The Chronicles of Ragg: Volume One: the Sword of Gabriel

By Bob Flanagan

Ragg cant get the images out of his mind. He can still picture his village burning and his grandfather caught in the clutches of a dragon. It was then that Raggtrying to escape the small, dark cave in which his grandfather had hidden himvowed to exact revenge. He wont stop until all the dragons of the land are dead. In his mind, the only good dragon is a dead dragon.

As he ventures with his new canine companion, Verlon, Ragg seeks to destroy every dragon he finds. But in the process, he discovers the truth about his grandfathers death, the dragons, and his own destiny as he journeys farther into the valley of deaths shadow. Every step brings him closer to the truth and closer to danger. The more he learns, the more complicated things become.

In the midst of his fight between good and evil, he makes friends and discovers enemies. Raggs character is tested, and he must determine if he will become the warrior his people need or if he will remain a lost young man bent on soulless revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Jul 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781458210319

Bob Flanagan

Bob Flanagan is an Episcopal priest. He lives with his wife and two children in New England.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

THE LAIR OF THE DRAGON’LIL

THE CAVE WAS HOT, but his toes were cold. Why are my toes always cold when sweat drips from my brow? Ragg thought. He had stayed motionless in a dark corner of the cave for most of the day. Nevertheless, he was hot and his toes were very, very cold. His nerves pulsed throughout his body. His stomach churned and tightened. He shuddered again.

Ugh! This smell is going to kill me long before the dragon’lil gets here. I’ll bet that old bag of cow dung is laughing now. He’s probably down the valley somewhere drinking ale, eating gnorl, and telling anybody who’ll listen how he convinced a lad to buy and pour goat piss all over himself.

The old traveling trader was a man of some ill repute, but his advice was truly sound: no fool would go hunting a dragon, especially in its cave, even if the dragon was a ’lil type, without covering up his own scent. No matter how young and clumsy the dragon was, they all could smell a human. Some argued that even before they hatched, dragons could smell a human’s scent.

Oh, and if the goat piss wasn’t bad enough, the bat dung in my hair is worse than sleeping in a bed full of fleas. He used all his power to resist scratching his head. How I want to jump in a river. I don’t care how cold it is.

The hairs on his calves stood on end. He thought he had heard a noise, but he’d been hiding so long he wasn’t sure.

There it was again! Was it closer now? He couldn’t tell.

Just then a voice whispered, Don’t breathe.

Out of the corner of an eye he saw a shadow move. Slowly, very slowly. Not moving with any grace but coming closer.

A raccoon in heat has more grace than this dragon’lil. It’s tired, he concluded, very tired.

He slowly drew back his bow and lifted it.

The dragon’lil stretched and arched up, filling the cave. Even in the darkness, the lad could see his target: the soft, white underbelly. He took aim. But then, suddenly, the dragon’lil shrieked horribly.

Ragg’s eardrums stretched and pulsed at the high pitch.

Just then the underbelly lifted high in the air. Ragg let loose his arrow. In a split second, the arrow struck with deadly accuracy. Deep into its flesh the arrow sank. Blood flowed.

The dragon’lil writhed in pain. It stumbled and crashed into the far side of the cave.

Ragg stared at his foe and now understood the dragon’s first scream. Blood flowed from two wounds! A second arrow was lodged in the dragon’lil’s neck just below its throat. What an amazing shot, he thought. He said aloud, Who could have made such a shot?

I did, a man replied. And now keep quiet or we will both be ashes before the sun rises again. The ’lil can still burn us up. It isn’t dead yet!

The dragon’lil flailed back and forth. Again it screamed horribly. It tried to spew fire but couldn’t. It spotted Ragg. It readied to lunge at him. Another arrow suddenly hissed through the air from where the voice had come. It struck the ’lil in its lower jaw and sank deep.

With a sudden crash, it collapsed. It stopped moving. It was dead.

A torch was lit from where Ragg had heard the voice. A tall, caped figure moved toward the dragon’lil. The man bent over the body of the collapsed beast.

Numb at the sight of it, Ragg drew near the caped man. Still not sure whether it was dead, or who this man was, he blindly asked, Are you going to drink its blood?

Never! Never defame the dead. Even a dragon’lil, the man retorted. Drinking its blood is some ignorant myth told to frighten village folk into paying money to dragonslayers. The blood of a dragon is just that. It’s blood. It has no special power, nor does it give eternal life.

How do you know? Ragg asked.

Because I have killed plenty of dragonslayers, he replied coolly.

