Fire and Amulet

By Helen Henderson

Trelleir is a true dragon whose magic allows him to take on human form. The last of his kind, he longs for companionship. However, his only friend is not only a human female, but a slayer. Sworn to kill all dragons, including him.

 

Summoned by the village council, Deneas is sent on.a quest to kill any and all dragons, and cannot return without proof of her success. Finding the mythical creature and avoiding its deadly talons and fire are not her only problems. Another slayer follows with orders to kill her. As she retraces her slain mother's footsteps, she learns the world is not what it seems.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Mar 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9780228620952

Helen Henderson

A former feature-story writer and correspondent, Henderson has also written fiction as long as she could remember. Her heritage reflects the contrasts of her Gemini sign. She is a descendent of a coal-miner's daughter and an aviation flight engineer. This dichotomy shows in her writing which crosses genres from historical adventures and westerns to science fiction and fantasy.A background in computers and history provides her unique insight into the building of worlds for fantasy and science fiction. In the realms of imagination, she is the author of the Dragshi Chronicles and the Windmaster novels.

Book preview

Chapter One

Deneas opened her eyes to a darkness unbroken by even the faint glow of the crescent moon. Unease permeated her being. Her mother’s presence filled the empty house. The echo of words hung in the air, elusive and refusing to be captured. Her finger grazed her cheek where warmth from the light touch of a kiss still lingered.

The dream was obviously a warning, but of what remained unknown. The nightmares had been coming more frequently since the new moon, growing stronger each night. Tonight’s was the worst. Although she didn’t mean to do so, the words came out in a whisper.

When no answers appeared to her unspoken questions, she sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and slid her feet into the sandals she had crafted the season before. The supple leather protected her feet from any stray rocks that escaped the children tasked with removing them from the sandy pathways. A belt knife in one hand, and snatching up a warm cloak as much for protection against the cold around her soul as from the night air, she headed outside. Her unconscious mind controlled her feet as she walked past the clusters of homes with darkened windows and along the winding path through the communal herb and vegetable gardens.

The familiar smell of herbs filled her nose, reminding her of the days spent weeding around the thick bushes and between the neat rows of root vegetables. Her shoulders ached in memory of the buckets of water pulled from the deep well in front of the council hall then carried to the gardens. The task not only kept the plants green, but saved the elderly villagers from having to lug the heavy weight.

A quick stoop snatched a twig with a trio of deep green leaves from its stem and she rubbed it between her fingers. However, the comfort the scent usually provided failed to come.

Her nerves still vibrated when she climbed to her usual spot on the stone wall that ringed the village and separated it from the desert. As she had for the past six turns, she tried to remember the night her mother went away. In her mind, the darkness of the desert shifted to the moonless night when the head slayer, Caldar, and the other village elders summoned her mother. A meeting from which Adais never returned. What had been suppressed, crystallized into a vivid recollection of her mother’s light touch. Be safe, my daughter. The Goddess and Trelleir will watch over you.

Pain of loss surged through Deneas. Rivulets of tears chilled by the night air ran down her cheeks. Each drop took with it the sorrow, leaving only a mournful void. Mother, I miss you. Why did the Goddess take you? She clenched her fists as more tears threatened to fall.

The head slayer’s hard tone replaced the memory of her mother’s soft lilt. His cold, A slayer cannot show emotion, was often accompanied by the sting of a slap.

A streak of light in the sky pulled her attention from her thoughts. Although there was no breeze, she heard more than felt the whisper of air. Deneas held her breath and searched the black dome above her head, expecting to see a dragon gliding through the heavens. Training stated the only ways to see a dragon at night would be if its silhouette crossed the moon or blocked out stars, or if the creature looked down so the red glow of its eyes was visible.

She mentally catalogued the familiar groupings of stars learned at her mother’s knee. On the left was Serth the mountain goat named for the four points of its antlers. Grafanc the cat filled the lower sky. If one looked carefully, they could see strings of minor stars hanging from the three bright points of each paw. Deneas checked each twinkling group of lights as well as the other sky designs her mother had taught her. All were accounted for. None were missing either in total or part.

Still the sense of impending danger loomed.

* * *

Trelleir raised his wings a fraction, then settled back onto his haunches. He longed to return to his cave, or at least hunt for food.

