Font of All Lies

By Jon Jacks

Dragons are laying waste to the lands of Culldae’s father, Halga.
Even when they are killed, the springs and streams dry up, and crops suffer.
Rumours of where the blame lies flourish, however.
Halga had once promised the dragons a gift of rings for their help.
Rings he didn’t possess.
Culldae has to find the rings; but no one, not even Halga, knows which rings the dragons desire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jon Jacks
• Release date: May 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463518991

Jon Jacks

While working in London as, first, an advertising Creative Director (the title in the U.S. is wildly different; the role involves both creating and overseeing all the creative work in an agency, meaning you’re second only to the Chairman/President) and then a screenwriter for Hollywood and TV, I moved out to an incredibly ancient house in the countryside.On the day we moved out, my then three-year-old daughter (my son was yet to be born) was entranced by the new house, but also upset that we had left behind all that was familiar to her.So, very quickly, my wife Julie and I laid out rugs and comfortable chairs around the huge fireplace so that it looked and felt more like our London home. We then left my daughter quietly reading a book while we went to the kitchen to prepare something to eat.Around fifteen minutes later, my daughter came into the kitchen, saying that she felt much better now ‘after talking to the boy’.‘Boy?’ we asked. ‘What boy?’‘The little boy; he’s been talking to me on the sofa while you were in here.’We rushed into the room, looking around.There wasn’t any boy there of course.‘There isn’t any little boy here,’ we said.‘Of course,’ my daughter replied. ‘He told me he wasn’t alive anymore. He lived here a long time ago.’A child’s wild imagination?Well, that’s what we thought at the time; but there were other strange things, other strange presences (but not really frightening ones) that happened over the years that made me think otherwise.And so I began to write the kind of stories that, well, are just a little unbelievable.

Book preview

Chapter 1

So this was one of the ‘great wyrms’ terrorising the land?

Culldae laughed; it was tiny, and nowhere near the size described by the knights returning to court with tales of the maidens they’d rescued from the fearsome wyverns. Antimony, her horse, didn’t even make the slightest effort to shy away from the creature.

It was a child, then; even, perhaps, a babe.

Culldae worriedly glanced skywards.

Where could the child’s mother be? Or her father?

Did a great wyrm even have parents of any kind?

Now she came to think of it, not one of the many stories she had heard about the dragons had made any reference to mothers, or fathers.

Neither had she heard of any smaller, more child-like beasts.

Wasn’t this the way, though, that all creatures came about?

Which of her father’s knights would humiliate himself by admitting he’d merely killed a babe?

Surprisingly, despite the advantage being hers in size – the poor dragon being hardly bigger than a freshly born roebuck deer, and almost as delicately endearing – the bewildered creature made no effort to back away from Culldae. Rather he (or was it a she? How could you tell?) observed her with all the curiosity and wonder she herself was experiencing on coming across this magical creature while wandering through the woods.

Not that she, of course, could be anything near as startlingly beautiful as this brightly glittering little creature.

The scales were gem-like in their brilliance, changing from emeralds to rubies to amber in the blink of an eye as the sun’s rays caught them at slightly differing angles. The wings were virtually transparent, far more like those of an insect as opposed to a bat or bird.

And her father had sent out his knights on a quest to kill them all!

This poor little mite had probably been orphaned, its parents lying dead or dying somewhere.

As she pityingly stared at the creature, it gave a sad little flutter of its membranous wings; whether it was a futile attempt to fly away, or a response similar to a stray dog recognising a potential helper, Culldae couldn’t be sure.

She was sure, however, that it was a sign that the baby wyvern was weak – perhaps even dying.

*

Maybe, Culldae reasoned, she was duty bound to let the poor little thing wither away and die.

Maybe, even, she should announce her find to a local farmer, who would be more than capable of finishing it off without the aid of any man-at-arms.

After all, despite its present innocent appearance, it wouldn’t need to grow much bigger before it became a menace, devouring sheep and cattle before it came to feasting on children and then men and women.

Once grown to full size, only a fully armoured and mounted knight would be able to deal with it.

Many of her father’s best men had failed to return from their quests, presumably having perished in their attempts to quell the terror of the wyverns.

She had seen the damage inflicted by dragons, even if she had never – thankfully – seen a live one until now.

Naturally, she had seen a dead one.

It had been laid painfully askew against the scorched and cracked walls of the castle it had almost successfully attacked. Although it hadn’t long been killed when Culldae and her father arrived there after a hurried gallop through the night – he had insisted she should see what they were up against – it was already being steadily hacked to pieces, the local populace taking its glittering scales for armour, plates or jewellery, depending upon their size.

That particular wyvern had been predominantly emerald green rather than the ever fluctuating iridescent colouring of the immature dragon now standing before her.