The man moved to the head of the dragon. Ragg heard him digging and cutting into it. Crack. Crunch. Crack. Crunch. Crack. Then he heard a sucking sound followed by a hiss of gas and another loud crack. Finally he heard flesh ripping. Then he heard it all over again, several more times. What is he digging out of the dragon?

But this—this is worth twenty gold pieces in the Southlands, the man said. He tossed three large teeth to Ragg. They’re yours. You shot well. You deserve a share of the prize.

Ragg stared at them in the dim torchlight. He did not really care for the teeth, but they mesmerized him nonetheless. He stared at the ’lil. Its body still shimmered. In the torchlight, he made out the purple, green, and black of its scales. They reminded him of the feathers of grackles. He saw them at home, tromping through the wood in flocks of a dozen or more, turning over leaves, squawking and chattering to one another while the sun reflected off their feathers, which changed colors in the sunlight. With every movement, they changed from green to purple and then to black. The dragon’lil’s scales seemed the same, he decided.

Ragg was right to notice the scales. All dragon’lil scales shimmered in this way. Not until they were about ten years old did their true color emerge. Then the dragon’s scales permanently became one of those three colors: green, purple, or black. That was also the time they grew the most. They slept and slept in the far reaches of caves. They lay undisturbed for years. Then they emerged full-grown, hungry, and mean.

That was when they were most dangerous.

Was this the dragon? Ragg wondered.

Are you going to stand there staring at it all day?

What? Ragg had forgotten about the man.

I am going to torch the body. You need to get out or the gases from the fire will kill you.

The dragon’lil began to burn. The fire spread quickly across its body.

It burns so easily but never burns itself up when it breathes fire, Ragg mused.

CHAPTER 2

THE WATER BEASTS

RAGG LET OUT A SHOUT but stayed in the frigid water. He had to clean himself. The smell of the goat piss on his clothes and the bat dung in his hair was too much to tolerate any longer. He dunked into a deep pool, letting the water wash his long hair. Underwater, all was quiet. He counted: forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven …

Suddenly, as he broke the surface of the water, he was attacked. From out of nowhere, two creatures clawed him and bit into his clothes. He screamed for help, but he heard only laughter. Try as he might to free himself from these two beasts, he couldn’t. They were powerful, dark creatures. They swam with vigor and purpose.

Though they bit into his clothing, they did not bite him. He sensed they were not attacking him as much as dragging him back to shore.

His knees touched the sandy river bottom. In the water he had floated with ease, but now back on land, with his clothing soaking wet and his hair mopped across his face, he was heavy and helpless. As he stood, he stumbled under the weight of his clothes. He tossed his hair back and wiped the water off his face, but before he could see clearly, the beasts began to shake and shower him with water. He heard more laughter.

Ragg opened his eyes. Well, you’re no help, he said.

On the riverbank stood the man who had helped him kill the dragon’lil. Still laughing, the man said, I’m Trallian, and you must be the sorriest-looking dragonslayer I have ever seen.

Well then, I don’t need your help, Ragg replied.

Of course not, but I think they disagree, Trallian said, casting a nod to the two magnificent beasts standing on either side of him. Ragg looked at the two deep-black animals. Their heads reached almost to Trallian’s waist.

What kind of beasts are these? Dogs? Ragg asked. They can’t be. They’re enormous.

They’re werfoudlons, Trallian replied. Dogs from the north. Their loyalty and devotion are matched only by their strength and skill in water. There is no better dog in the world. Many a man owes his life to his werfoudlons. They are quiet and good hunters. When the snows come, they will keep you warm as a fire. These two are yearlings. Their mother had them in late spring.

Ragg bent down to the dogs’ eye level. One immediately approached him, wagging her tail. Ragg rubbed her face and stroked her back. She licked his face and his hands. The other dog approached as well. Soon Ragg and the dogs started to wrestle. After rolling in the grass for some time, the three of them were almost as dirty as before. They jumped back into the river again and played in the water some more.

Finally, after they had emerged from the river, dried off, and settled down, Trallian said, I am going to camp here for a day or two with the werfoudlons, until the river water lowers and we can cross. You’re welcome to stay, provided you don’t have to run off and kill another dragon’lil.

Trallian soon had a warm fire burning.

The Werfoudlons were fun, Ragg thought. And I haven’t had fun in many months. I can stay, he said. But only for a day or two.

My journey of revenge can wait that long, he thought.