Hunger demanded something more substantial than a long-eared jumper or two. That was a fine meal for a man, but not for a dragon.

Each breeze brought the cold of a desert night to his high perch on the ledge overlooking the village. The red stream of molten rock flowing from the dark shadow of the mountain on the other side of the valley appeared to hang suspended in the blackness. Its heat would offer respite from the cold. Trelleir resisted not just the lure of the vent, but also the desire to fly to the narrow shelf beneath the volcano’s rim and bask in the warmth of the bubbling pool.

Fingers of fire marked openings to the tunnels where the residents of Darceth believed the Goddess held court. To the villagers, the fountain of flame that rose above the peak and mingled with the columns of smoke meant the Goddess was in her house ... and not pleased.

At least that is how the one Deneas called Caldar interprets it. A mental image of the leader of the village council of elders filled Trelleir’s mind. The portly councilman called himself the head slayer, but never left Darceth. He strutted around, using his position or threats to achieve his ends.

Anger surged through Trelleir’s frame and a wisp of smoke escaped his tight lips. The story of the Goddess was a lie perpetrated by Caldar to maintain control over the villagers. Trelleir thought of the many days...and nights...he had spent on the smoking mountain and never seen a human there, let alone a beautiful female with long black hair and an ivory trident.

Adais didn’t believe either, sorrow added.

Scepticism didn’t save my friend, Trelleir lamented. It caused her death. Before Caldar took on the mantle of interpreting the orders of the Goddess, slayer quests focused on exploration and trade. Now the visions dictate slayers cannot return without proof of a dragon kill.

His thoughts darkened. If a slayer brought back acceptable proof to Darceth, their fate was sealed. It might be a candlemark, a sevenday, or even maybe the following new moon before Caldar declared them a witch, and in payment for their loyal service murdered them. Like he did Adais.

The image of Deneas’ mother in her travel clothes, weapons peeking from their sheaths and the carry bag, shifted to the last time he saw her. He fought down a moan at the memory of the burned corpse removed from the Goddess’ chamber of trials.

His attention returned to the valley floor and the flickering lights of the fires that surrounded the village. Fires used as protection against the animals of the desert ... and me. He bit off his low growl so it wouldn’t roll down the mountainside and betray his presence. Yet again, he wanted to spread his wings and bugle his defiance to the skies, and as he had before, he squashed the urge.

Conflicting thoughts fought for an answer. The villagers hate me, hunt me. Yet they make a statue of me?

Even though he took advantage of the cover the statue provided, Trelleir cursed the stone effigy and its creator. Caldar was a young man, and not yet a member of the council of elders, when he bullied and blackmailed its members into carving the large figure of a dragon. It took five full cycles of the seasons to complete the work. An elder died during the sculpture’s move up the steep trail to the overlook near the top of the cliff. The man’s death marked Caldar’s ascent to the position of head slayer.

Sadness clutched at Trelleir’s heart. The statue represented more than Caldar’s rise to power. It brought back memories of Adais’ quest...and her death.

The cool stone against Trelleir’s back returned some measure of calm. At least I can enjoy the night, he thought. And be close enough to protect Deneas if need be. Shadows from the ledge above shielded him in both moonlight and bright sun. Even in his true form, those below couldn’t distinguish between the real dragon and the carved one.

The pull of someone seeking him tore Trelleir from his somber reflections. Only one person could be the source of the summoning, Deneas. He had protected her since her birth when the non-verbal thoughts of the babe registered as little more than faint cries. Now that she had reached adulthood the mental connection between them increased to the point where he swore he could hear her thoughts.

He pictured her in his mind’s eye, sitting on the rock wall he and Adais had built as a border around her private garden. Deneas’ face was turned towards the heavens. He knew she searched for a dragon. The urge to leap into the darkness, to fly to her, tore at his control.

Go to her, whispered the wind.

Reality added its own cajole. Staying in human form is becoming harder with each passing day. Take on your true form.

I cannot. Trelleir hissed his defiance. Deneas is in no danger. To reveal the truth before she is ready to accept the reality of what I am is too dangerous.

* * *

A spear of silver crept from the horizon. The light widened and its glow marched across the desert, pushing back the darkness and coloring the sky a dark peach. While Deneas watched, the beam of the dawning lingered on the statue, only to disappear in the brightening of day.