It had died, too, wholly at the hands of others, whereas the death of this babe would undoubtedly be down to her if she notified anyone of its presence.

It hadn’t done her any harm, had it?

*

Chapter 2

Once she had slipped down off Antimony’s back, coaxing the wyvern into following her was far easier than she might have imagined it to be.

It was entirely similar, she supposed, to the way she had enticed foals or calves to come to her. The odd, calming murmur; a twitching of fingers out before her, as if holding some tasty titbit.

The baby dragon began to happily walk behind her.

She would keep to the less well used trails she’d come across the wyvern on. She didn’t want to risk being seen helping a dragon. Neither did she want anyone to see the dragon itself, of course, as they would most definitely attempt to kill it or at least search out someone who could.

She would take it to the spring; wyverns were in some way connected with sources of water, she had been reliably informed, and it was rumoured they could even be sustained by them.

*

The wyvern licked ecstatically at the spring’s bubbling waters.

Crystal clear, the uncountable droplets sparkled in the sun as if they were a fountain of diamonds spilling forth from the earth.

Those closest to the thirsty dragon took on its own glistening hues, glittering like so many emeralds, rubies and sapphires.

Culldae was entranced by the glorious beauty of the scene.

Is this where tales of serpents guarding hoards of jewels had emanated from?

Although Antimony was also undoubtedly thirsty, especially now she’d seen the enticingly sparkling waters, she cautiously stayed a little back. Culldae remained with her, not wishing to catch her reflection in the spring’s pool.

Like so many girls, she’d been told the tale warning against admiring yourself in a spring’s clear waters.

Was it an ancient tale, or was it a more recent one? No one seemed to know.

Naturally, the maiden of our tale is incredibly beautiful. And so, of course, besotted by her own beauty, she’s incredibly vain too.

It’s also in vain that her mother and grandmother warn her against combing her long flowing hair by a spring: for there was nothing she loved more than to while away her time admiring her beautiful reflection in the pool.

‘You mustn’t comb your hair by a spring,’ her mother and gran would say admonishingly; for they were angered too, of course, that the girl was so busy living in her daydreams, she never helped to spin or weave, or knead or bake the bread. ‘Haven’t you heard of the tales? If a hair falls and ruffles the water’s surface, the nymph who lives in the spring will make you hers.’

‘Old wives tales,’ the proud maiden would laugh. ‘There are no sprites in the fountain! Besides, hair so soft and beautiful could never ruffle the water!’

Sometimes, however, even the tales of old wives contain a glimmer of truth, and fate is best left untempted. For naturally the girl was wrong; a very powerful spirit, a nymph of the streams and mountains, had made her home in the pool.

Innocently unaware of the sprite’s presence, the young maiden continued to comb her hair by the pool, spending the whole day there if needs be. And as long as she managed to avoid ruffling the pool’s waters, there was nothing the sprite could do about it, despite her growing fury.

But the nymph was patient.

Her chance would come, she was sure.

Of course, Culldae reassured herself, as the girl in the story herself even says, it’s nothing but ‘an old wives tale’.

Besides, Culldae flattered herself that she wasn’t in anyway vain; well, not like the tale’s maiden.

And as long as she refrained from combing her hair, why, then how would she ruffle the surface and attract the attention of the water sprite?

What harm could there be in helping herself to a refreshing drink of the pool’s glittering waters?

She stepped closer towards the wyvern, who obviously suffered no compunction about quenching his thirst.

‘Stand back!’

Startled by the hollowly growling command, Culldae came to an abrupt, almost petrified halt.

She heard a clank of metal, the snort of a horse, coming from off to her side.

Turning about, she found herself confronted by a fully armoured and mounted knight, his visor down, his lance lowered in preparation for battle.

Culldae glanced back towards the doe-like wyvern, chuckling as she turned to face the knight once more.

‘Surely you can see I’m not in need of rescuing!’ she scoffed.

She realised she didn’t recognise the unusual emblem adorning the knight’s shield and silks. From a distance, it had seemed to be a coiling serpent, yet now she saw it was a curling horn, but with the head of a man as its screaming mouth.

He didn’t appear to be a knight of her father’s. There was nothing familiar about him that she could see, while his armour lacked the deliberately formed scales replicating a serpent’s skin. Similarly, the helmet neither formed into the elongated snout and wide eyes of a dragon, nor rose up into the curling, overarching tail.

His horse was quite beautiful, with a mane that shone as if woven from gold.

‘That may well be your opinion, my lady,’ the knight replied with no slackening of his pose. ‘But the great wyrms must be killed, no matter their size or age.’

Culldae refused to move away from the wyvern; if she continued to stand before it, the knight would hardly be likely to attack, would he?

‘I don’t recognise you as a knight of my father’s,’ she said, deciding it would be wise to let the knight know he shouldn’t risk harming her. ‘So perhaps