CHAPTER 3

THE GROVE

THE NEXT DAY, RAGG DECIDED to make himself useful. He set out to hunt for deer. He gathered his long bow and a quiver of arrows. Just as he was about to head out, the smaller of the two yearlings rose and wagged her tail.

Verlon wants to join you, Trallian said.

If it’s no trouble with you, Trallian, I would enjoy her company.

Verlon loves to hunt; by all means. You’ll find no better guide and tracker than her. She never gets lost.

Leaving the riverbank, Ragg strode off into the woods with Verlon at his side. The sounds of the bubbling water cascading between stones and over logs faded quickly. The dense forest turned away the river noises, so now he heard the sound of song birds. Ragg heard swallows and wrens chirp and cheep in the branches. He maneuvered easily among the leafy arms of the trees, quietly striding deeper and deeper into the forest.

He stepped across a bubbling brook filled with deep, cold black water. Life teemed all around the brook. Tiny flies swirled just above the water. A fly hatch, he thought. He looked carefully into a deep dark pool, and a quick flash darted in the water. Oh, a brook trout, he decided. Not too big, though.

Thick green moss grew at the water’s edge, covering the ground for several feet. The moss even surrounded trees sprouting up from roots that seemed to drink the water.

He and Verlon ventured farther into the woods. They came to the top of a rise and entered a grove of trees with narrow leaves and light-brown bark. The trees stood narrow and tall, only several feet apart. Ragg had never seen such trees before. He paused to admire the beauty of the grove. They seem all together, he thought. They’re not separate trees but one living thing with many shoots reaching up to the sky.

He formed a prayer on his lips: "La Goth, La Gath, la gynth cranuth dramoor." He had learned these words from his grandfather back home on Isle Greymoor.

It was there, when the stripped bass would run into the cove chasing the finger fish, that his grandfather repeated those words. He said, Ragg’lil, my young lad, I have a secret to share with you. But you must be very careful whom you, in turn, share it with. The wind whipped his thick gray hair across his brow, covering his deep-brown eyes. He stiffened and straightened himself. In that moment, he looked years younger. The lines on his face seemed to melt away and his face glowed.

He leaned in close to his twelve-year-old grandson. He looked directly into his eyes. He held the boy’s hands. You see those fish? he asked, pointing to the bay below. You and I did nothing to deserve those fish. They come not at our command, and they’ll leave before long. The men in the village will catch many of the fish in their nets. The nets will bulge and strain from the weight of so many fish. We will eat for many moons because these fish have run into the cove. They come into the cove because that is their life. We catch them because that is our life. We did nothing to deserve the fish, yet we will feast on them because the world is abundant, and we must be thankful for that.

Ragg looked at the men plying the water with their long skiffs, throwing their nets into the school of striped bass. The water teemed with them. There were more fish in the cove than he could count in a lifetime. He saw how quickly the men strained against the weight of their nets. Grandfather was right; many fish would be caught.

But, Grandfather, what is the secret? Ragg asked.

The secret is that behind all this—the fish and the water, the land and the sky—there is only La Goth. There is only one force behind all that has been created. Everything and all are beholden to him. That is why we say, ‘La Goth, La Gath, la gynth cranuth dramoor,’ which means there is only one who rules, and all that he created praise him.

Grandfather asked him to repeat these words several times, until he was sure Ragg had memorized them completely.

But Ragg was confused. I don’t understand these odd words you use.

Ragg’lil, these words are the ancient words of our people. When we came here to this island some years ago, all the elders agreed not to speak of these words. They became forbidden.

But why?

You must understand—his grandfather leaned in closer—these are not our lands. No. Our lands are on the mainland to the west. He motioned with his arm. "We were forced to live here after a mighty war, which destroyed nearly all our people. Those few of us who survived scattered throughout many lands. We were separated, but we survived. We are a strong people. We have survived on this island.

He reached down, grabbing a handful of dark, moist earth.

This land has been good to us. La Goth has been good to us. We are not forgotten in his eye. His promise to us remains. We will again be one people."

He continued, growing more passionate now. These words became forbidden because those who fought against us did not believe there was one creator of the earth. They believe there are many creators. Gods for the sun and the moon. Gods for the trees and the land, for the water and all the animals. He shook his head. "They believe in gods for the wind, rain, fire, and cold. And they believe we were wrong to think our creator was better than all others and above all others.

He allowed the wind to blow the dirt from his hand.

"So for us to survive, we need to keep these words hidden and secret. That way we will not be found out. We will not be persecuted.

To this day, there are those in this world who seek to destroy those of us who survived. When we came here from our valley on the mainland, the leaders decided our sacred words must not be spoken anymore by anyone. But these words are too important. They are special and sacred.