Her gaze turned to the mountain that loomed over the valley. Although no smoke hissed from the great crater hidden below the ridgeline, and no molten stone bubbled from the vents, when the first rays of morn worked up the side of the mountain, the rocks glowed as if on fire.

Maybe it was the sight of the mountain that had her dreaming of her mother. Other than Trelleir, no one in the village ever spoke her name or questioned her fate.

Please, Goddess, Deneas whispered, keep and protect my mother. She forced down the melancholy and stored the memory of her mother in a secret place in her heart.

Quiet steps took her past the still quiet houses to the one she had shared with her mother. She thought of going inside to brew herself a cup of atok leaves, but decided to work off some of the morning’s chill and walked to the open space between the house and the small garden. Her mother had planted the vegetables and herbs and Deneas kept it alive in her mother’s memory. She felt closest to her mother when pulling the weeds. And, Deneas admitted, although she didn’t use most of the herbs, she took pleasure in watching the plants grow. Her soft, Others get use of my mother’s efforts, held both sadness and pride.

Despite Caldar and his son’s repeated attempts to confiscate the root vegetables and the herbs, she was able to gift them to the elderly of the village. Others got cuttings which seemed to grow lusher and bore more fruit than the plants distributed by the elders.

Unbuckling the sheath holding her sword, she leaned it against the low stone wall. Sky portents were for a quick rise of the temperature, so with a tug she pulled her tunic over her head. The short pants wouldn’t impede her movements and she left them on in case any villager passed by. A shrug to settle her leather breast band more firmly, and she grabbed the staff that served as the handle for the wooden rake used to weed the garden. Slow twirls started her practice routine, which then changed to figure eights. Slowly, then building speed, she went through an intricate series of moves. Sweat glistened on her skin. Her chest heaved from the exertion. Still, she worked with the wood pole. The physical and mental effort worked to return body and soul to a calmer state. A quick drink of water and she traded the staff for her sword.

The sensation of eyes on her broke her focus. Only Caldar or his son Karst, would be bold enough to interrupt her. A bet with herself, and she turned to see Karst leaning in all his arrogance against the side of the house. She stood the sword point down and placed her hands crosswise on the hilt so she wouldn’t be tempted to swing the blade at the self-appointed master of Darceth.

His perpetual sneer drew even higher as his gaze raked her body from head to toe, lingering on the sweat-darkened breast band. Slayer Deneas, the council demands your presence in their hall.

A deep breath to control the urge to wipe the lust from Karst’s face, Deneas forced her tone level. I will attend them shortly.

Now, Deneas. You are to come with me NOW! The abrupt gesture towards the large circular building that served as the village’s gathering place brooked no delay. My father ordered. On your back or your feet. Your choice.

Although she knew she would pay for it later, Deneas let a bark of laughter slip past her lips. Really, Karst. You think you can take me? You’ve never been more than a candlemark’s walk beyond the village wall. Let alone run the slayer obstacle course. To add to the boast, she swung the blade in a single-handed series of figure eights. You never could best me in armed or unarmed combat. The idea of beating her oppressor and getting revenge for all his insults sent a tingle of excitement through her body. While it is the challenged who gets to choose weapons and site, today I gift it to you. Which shall it be? Sword or staff? I promise to only bruise you a little. Now she added a hint of sultriness in her tone. Please don’t refuse on account of my sex. After all, I’ve heard so much about your prowess, I’d love to see it.

Crimson crept up Karst’s neck, yet he stood silent. His tight lips showed the effort he took to control his temper.

You really shouldn’t antagonize Karst that way, whispered Deneas’ sense of self-preservation.

But it is fun, another part of her mind answered. Still, she kept at bay the grin that tried to twitch itself into existence.

Heartbeats later, she decided she had toyed with her prey long enough. Very well, another time. Quick steps took her to the garden wall and the scabbard. A shove slid the sword into place. Without a word, she spun and walked into the house.

She knew the leering Karst followed close behind, but refused to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging his presence. Mentally counting his steps, she waited until she figured he was on the doorstep. A backward kick slammed the door in his face. In the same movement she spun and dropped the wide plank into the lock brackets.

Karst’s grunt from outside told her that the door stopped at the edge of his nose. This time Deneas allowed her smile free rein.

