love. She too hated her clan, and had helped the boy sneak away to the dragon’s lair many times. Together they replenished the land with their ancestors, until one day, two brothers were born. One was named, Burdock, the other Nathaniel. For years, together, they had studied the arts of magic, and with them, each took on a special attitude. Burdock, learned in the art of necromancy, soon turned on his brother, and challenged him to a duel to the death. Nathaniel won, but instead he exiled his brother to the Outlands, a small portion of the old Dragona that would never grow back. He should have killed him when he had the chance.

Nathaniel soon forgot about his powers. He forgot about his brother, and about dragons. And it was him that began the race of humans that would never learn magic, or even come close to comprehending what everyone was capable of. Unfortunately, Burdock never forgot. He died thirty years later, and with him, he took almost every dragon that was left, and left behind his founded organization, The Dragon Warriors, an army of warriors dedicated to killing everything magical, especially dragons.

There were only eight dragons that survived; four males, Kadenbrothe, Asenbrothe, Elecenbrothe, and Dagenbrothe, and their mates. In council they met at the great Yaggdrasil tree, together, they took their mates and separated into four tribes named after them. Many ancestries of dragons went and passed before the last few dragons in that portion of the world were destroyed by the Dragon Warriors.

Now, only four remain here, each one the sole survivor of their tribe, each possessing a single reminder of their once great heritage. As for the boy; he went missing soon after his great victory with the original clan. His name, Arnold P. Stevenson, and he… well… let’s just say his story, as well as Kīsεrōthe’s, aren’t quite finished yet. This is their legacy, this is their story.

CHAPTER 1

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T hese are dark times; sorrow has fallen on every corner of this once beautiful world. The newest race of Dragon Warriors has been born, and we, the only three dragons left in existence, are powerless to stop them. Our sister of Dagenbrothe, still unhatched, is far from battle and short yet of a human to be her master. Our only hope now delicately lies within the hands of a young boy. Yet still to a boy of miraculous power, that of which no human or dragon has ever possessed. His powers, however, are still developing, but the time is drawing near for his powers to come to him, nearer then he could ever imagine. My name’s Deltorn and I am one of the final dragons, although, I am the last who comes from the Southern tribe, Kadenbrothe, the tribe of fire. Along with the new help of the prophesied one, and also with the help of my two kin, Saphire from the Northern tribe, Asenbrothe, the tribe of water and ice, and Sparks from the Western tribe, Elecenbrothe, the tribe of air and electricity, we will defeat the Dragon Warriors and end their reign of tyranny forever!"

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Just on the western coast of Dragona, past the gleaming bay of Simeria, and below the monstrous cliff side of Teller’s Ledge, there lived a boy by the name of Robert. He was a plain, ordinary sixteen year old boy who lived with his two parents by the names of Arthur and Marylyn Stevenson and… the rest of his farm. It wasn’t the nicest in Algoosta; it didn’t have big, fancy barns and hog pens. Quaintly, his farm was small, roughly six acres, some of which was sheep pens, but there was still plenty to do. He was always put in charge of the boring things; sweeping the floor of the kitchen, changing hay every day for the animals, and making sure there were always five sheep in the pen. To him, his life was nothing but basic. He didn’t really have a plan for his life yet, and the chances of him actually making it somewhere in this world were slim to none. He couldn’t do anything special; he couldn’t even draw a circle correctly.

He was hardly athletic, though he could hit a baseball and kick a soccer ball, but he wasn’t good enough for an actual sports team. He just couldn’t find