He wiped the last of the dirt from his hands.

These words we use to communicate with La Goth. So they must never be forgotten. We must never forget how we communicate with the one and only true La Goth. That is why I have taught you these words, the sacred words of our people.

Ragg was still confused, but he understood better. He smiled at his grandfather. Thank you for telling me, Grandfather. I will not tell anyone these words.

He felt a stronger bond between him and his grandfather. He watched as the old man bent to the wind. He sensed the glow leave him.

Ragg turned to see the men below. There would be plenty of food this winter. He thought, La Goth, La Gath, la gynth cranuth dramoor.

Ragg shook his head. He brought his attention back to the trees around him. He looked at the grove again, the grove that seemed to be one living thing. He sensed the presence of La Goth. He repeated, La Goth, La Gath, la gynth cranuth dramoor. Yes, he thought. One day all will be made right.

CHAPTER 4

THE SHOT

VERLON STOPPED. She lowered her body closer to the ground. Every muscle in her body seemed to shiver. The hairs on her back stiffened.

Ragg knew instantly—a deer. Ragg stopped, and his eyes followed Verlon’s nose toward an open field. Hidden in the low brush at the edge of the field was the buck, about forty yards away. He was quietly eating tall rhubarb and sweet grasses. Ragg closed his eyes, listening to the wind. Where was it coming from? That is what grandfather had taught him. First check the wind direction.

He paused. He felt his heartbeat rising in his chest. Then the wind stirred against his cheek and raised the hair on the back of his neck. La Goth, La Gath, trolesch. Ragg relaxed. His grandfather had taught him that just because there is a deer in front of you with the wind in your face, it doesn’t mean you can shoot yet. He waited for the deer to present himself. He waited a moment longer. Then the deer calmly raised his whole body to full stature.

Ragg was in awe. La Goth, La Gath … he whispered. He had never seen such a large deer. The deer on the island back where he grew up were small, scrawny mule deer. This handsome beauty in front of him was something much more.

Ragg focused. The buck, broadside in front of him, was out in the open and calm. Ragg looked for the placement of his shot. Behind the front elbow and up into the body, but not too high. What did his grandfather say? Better to shoot one arrow, well planned and calmly aimed, than to run through the woods chasing a wounded animal. Ragg planned his shot. One arrow right into the heart and lungs. Don’t take a bad shot and leave an animal running away wounded. It disgraces you and the animal and the creator of both.

He stood comfortably, weight evenly distributed on both feet, perfectly at ease. He carefully moved his bow hand into place, resting an arrow on the thick part of his thumb. His string hand moved along the string as he gripped it with three fingers. He raised the bow and felt his bow arm, now extended, relax into place. He drew the bow using his back muscles. His grandfather would say, You can’t muscle your bow with your biceps. Instead, use your back muscles to draw your arrow. His string fingers nearly touched the corner of his mouth. He checked his aim. Then he relaxed his string fingers. The string released smoothly, slipping away from his fingers. His fingers stayed relaxed and still by his mouth. The arrow darted away from him and knifed through the air.

As he watched the arrow, time seemed to slow. He was aware of everything around him. He saw the brown of the tree trunks beyond the buck. He saw the golden yellow of the tall grass in the field. He saw the deep red of the berries next to the deer. He sensed the wind against his left cheek. He smelled the fresh, damp dirt under his feet. He felt the warmth of the late-day sun on his neck. He even sensed the world spinning and his feet firmly planted upon it.

Finally, the arrow plunged into the chest of the large buck. The deer was surprised by the sudden pain at its side. He tried to spring, but as he did his whole body gave out. He stumbled under his own weight and then staggered left and collapsed, dead. The arrow had pierced his heart and extended into his lungs. Death was quick and merciful. Verlon, who had been motionless, never moving her eyes from the buck, now stood up, wagged her tail, and barked twice.

Yes. Ragg agreed. We got him, girl.

They bounded through the tall grass to where the bushes framed the edge of the field. The buck lay in the thicket.

Ragg paused, perplexed. How am I going to get him out of there? And how in the name of La Goth, La Gath am I going to get him back to camp? He’s huge. He sat and pondered his new problem.

Ragg had known he would have to drag whatever he killed back to camp. Unless, of course, he killed only a rabbit or a wild turkey, but since he was hoping for a deer, he had left camp with heavy rope, about twelve feet in length. Yet he knew this buck, which weighed several hundred pounds, would tire him quickly as he dragged it through the forest. So