Quick movements stripped off her damp clothes. She considered rinsing them out and hanging them on the window sill to dry before going to the council hall. Better not, she muttered. No sense testing their patience more than I have. A sigh and she draped the tunic and shorts over the bench.

Then she pulled on a tunic and a pair of long pants from the clothes press. Running fingers through her long dark hair to smooth it back, she tied the wet locks at her neck with a narrow strip of fabric.

Hurry up. Karst’s impatient yell from outside ended the debate about putting on the headcloth that was the usual desert garb.

Opening the door, Deneas gestured to Karst to lead the way.

She kept her eyes on his back the entire walk to the council hall. Although it was not more than a double handful of paces, it still allowed too much time for her to think. And it centered on one thought. What have I done to deserve the summons?

Chapter Two

Deneas stood in the doorway of the round building used by the village as a gathering place. The large space had been set up not just as for a council meeting, but for a court of justice. Benches were pushed back to line the walls. She couldn’t avoid seeing the open spot where those being tried for infractions to the law, or presenting a petition to the council, stood. Unbidden, her gaze moved to the inner circle formed by the chairs and table that served as the seating area for the village leaders. All seven of Darceth’s elders were in attendance. However, Deneas focused on the man who sat at the center of the table — Caldar.

Karst left the threshold and took three steps into the lantern-lit interior leaving Deneas alone as the focal point of the men's glares. As directed, Slayer Deneas is now brought before the council of Darceth.

His formal notification held more than a hint of satisfaction. As if he knew the reason for the summons. Deneas knew if Karst had gotten the information from his father, Caldar, it meant nothing good. Karst moved to a position behind his father’s chair. If anything, his grin widened.

Despite her racing pulse, Deneas fought to ensure, that to all outward appearances, she was calm and unworried. I will not give Karst the pleasure of seeing me afraid.

Caldar pinned Deneas with a stern gaze and stroked his gray beard. A sigh and, despite his short stature, he stretched himself to his full height. Slayer Deneas, approach the council. His voice held not sorrow, but another emotion with darker overtones. A dream came to the Seer. He saw a dragon, and it took human form. His finger stabbed toward Deneas’ chest. Yours!

Before she could protest the implied charge of witchery, he raised a hand to silence her. Fanaticism glittered in his eyes. Slayer Candidate Deneas, you have been chosen. The words boomed off the stone walls. You leave in three days. Do not return until you destroy the evil creature devouring our land.

Although she did not expect help from that quarter, Deneas searched the faces of her former teachers. Their stoic expressions offered no reprieve. Fire burned up her spine. She had done nothing to deserve this punishment. Not a single lamb or calf had been lost to a dragon in the two decades since her birth. Yet these men were sending her to a certain death.

Kneel, Slayer Deneas, sounded in her ears, breaking her resistance before it had a chance to form.

Numb and unable to resist Caldar’s order, Deneas dropped to her knees and bowed her head for a final benediction.

The councilman’s voice rang out. Know this. If you fall, your name will be carved in the tunnel along the walk of the honored faithful.

His cold hand on her head turned her rage into a wall of ice around her soul. Her mumbled response to the formal parting must have satisfied the men, because they did not reprimand her as they did in her youth. Fingers clenched against the desire to leap up and strangle those who pronounced her death sentence, she rose and her back rigid, strode from the room.

* * *

Cold from Caldar’s touch clutched at Deneas’ heart. Dragon...Witch ...Do not return, kept echoing in her mind.

You must prepare, duty hissed. You are a slayer. Now is your time.

A deep breath and the malaise gripping her receded. Awareness of her surroundings returned. Instead of the blaze of the noon-day sun, the sky was now painted bright crimson and shades of orange.

I just heard, Deneas. I am so sorry. The anger-laced tone brought her own rage back to the surface.

Although she didn’t want to acknowledge Geren, who she admitted was her closest friend in Darceth, she turned. Sadness filled the blacksmith’s features. The sight broke the last bonds that held Deneas paralyzed, and a plan flickered into being. The future of her house was one of the things keeping her mind in turmoil. Caldar wanted the home for his son, and Deneas swore that one would never have it.

Thank you, Geren. We both knew Caldar would one day send me on a quest. I had just hoped he would come to his senses and use it for exploration and the betterment of Darceth.